The Day Henry Died: A supernatural romance

by Lynda Renham

  ‘A craft market?’ said Imogen, surprised.

  ‘You’ll enjoy that.’

  ‘But what about our picnic and the boat?’

  ‘We always go to the park,’ said Henry, lightly. ‘It will be nice to do something different.’

  I should tell her, he thought, but she’ll never understand. She was looking at him like he’d gone mad. Perhaps I have, thought Henry. I imagine you do go mad when you’re trying to stop your death. How could you not?

  ‘But the picnic,’ insisted Imogen. ‘All that food.’

  ‘We can have that tonight,’ he said patiently. ‘I’d really like to go to the art exhibition.’

  Imogen looked at the picnic food on the table.

  ‘Well,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I suppose if that’s what you want.’

  Henry wondered what Imogen had ever seen in Jim. What could be so appealing about a weather-beaten workman in grubby jeans? He had a full head of hair, Henry thought jealously. That probably helped. Henry supposed he was a bit of rough. Women seemed to like that. Except Rita, who would never have let a grubbily dressed workman into her bedsit. Rita had taste.

  ‘I’ll have some toast, I think,’ said Henry.

  With the day‘s plans sorted he could now relax.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Much to Henry’s disappointment the art exhibition only held ten paintings. It took them forty-five minutes to stroll around and study them. Some of the paintings were so small that Henry wondered why the artist had even bothered. Had they been short on canvas, he’d asked Imogen. Or perhaps there was some point to them, and Henry just couldn’t see it. There was a painting of a boat which unnerved him greatly. The contrasting colours and the bright blue of the sea somehow disorientated him. He just wanted the day to pass quickly while at the same time not wanting the day to move at all.

  After the exhibition they lingered a while in the pie shop, but the meaty fillings had no flavour for Henry. They weren’t as good as Rita’s sample pies. Imogen seemed bored and fiddled with her complimentary glass of cider. Neither of them was a cider drinker. Henry imagined that Jim was. He seemed the pie and cider type.

  ‘Shall we go to the craft market?’ Imogen asked, breaking into his thoughts. After that, they would get the bus home and it would pass by the park. Surely, thought Henry, it was safe to drive past?

  Fortunately, the craft fair was more interesting for Imogen. She browsed the flamboyant stalls, while Henry observed the milling throng of women as they tried on kaftans and oohed over earrings. It was too busy for Henry. He’d never liked crowds, they made him claustrophobic. It was just a huge swell of humanity and sweat invading your space and senses. Still, mused Henry, it was passing the time, passing the time of his passing. The thought made him smile. He then realised he’d never really known the time of his passing. He’d just presumed it had been in the afternoon and most likely before four, because he and Imogen never went boating later than that. He checked his watch for the umpteenth time. It seemed like time had barely moved. Why, when you want the day to go faster it doesn’t, and when you want it to go slower it simply races by? Like that strange conundrum of struggling to wake up on a work day and then, at weekends, when you could lie in, you always seem to wake early. Life is odd, thought Henry. He made the decision that after today was over, he would live every day as though it were his last. There was still time to enjoy it. He’d do all those things he was always saying he’d do. Take a photography course, visit America, and take a ride in a hot air balloon. Live life on the edge would be his motto. No one would be able to say that Henry wasted a single moment. Half an hour later Imogen joined him in the seating area.

  ‘I’m gasping,’ she said. ‘Everything is so overpriced here. I didn’t buy anything.’

  ‘Well, you can,’ said Henry generously.

  ‘A cuppa would be nice.’

  ‘We’ll have tea in that little tea shop next door, shall we?’

  The tea shop, however, was overflowing with women from the craft fair, drinking mugs of tea and eating chips with greasy sausages. Henry looked distastefully at the plastic tablecloths with tomato ketchup in red plastic squeeze bottles sitting on them and turned to Imogen.

  ‘I don’t think there’s a free table,’ he said.

  A waitress approached them in a grease-smeared apron.

  ‘It’s a twenty-minute wait,’ she said in a bored voice. Henry barely heard her over the screeching laughter of the excited women. He could have suggested Pansies, but it would have reminded him too much of Rita and his death. Thankfully in a few hours the day would be over, and he wouldn’t have to think about his death any more.

