The Day Henry Died: A supernatural romance

by Lynda Renham

  She quickly turned from Henry before he could see the tears welling up in her eyes and placed her mug again into the microwave. If she didn’t have the hot chocolate she was likely to drown in the river of her tears and that would be very embarrassing with Henry there.

  ‘I’d better warm this up,’ she said, switching on the power.

  ‘I should be off,’ said Henry, while not moving at all.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rita, who desperately felt the need to be alone with her tears.

  ‘I have to go home. There must be a way to find out why I was murdered,’ said Henry.

  He didn’t want Rita to know how hopeless he really felt. That he’d reached the end of his tether. Billy was watching some kind of quiz programme now. Henry could hear the sound of the buzzer when the contestants hurried to answer. The sound of it made him quite overemotional. It was a programme he and Imogen use to watch together. Henry usually got most of the answers. He wondered what day it was. He’d lost track. Was Imogen still upset? He should have stayed at the house. It’s funny, thought Henry, that the sound of a quiz show should have such a profound effect on him. The air was thick with the scent of hot chocolate. The cosiness of it coupled with the sounds of the quiz show brought tears to Henry’s eyes. He hadn’t deserved to be murdered, and by drowning too. That was a horrible way to die. He’d rather Imogen had stabbed him like those female murderers in those true crime programmes he and Imogen sometimes watched. Henry wondered if perhaps that was where Imogen got the idea from. They say television is a big influence on the public. He dismissed the idea immediately and apportioned all the blame onto Jim.

  ‘Lazy good for nothing,’ he muttered.

  Rita stared at him, confusion etched on her face.

  ‘Jim,’ he explained.

  She nodded and sipped the scalding chocolate.

  ‘I’ll be off,’ he said, pulling on his soggy coat.

  ‘Ok,’ said Rita.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ said Henry positively.

  Rita smiled gratefully and then Henry was gone. She finished the last of her drink and without even removing her clothes, climbed under the duvet and wept.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Henry passed the fish and chip shop on his way to Mayberry Terrace. The smell of vinegar, fish and ketchup reminded him of Friday nights. He could taste the salt on his fingers as he’d licked off the fat; the sharp tang of pickled onions still on his tongue. They’d often have fish and chips on a Friday night, he and Imogen. He looked at the long queue and then walked on by. Street lights made the rain-drenched streets glisten like diamonds. Henry thought that if he stood long enough in the rain perhaps he would drown to death all over again and maybe this time it would be all over. After all, he didn’t want to drift along like this for years. He looked up at the leaden sky, the aroma of chips fading fast. He tried to think when Imogen’s resentment had begun. Had it been when she’d turned down the manager’s job? Had the resentment grown like a cancer, eventually becoming all consuming? She’d been moody at times, but he’d put that down to the time of the month. Women were known to have fluctuating hormones, but perhaps it had been more than that. The resentment had taken her over. He imagined Alice hadn’t helped. How quickly love could turn to hate if you don’t nurture it. Had she swallowed her resentment too often, until it had felt like acid was pouring into her soul?

  He strolled past the greengrocer’s, all fruit and vegetation now hidden behind a dark green shutter. He could walk through it, he thought gleefully, and take some Pink Lady apples. That would teach Alice. A pity he hadn’t thought of that when passing the fish and chip shop. Ahead of him, Tesco Express was busy with late night shoppers grabbing last-minute necessities. That much craved for bar of chocolate, or the forgotten loaf of bread. Henry wished he was a last-minute shopper, grabbing something that Imogen had forgotten earlier. Imogen. The name conjured up a woman he’d never really understood. This had been her fault too, he thought comfortingly. She’d been blinded by her love for him and had been arrogant enough to think she could change him; that her needs would become his. She’d been wrong. All around her had been silence. He now knew she had craved for the shattering of that peace. To have heard a child squealing with delight as it bounded into the kitchen bursting with liquid sunshine from within. Hadn’t he, honestly, wanted that too? Not at the start but certainly as time went on. But he’d considered his wife. Her need had been to remain childless. How well we deceived each other, Henry thought sadly. Imogen had been right. How had they lived such a lie? They’d lived a life both of them hadn’t wanted.

