The Day Henry Died: A supernatural romance

by Lynda Renham

  The bed was rumpled. Henry didn’t recognise the duvet cover at first and then he remembered. They’d bought it at Argos. It had been all they could afford. A flowery thing, which Henry had joked made their bedroom look like a B&B. The curtains were drawn but they were so flimsy that the light from an outside streetlamp seemed to flood the room. Henry had complained that the light woke him too early and Imogen had gone out and bought new curtains as soon as she had been paid. Henry always remembered that. They still had those curtains.

  There’s a reason for all this, Henry thought, glancing at the clock on the bedside cabinet. It was two in the morning.

  His younger self was sleeping soundly. He envied that Henry of many years ago. Not for him waking up dead, thought Henry. He looked content lying there with his arm draped over his wife. He stepped onto the new shag pile carpet, amazed at how clean it was. He hadn’t been aware of just how grubby it had become. One forgets, thought Henry. We really should get it professionally steamed when all this business is over. It must be full of germs. He was drawn back to the bed where Imogen stirred and moaned gently. His sleeping younger self grunted and then turned over. I’ve always been a good sleeper, Henry thought proudly. Imogen wrestled with the bedcovers and then sat bolt upright in bed, her eyes wide and alarmed.

  ‘Can you see me?’ he asked excitedly.

  Imogen clenched her stomach and bit hard on her lip as though to stop herself from crying out.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Henry.

  Imogen turned to the younger Henry lying beside her and then crept carefully from the bed. Henry looked into her young unlined face. Her hair was tangled and hung messily around her face, but it didn’t mar her prettiness. How we’ve both changed, thought Henry, glancing back at the sleeping Henry with his full head of hair. Imogen leant over the side of the bed and let out a little sob.

  ‘Imogen, what’s wrong?’ Henry asked again.

  Her face creased in pain and Henry felt useless. He turned to his younger self and tried to shake him awake but it was futile. Henry’s hand just flailed through thin air. He followed Imogen across the hall and into their pale green bathroom. Well, this hasn’t changed much at all, thought Henry. Aside from the towels being different, the room was identical to the one he’d taken his shower in this morning. Imogen fell onto the toilet seat, her face white and drawn.

  ‘Good heavens, what’s happening Imogen?’ Henry asked. ‘What can I do?’

  Stupid question, he thought. Surely, he could do nothing now. This had already happened. It was totally out of his hands.

  He walked back into the bedroom, but young Henry annoyingly was still sleeping, his snores filling the room. Do I still snore like that? Henry wondered. He ought to get his sinuses seen to if that were the case.

  ‘Oh, Henry,’ he sighed. ‘Why don’t you wake up?’

  Back in the bathroom Imogen was kneeling on the floor staring into the toilet bowl, fear in her eyes. He followed her gaze and gasped at the sight of all the blood. As she knelt Henry saw the blood trickle down her thighs and splatter onto the floor, spilling into the cracks of the tiles

  ‘Oh no, Imogen what is it?’

  He tried to grab her hand, to comfort her but it was fruitless. Imogen clung to the toilet bowl and wept. Henry sat beside her and allowed himself to weep also. Meanwhile, his younger self slept on, oblivious.

  ‘So much blood,’ said Henry, disturbed. ‘Did you see a doctor?’

  He couldn’t remember Imogen ever being ill, apart from the odd headache and period cramp. She would sometimes get them quite badly.

  A sudden memory flashed into his head.

  ‘Oh goodness,’ he muttered,

  There was that time. Her period had been very heavy and painful. He’d completely forgotten about that. She’d said that perhaps she ought to go to the doctor and Henry had agreed. She had looked pale and tired, he remembered. She’d stayed home from work. Imogen never took time off work. It was a bad one, Henry had thought at the time and he’d then dismissed it from his mind as a woman problem and had promptly forgotten all about it. He’d never even asked her about the doctor visit and Imogen hadn’t mentioned it. The days continued as normal and Henry had never given it another thought, until now.

  ‘My baby,’ Imogen moaned as though she knew Henry was beside her.

  The tears rained down her face and onto her pale blue nightie.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ asked Henry. ‘It was my loss too.’

  But he knew the answer. He’d always been quite firm in his resolute. Children were a burden they did not need; a blemish on their perfect life, an inconvenience and a hindrance to their neat home. Hadn’t Imogen always agreed with him?

  ‘No, you never ever said it did you? Not in so many words. You never really actually said you didn’t want children. Not exactly. I heard it that way but … Oh, Imogen.’

  She should have told him about the miscarriage. Had he really been that selfish? Had it been so difficult for her to share with him?

  ‘Our baby,’ he said and thought again of his funeral and how his children should have been there. They’d have given wonderful eulogies, he felt sure.

  ‘Our children,’ he said sadly. ‘We should have talked about it more.’

  He clenched his fists.