  ‘We could have tea back home,’ suggested Imogen, sensing Henry’s discomfort. ‘I bought a Battenberg cake.’

  The words were like a salve to Henry’s frayed nerves. It would be rather nice to go home, he thought, back to the peace and quiet. His watch said three-thirty. They’d have to wait for the bus, and it would take a while to get back. Traffic was always horrendous on a Saturday so it would be well gone four by the time they reached home. It would be far too late to consider a visit to the park.

  I’ve nearly done it, thought Henry, struggling to hold down his elation.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Let’s have tea at home.’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  He was waiting for her, clearly listening for the sound of her key in the lock, for she’d barely shaken the rain from her hair when his living room door opened. She tried to hide her disappointment at seeing him. She’d hoped he would be out. He usually was on a Saturday. The town was full of Saturday night revellers, girls screaming, boys swaggering, and the air blue with their cigarette smoke; young, carefree and immortal. The rain was incidental to them.

  ‘Bloody awful weather,’ Billy said, taking in her bedraggled hair. His eyes were bright. There was a tangible excitement about him. It made Rita nervous.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, peeling off her raincoat.

  ‘It’s going to buck up later, though,’ he smiled.

  Rita yanked off her boots and looked in dismay at her wet stockinged feet. Her boots were letting in water. She’d had them forever. She should have bought new ones ages ago. It was too late now to go shopping for a new pair; besides, she didn’t have enough money. Not until payday.

  ‘I thought we’d go to the dogs,’ Billy was saying. ‘We’re always saying we’ll go, aren’t we? I feel lucky tonight.’

  Rita licked her lips nervously. She’d been avoiding Billy and she was sure he knew it. She didn’t want to upset him, but she didn’t want to continue their evenings on the couch.

  He rubbed his hands together gleefully.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I feel tonight is our night. This time tomorrow night we’ll be millionaires,’ he chuckled.

  Rita was tired. The store was always busy on a Saturday and today had been no exception. In fact, it had seemed busier than usual. Rita had even been put on the till for an hour. People just seemed to flow in like a river, each of them with his or her own goal. She’d looked for Henry amongst the hoard of shoppers and had been disappointed not to see him. She’d hoped he may have popped in to explain what had happened yesterday. How it had been a misunderstanding. She’d wanted to apologise for running off like she had. He must have thought her very silly. She hoped he wasn’t embarrassed. She’d asked Daphne not to mention it to their supervisor.

  ‘I don’t want to make trouble,’ she’d said.

  ‘You’re too easy-going, that’s your trouble,’ Daphne had responded. ‘He didn’t care about making trouble for you, did he?’

  ‘I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.’

  Perhaps Henry would come in on Monday, she consoled herself and then she could apologise.

  ‘Do you want to tart yourself up?’ Billy was saying. ‘I’ll buy you dinner. They do good fish and chips.’

  Rita considered the phrase ‘tart yourself up’. It sounded so cheap. Why do people insist on using such
horrible phrases she wondered? You’d think people would stop using words like that, words that degraded women. As if a woman would deliberately make herself look tarty before going out for the evening. Is that what men think women like to do? Throw on the slap, as Daphne would say, so they look tarty. If that was the case, Rita didn’t want to tart herself up, thank you very much. Fish and chips sounded good though, better than the beans on toast that awaited her. That or scrambled eggs. There wasn’t much else in the cupboard. She had hoped to bring home a spicy lamb pie, but all the samples had gone. She could do with a bit of luck. She wouldn’t stay late or drink too much. She’d tell Billy she was tired.

  ‘I’ll just get changed,’ she said, which sounded far better than ‘I’ll just tart myself up.’

  *

  He took her to Walthamstow stadium where inside the stench of old beer was nauseating. Years of spillage never cleaned. Rita wrinkled her nose and tried to ignore it, grateful to be in the warm. The adrenalin flowed from the crowd as soon as they entered the stadium. It was their big night out. The anticipation of a big win on everyone’s minds, even Rita’s. You could smell the tension. If I could just win fifty pounds, she thought. I could get a pair of boots without having to wait for payday.