  ‘At the expense of my life,’ groaned Henry.

  He turned into Mayberry Terrace and felt a longing for normality that was so intense it manifested itself as a sharp pain in the centre of his chest. He steeled himself for the sight of Jim’s car. The sense of relief when he saw it wasn’t there gave him an unexpected lift. This was quickly replaced, however, by the fear that Imogen may have gone off with the grubby little turd. The lights were on though, and Henry could see, through the bay window, the glowing redness of their log burner.

  It was hot in the house. Imogen was curled up on the sofa, alone, Henry was pleased to see. Another bottle of wine was sitting on the carpet.

  ‘You’re drunk,’ Henry fumed, his nostrils flaring. ‘So, well you should be. Attempting to block out what you did? You murderous witch. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? I’m stuck.’

  He stamped his feet angrily. Imogen stretched out her legs and a small sob escaped her lips. Henry was unmoved.

  ‘Well, how could you?’ he raged. ‘What was wrong with a simple divorce? Well? Well?’

  Imogen sat up slowly and dabbed at her eyes with a screwed up wet tissue. Henry stared at her, a vein in his neck twitching angrily.

  ‘Have you had him in our bedroom? I bet you have. I hope it’s all been worth it. You … You …’ he broke off, his nails digging into his palms. He strode from the room, took the stairs two at a time before bursting into the bedroom. The bed was made. The pillowcases still didn’t match. The light pink cardigan that had lain across it earlier was still there. Henry was breathless and felt the need to sit down. The memory foam mattress felt firm and familiar beneath him. The wardrobe door was open, and he could see his best, black lace-up shoes. Henry remembered they needed a clean. He lifted his tired body from the bed and dragged it to the wardrobe. He suddenly felt exceptionally tired. Something wasn’t right. He was dizzy. He forced his tired body along the floor to the wardrobe doors.

  ‘Shall we go boating on Saturday?’

  Henry turned his weary head to the right. The bright lights of the indoor shopping centre made his eyes hurt. He hated the shopping centre. It was always the same temperature inside no matter what the time of year. Henry found it quite disconcerting. Everything was the same, the polished floors, the tense faces on the shoppers. Only the piped music and the fashions changed. People aren't people in there, they're consumers. They see one another as obstacles – both to walk around and wait behind for a turn to reach the tills. The only smiling faces are the ones who are selling.

  ‘It depends on the weather,’ replied Henry.

  I look fed up, he thought.

  ‘I rather fancy it,’ said Imogen, studying a pair of boots in a shop window. ‘I could get some bits for a picnic as we’re out.’

  He’d been so good natured about it. Agreeing happily to what was to be his murder. Imogen had been calm, joyful even. Calculating, was the word, thought Henry. Cold, calculating and ruthless was his wife. Had he ever really known her?

  Henry watched while being aware of a sharp stabbing in his chest. He felt too weak to keep his head up. Eventually, the pain settled into a sort of dull ache and he lifted his head again to hear himself say,

  ‘Well, okay, if that’s what you fancy.’

  Henry dropped his head and whispered, ‘No.’

  Imogen, excited now, began to plan their picnic. Henry spotted a new gardening book in a
shop window and was sidetracked.

  ‘It’ll be fun,’ she said.

  Not for me it won’t, thought Henry and then everything went black.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Henry awoke to the feel of soft sheets on his skin and the sight of the morning light trickling in through a gap in the curtains. The sheets smelt of orange blossom. Henry thought that was too good to be true and kept his eyes shut. Not knowing seemed far safer. He’d had one too many surprises. So, he soaked in the warmth and fragrance of the covers. This must be heaven, he decided. Who’d have thought it? That such a thing could ever exist? Had he finally reached the end of his journey?