  ‘Damn it, Imogen, why can’t you hear me? Rita can see me so why can’t you?’

  Imogen stood up, stumbled slightly and reached out to the sink for support, her hands wet with blood. It dribbled down her legs onto her feet.

  ‘Oh my God,’ cried Henry. ‘So much blood, shouldn’t we call an ambulance.’

  Imogen grabbed a handful of toilet roll and wiped the blood from her legs and then pulled off more to clean the floor. Henry followed her back into the bedroom where she quietly removed sanitary towels from the little cabinet and carefully placed them inside her black panties before swallowing two pain killers with the water she always kept by her side of the bed. Henry slept soundly. He didn’t even stir when she slipped in beside him, pulling her knees up to her chest. The only sounds were the ticking of their clock and Henry’s occasional snores. It would be a few more years before Henry bought their new alarm clock. Look at me, thought Henry angrily, lying there without a care in the world while my wife is suffering.

  ‘Why don’t you wake up you buffoon?’ he shouted, but to no avail. Henry felt suddenly lost. He didn’t belong here. The room turned dark and he was back in the bedroom he knew. The shag pile carpet grubby and worn. Imogen was lying on the bed holding the baby clothes and Henry lay down beside her.

  ‘You should have told me,’ he said. ‘Surely I wasn’t that difficult to talk to.’

  The phone at the side of the bed rang and Imogen stared at it. It rang several more times before she picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello,’ she said softly and then, ‘I’m alright mother.’

  She ran her hand through her hair wearily.

  ‘I just have to cope with these feelings. I just …’

  She began to cry.

  ‘I love you too.’

  ‘I’m sorry about the baby Imogen,’ he said, getting up. ‘When this business is sorted, I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I just have to sort this out.’

  Although exactly how he was going to sort it out, Henry had no clear idea.

  Journal entry

  Imogen

  So much blood. They say only women bleed. I will be forever in that moment, my hands scarlet and sticky. There is an exquisite pain of loss that educates you in a way nothing else can. I feel my heart has been pulled from my body and yet still it continues to beat. I had him for such a short time before he was cruelly torn from my body and flushed down the toilet bowl. Sordidly sad. Our baby washed down into the sewer like waste. Henry would be pleased. At least now I won’t have to tell him that our perfect life, perfect home and perfect marriage is going to be marred by the presence of another human.

  That’s what comes of deception. That’s what comes o
f being dishonest.

  I want to scoop it all up, all the blood and jelly and push it back inside me. Don’t go yet.

  But he’s gone. He won’t play on a swing in the garden or cling to my apron strings as I prepare dinner. He won’t go to university or bring home a much yearned for daughter-in-law.

  I hate Henry sometimes with as much passion as I love him. I should call him.

  ‘Help me Henry.’

  He wouldn’t understand. Stupid, stupid. Things we do for love are stupid, insane almost. Of course he would never change his mind. He’d been honest. More than I had been. Me, with my arrogance, believing I could change him.

  I wipe the blood from the floor with toilet roll and flush it down the loo. It was that easy, that quick. A sharp stomach cramp and my child was gone while my husband slept on in blissful ignorance in our perfect bed in our perfect bedroom in our perfect house. I drag my imperfect womb back to bed and cry.

  In that moment I wanted to kill Henry.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A babble of voices could be heard from inside the town hall. Henry stood by the entrance for a few moments, his eyes scanning the peeling paint and cracks in the doors as if within them he’d find the answer to his dilemma. Finally, he turned and walked away. He didn’t believe in that nonsense. Neither he nor Imogen did. It was just airy-fairy rubbish. He’d only gone a few steps when he turned back. The problem was there was nowhere else he could go. He had thought about going to the police and then decided that was pointless. Firstly, they wouldn’t be able to see him, and even if they could, being dead wasn’t exactly a crime. Secondly, what were they supposed to do about it anyway? It was just something you couldn’t avoid. It was a bit of a nuisance this dying malarkey, thought Henry, who had never really approved of it. From an early age, when he’d realised life didn’t go on forever, he had been pretty put out. What was the point then? He would ask anyone who would listen. What was the point of doing anything if you were eventually going to disappear? One might as well not bother. Temporary is what we are, he told his mother, temporary people living temporary lives, wasting whole days doing temporary jobs and then going back to their temporary homes.

  ‘We’re no more than temps,’ he’d say miserably. ‘In a hundred years’ time someone will pull a chain, flush us all away and it will start all over again. What’s the point?’

  A cold caress, that’s what death was. They say a person who has lived a full life doesn’t fear death. That’s all very well, thought Henry scornfully. Most people didn’t think about it; if they did, they’d do more than sit in front of the television watching reality shows while destroying their lungs with fags and their liver with booze. It’s best not to think about it. You’d never have a full life if you did. Trouble was, by the time you did think about it, it was too late to get that full life. Half of it had gone. Like a blink of an eye, it goes. Henry despised death. It had no consideration for what you were doing at the time it came to get you. Thoughtless and heartless was death.