  The restaurant was full, but Billy had booked a table. They sat near a group of women who kept collapsing in a fit of giggles. One of them had a sash around her which read ‘HE PUT A RING ON IT’. They used to say ‘BRIDE TO BE’ thought Rita. Everything’s changing.

  ‘Someone’s having a good time,’ Billy said with a sideways glance at Rita.

  He was having a dig at her, hinting she should be livelier. She was tired and it showed. Her legs ached too. She’d hoped they could sit and watch the races, but Billy dragged her to the front where it was standing room only. She’d never have come if she’d known they were going to stand. She’d done enough of that all day. It was cold too.

  ‘Best view,’ he said.

  The gigantic floodlights were blinding.

  Rita felt a tingle down her spine when the first race started but it slowly diminished as her dog laboured at the back. Maybe the next one, she told herself hopefully. After each race she and Billy would traipse back into the crush of the hall where chattering people swirled about getting drinks and placing bets. But still Rita’s dogs didn’t win. She didn’t seem to have any luck. The fish and chips hadn’t been what she’d hoped and were too greasy and the wine vinegary and sharp on her tongue. Billy seemed to like it and drank far too much. Rita checked the time constantly and mourned the twenty-five pounds she had wasted.

  ‘Maybe next time,’ Billy laughed, not in the least bit bothered that he had lost.

  It must be nice to have so much money, Rita thought; to never have to worry about the bills or rent.

  Billy insisted they have a last drink before getting a taxi home. Rita didn’t want the vinegary wine so opted for a shandy, but the lemonade was flat, and it just wasn’t the same somehow. It was hot and noisy inside. People were talking loudly, making smutty remarks. It’s the drink talking, Rita thought. Drink made people say horrible things. She was glad when Billy finished his wine and they could finally leave.

  Billy rambled on about what a great night it had been until Rita’s head started to ache. As they approached the house Rita experienced an odd sinking feeling in her stomach. It was as though something was very wrong and if they didn’t go into the house they would never have to know what it was. She fought down the urge to tell the taxi driver to continue on. But, continue on where, she wondered? She had nowhere else to go except her mother’s care home and she couldn’t go there with cheap wine lacing her breath. Her mother would smell it immediately. She’d sit in her grey armchair and sniff the air like a dog and then would begin ranting about the evils of alcohol and Rita would smell the floral-scented disinfectant that never quite covered the stench of urine and throw up onto the dark green carpet. Her eyes would try to avoid the photos of her father that sat in gilt frames on the mahogany dresser. He would be judging her, warning her of what was to come. No, she couldn’t go to her mother’s. She couldn’t look at those photos and accusing eyes. She had no option but to go into the house with Billy.

  *

  He’d cheated death. He was ecstatic, bursting with excitement at the thought of seeing Rita, giving her the perfume and explaining everything to her over a decent bottle of wine. He’d bought a good bottle of Chardonnay. Champagne would have been more fitting but that seemed a bit over the top. He wanted her to know how grateful he’d been to her. He had to warn her about that horrible landlord too. She could do much better. He loved Imogen; he would tell Rita that. They were going to try again. Henry had to take his share of the blame, after all. It took two to make or break a marriage. They would try for a baby. Henry only hoped he was up to it. He’d be fifty next birthday. Still, it would make him feel young again. Of course, he’d have to cope with the mess. That would be difficult at first. Imogen had suggested counselling. He’d scoffed at that. Counselling was for weak people. Imogen would stay home, they’d agreed. It would be tiring for her too.

  He’d been trying to think of a way to tell Imogen about Rita when he was saved by Cynthia popping round.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he’d said, pulling on his coat. ‘I know how you two love to chat.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Imogen had asked, her face anxious.

  ‘I’m just meeting a mate for a drink,’ he’d said, telling himself it wasn’t far from the truth. Rita was a mate and he was going to her bedsit for a drink. You can’t talk your way out of it that easily, whispered a voice. But Henry felt justified. He’d been betrayed. He needed a friendly face. He needed Rita’s face, just one last time.