  He pricked his ears for familiar sounds, but his heart was pounding too loudly. It was as though a shot of adrenalin had been injected into his veins. There was a movement beside him, and Henry’s eyes snapped open as an alarm shrieked. He reached over to silence it. Then, he heard breathing that wasn’t his own. Henry was in his bedroom. He looked around curiously for a younger Henry, but he wasn’t there. The wardrobe door was closed, and Henry was the right side of it. There was another movement beside him, and this time Henry turned. Imogen lay at the side of him, one arm flung over her face.

  ‘You were restless last night,’ she said, yawning.

  ‘Imogen?’ said Henry, barely able to believe it.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, sitting up. ‘Are you okay?’

  He wanted to touch her, to make sure she was real. The pain of her betrayal sliced through him. Had it been a dream? Was it possible that his current reality wasn’t his reality at all? Had everything he’d ever believed and trusted been an illusion? Henry was at a loss as to what was real and what he imagined to be real. Has my reality ever been my reality? thought Henry. His head felt fit to burst. This was his reality right now, but could he trust it? He was learning that things weren’t always what they seemed. People weren’t how you imagine. Had Henry’s reality been coloured by how he wanted it to be rather than simply how it was?

  ‘I … I’m fine. I just had a bad dream,’ he said.

  Imogen looked better, he noticed. There was no strain around her eyes. The worry frown had disappeared. Her skin was smooth and soft, just like always.

  His body was soaked in sweat and there was tenderness in his chest. His eyes wandered nervously to the clock. It said 7 a.m. and the date read 4th September.

  ‘Just a bad dream,’ he repeated. But had it just been a dream? It had all seemed so real.

  Imogen pushed back the covers and slid from the bed.

  ‘I’ll make breakfast,’ she said, stifling another yawn.

  Henry listened to the soft padding of her feet on the stairs before stepping from the bed and whipping open the curtains onto an overcast day. Black clouds hung over the rooftops of Mayberry Terrace. Henry allowed the dull light of the morning to enter the bedroom, filling it with gloom and despondency. He looked up at the grey, forlorn sky. He would need his umbrella today. The weatherman had forecast heavy rain. He stood for a brief moment waiting. His eyes fixed on the green front door opposite. No one came out.

  ‘Just a dream,’ he said, but he still felt nervous.

  The briefcase lay innocently on the chair by the wardrobe. Henry eyed it suspiciously. Already the stitching was stretched to the point where it showed in an ugly fashion. Henry didn’t want to buy a new one. He’d had this case for years. It was familiar and sturdy. The zip slid back easily, and Henry felt inside, triumphantly pulling out the Lester file.

  ‘Porridge is ready,’ called Imogen.

  Henry looked keenly at the radiator as he passed. It was silent and Henry smiled.

  ‘I didn’t get the blueberries out,’ said Imogen as he walked into the kitchen. The fridge was surprisingly full. Henry lifted his eyes hesitantly to the top shelf. It held chicken thighs and asparagus. Not a single sausage in sight.

  ‘Not sausages,’ he said relieved.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The fridge is full,’ he said, removing the blueberries.

  ‘Things for our picnic, remember? Or had you forgotten we’re going boating on Saturday?’

  Henry’s heart raced and the speed of it took his breath away.

  ‘Henry, are you alright?’ asked Imogen, concerned.

  ‘No,’ he wanted to shout. ‘Not since your love turned to poison.’

  It had been no dream. Henry couldn’t finish his breakfast. He tried but there was no pleasure in it.

  ‘I have to get going,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘Already?’ said Imogen, glancing over at the clock.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you angry with me Henry?’ Imogen asked pointedly.

  Tell her, urged a voice in his head. Tell her what you know. Confront her now. No, thought Henry. It’s not the time. This evening over our chicken thighs, that’s the best time.

  The Times obituary page featured John Marston and Frederick Mull. Henry wasn’t mentioned. But he wouldn’t be, would he? Henry hadn’t died yet.

  *

  Henry jumped aboard the bus. The driver smiled and said ‘Morning’ in a jolly voice. Henry nodded absently. His enjoyment of the day marred by what he now knew about the future.