  He’d sauntered down the road like someone reborn. Life was worth living again. He’d never felt so good. Even his dyspepsia was better. There had been one hairy moment on their return from town when the bus had crawled past the park. Henry had barely been able to look at it from the window. He’d forced himself to read the newspaper he’d bought, his breath held, in case Imogen suggested getting off and walking along the river. Instead, she sat and read her TV magazine, highlighting programmes with a red pen. Then, he’d realised they had passed it. The river and park were behind them and Henry’s racing heart had slowed and by the time they reached Mayberry Terrace his dyspepsia had eased and the sun had come out. The sun shines on the righteous his father would say.

  *

  They stepped into the hallway. The house was silent. It was Saturday night. Everyone was out.

  ‘I’ve got a good whisky,’ said Billy, swaying towards the living room. ‘It was a gift from a grateful punter.’

  Rita started toward the stairs, her hand already curled around her room key. Her mouth opened to protest when Billy suddenly yanked her by the arm, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. She’d only made it to the second step.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked harshly. ‘Come and have a drink.’

  ‘I’m a bit tired,’ she said, her heart dancing wildly in her chest. ‘Thanks for a nice evening, Billy.’

  ‘It’s early,’ he scoffed, and she felt herself being dragged into the living room and pushed onto the couch; the couch with its memories and sordidness. It all seemed so repugnant now. The room stank of stale beer and Rita spotted several empty cans lying on the floor.

  ‘You’ve got to try this whisky,’ Billy said eagerly, opening a cabinet and crashing glasses. He sloshed the whisky into them and handed her one, before falling onto the couch beside her.

  ‘Here’s to good times,’ he said, lifting his glass and hitting hers with a clink.

  Good times, thought Rita. Were those things that happened on the couch, good times?

  His pickled onion breath wafted over and Rita felt afraid. He was sitting too close. She didn’t want to move away in case he got more agitated.

  ‘We had a bit of bad luck tonight, but we’ll go again next week,’ he said. ‘We
must win then. Go on, try your whisky.’

  ‘I …’

  Billy tipped the glass up to her lips and Rita obediently opened her mouth. The whisky burnt her throat and she spluttered.

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ he laughed, taking the glass. ‘You need to chill out.’

  ‘I’m …’

  ‘Let’s have a bit of kiss, shall we?’

  He leaned towards her. Rita pushed her hands against Billy’s chest.

  ‘Billy, do you mind if we don’t tonight? I’m feeling very tired.’ She said nervously.

  He pulled back, his smiling mouth transforming into an ugly sneer.

  ‘It’s Saturday night, how can you be tired?’

  Rita wanted to say that just because it was a Saturday night it didn’t mean people couldn’t get tired.

  ‘I’ve been at work all day,’ she said, hoping he would understand.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he said angrily. ‘I took you out for a good evening, didn’t I? You used to like a cuddle.’

  If she’d been a stronger person, a woman with self-confidence she would have told him that it didn’t matter if he’d bought her a five-course meal. It still didn’t entitle him to have sex with her. But Rita wasn’t a strong self-confident woman. So she stuttered,

  ‘I do, I mean I did, but …’

  She didn’t get to finish because Billy’s wet whisky lips were on hers, demanding and fierce. His teeth biting hard into her bottom lip.

  ‘Come on, little Miss Ice Maiden,’ he drawled into her ear. ‘I think you’ve made me wait long enough, don’t you?’

  ‘Billy, please,’ she pleaded. ‘I just want to go up to my room and rest. It’s been a long day. I didn’t mean …’

  He squeezed her shoulders, pushing her down onto the couch, while forcing his knee between her thighs. She’d never expected him to be that strong. She brought her knee up with a jolt against his groin. He groaned and slapped her hard across the face. The shock and force of the impact sent her reeling back, hitting her head on the arm of the couch. It was then she started screaming. She didn’t know what else to do to make him stop. She hadn’t meant to mislead him, that’s what she’d been trying to say. But it didn’t make him stop, instead he slapped her again, not just once but several times until her ears rang and tears streamed down her face.