  He sat in his usual seat and chewed his fingernail. It had been a premonition, not a dream. That’s why it had seemed so real. It was a premonition that he was going to be murdered. He had three days to prevent it. Three days to stop his wife and her lover from killing him.

  With a pang, he realised he hadn’t taken his regular dose of vitamins. That’s what the unexpected does. It knocks you for six and everyday routines get thrown to one side like rubbish.

  ‘Morning Helen,’ he said smiling at the receptionist. ‘Not the best of days?’

  Please answer, Henry begged silently, but Helen continued chatting on the phone. He took the lift and tried to calm his nerves.

  He looked past swivel chairs, filing cabinets stacked with files, and desks adorned with computer screens, to the water dispenser. He was thirsty but still there were no cups. He didn’t relish going back to Helen, the receptionist, and requesting some. This isn’t unusual, he told himself. There are never any cups.

  He stopped abruptly at his desk. The chair was empty, cold and uninviting. It had been waiting for Henry. His chilli plant was there, desperate as always for water.

  ‘Morning Henry,’ called Sam. ‘Bloody wet isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Henry sounding abnormally cheerful. Sam could see him. Sam could actually see him.

  ‘Ben’s been down asking for the Lester report. I said I’d mention it when I saw you.’

  ‘I have it,’ said Henry.

  Henry reached into his briefcase with slightly shaky hands. But the file was there, and he pulled it out along with the Johnson’s completed insurance forms and sighed with relief. Helen never came round with a sympathy card and everyone who saw Henry either nodded or greeted him with a good morning. Life was back to normal, at least for three days.

  Chapter Forty

  At twelve Henry went to the cafeteria. Usually he brought sandwiches. This morning hadn’t been what he’d imagined, and sandwiches had gone right out of his head. The cafeteria was functional to the point of depression, which was ironic considering that was pretty much all the staff served. Every item was so saggy, so bland, it was depression served cold with a limp sneer. The iced buns were the only thing that ever appealed to Henry. The tea was always anaemic. No one ever complained. It was what it was. Henry sat alone at a table in the corner and nibbled at his iced bun while thinking of Rita. She was still the only person that could help him. If he wasn’t able to stop it then she’d surely have to go to the police. Tell them that Henry’s wife and her lover had murdered him. It’s like a tragic novel, thought Henry. It was Rita that Henry couldn’t get his head around. If it had been a premonition then had he really spent time with her? People didn’t have such long premonitions, he decided. It must have been something else and maybe Rita would know all about it. He
didn’t want to lose her, and he didn’t want her to get more involved with that landlord. Maybe there wasn’t a landlord. Perhaps the house didn’t even exist. Henry laid down his bun and checked his watch. It was in perfect working order. He decided he had time to visit Billy’s house.

  *

  He caught the bus to the end of Rita’s road and then walked towards the red bricked houses. The street was quiet and desolate. A tramp on the corner looked up at him.

  ‘Spare some change guvnor?’ he asked.

  Henry fumbled around in his trousers for a fifty-pence piece. A cat, sitting on a windowsill, lazily watched the goings on.

  ‘That’s all I have,’ said Henry, who would never give more than 50p. Henry didn’t want to be responsible for the man overdosing on drugs. The tramp thanked him gratefully and Henry felt he’d done his bit.

  He reached Billy’s house and looked up to the first floor. Was Rita home? He could ring her doorbell. He hesitated. What if it had been a dream? He shook his head. No, Rita had been too real. His hand moved to the bell and he was just about to push it when the door opened, and a man stood in front of him. Henry knew it was Billy. He was shrugging into a denim jacket. Henry stepped back before Billy could collide with him. He smelt Billy’s overpowering aftershave and winced. Overuse of an expensive fragrance was criminal, if you asked Henry.

  ‘Careful,’ said Henry harshly. Should he have it out with Billy about the slap he gave Rita?

  Billy turned and stared. His eyes narrowed as he studied Henry.

  ‘Do I know you?’ asked Billy shiftily, his hand moving to his pocket.

  Good heavens, thought Henry. I hope he doesn’t have a knife. Perhaps best not to be too hasty. I’ll mention the slap another time.