  ‘People don’t think like that,’ his mother had said. ‘They’d go mad if they did.’

  ‘People live for the day,’ his father had chimed in. ‘Make the most of it.’

  Like they did, Henry supposed; filling their bellies with fry-ups and fish and chips half of the day and the rest lazing in the sun reading the Daily Mail.

  Of course, Henry soon came to the realisation that he also couldn’t live his life like that. His parents were quite right. He would have gone insane just as his mother predicted. But he certainly thought he had a lot longer, so it was irritating to find he was dead already. There were places he still wanted to see and so much more to do in the garden. He needed to find someone who knew about this kind of business and could explain to whoever was in charge that it had been a terrible mistake. He wasn’t supposed to go just yet and it was highly unlikely he would have drowned. No, something had gone terribly wrong and there had to be someone who could put it right. He had to do something soon. Henry had a bad feeling about the stranger at his funeral. Had Imogen been having an affair? He dismissed the idea as soon as it entered his head. Of course not, that was a ridiculous thought. Imogen wasn’t the type to have affairs. Why would she? She had everything she needed. Why go after beef burger when you had steak at home? If only he could undo this dead thing and get everything back to normal. He struggled again to place the man. He’d seen him before, but where? Why couldn’t he remember?

  ‘Oh dear,’ he muttered. Now his memory was failing. He was still reeling from the shock of Imogen’s miscarriage. He was tortured by the thought that Imogen had deliberately got rid of the baby because she’d thought he would be upset about it. He wondered if it had been a boy. He would be about fourteen now, Henry thought sadly. He would have been playing tennis. Henry bet he’d have been able to show Jack a thing or two.

  The sign on the door read: Spiritualist Church Services. Every Wednesday at 7.30 pm.

  He glanced at his watch and then stamped his foot in irritation. At a guess he presumed it was about eight. Still, if he went in quietly it should be all right. Surely as a dead person, he would be more than welcome. That’s what they wanted, wasn’t it, dead people to come and give messages? The door was partly open, and Henry squeezed in and found himself in a cold musty hall which smelt of perfume and wet raincoats. Henry was surprised to see a short stocky man on the makeshift stage. For some reason Henry had expected the psychic to look more magical, hair in a ponytail, leather bracelets, that kind of thing. It was a small hall and there could only have been about twenty people there. Henry walked to an empty row at the back and sat on one of the blue plastic chairs. Behind him a table was laid with white teacups and saucers along with plates of chocolate digestives and a Battenberg cake. Henry used to like Battenberg cake when he was a child. It was a triumph of flour and sugar, wrapped in mouth-watering marzipan. Henry thought he could do with a nice cup of tea and a piece of Battenberg right now. He could almost taste the light, fluffy, melt-in-the-mouth, sponge.

  His attention was pulled back to the psychic whose charismatic voice was relaying a message. It had a mesmerising sing-song quality about it.

  It was cold in the hall and Henry noticed everyone had their coats on. No one had thought to turn on the heating it seemed. Maybe dead people prefer the cold, thought Henry. That reassured him somewhat, as Henry would have done anything to get warm.

  ‘I’m right over there,’ said the psychic pointing. ‘I’ve got a message for someone right at the back of the hall.’

  The woman in front of Henry sat forward while Henry felt a surge of excitement pulsate within him.

  ‘Is it for me?’ he said. ‘Oh, at last. I need help.’

  ‘I’m getting a name. Michael, Mick …’ the psychic continued.

  Henry struggled to think if he knew a Michael or a Mick, but he felt sure he didn’t. He stood up so the psychic could see him.

  ‘I need help,’ said Henry. ‘I think I’m supposed to be dead but that really isn’t possible. Could you speak to whoever is in charge and sort this out.’

  ‘It could be Aunty Mabel,’ said the woman in front.

  ‘Can you take it?’ asked the psychic, pointing to the back row.

  ‘I don’t know a Michael or Mick. Could he be the person in charge?’ said Henry excitedly.

  ‘Is it Aunty Mabel?’ asked the woman.

  ‘I don’t have an Aunty Mabel,’ said Henry.

  ‘It could be. She’s saying you’re very anxious at the moment,’ replied the psychic.

  Henry sighed heavily and walked towards the front. The psychic was waving his arm in a circular motion.

  ‘She’s saying everyone around you is making you anxious. Can you understand that?’

  I’m getting pretty anxious, thought Henry. Perhaps this is a message for me. The woman looked confused and turned to the red-haired girl next to her.

  ‘I do get anxious sometimes don’t I?’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘I’m
quite anxious with all that’s been happening,’ said Henry. ‘This is certainly a message for me.’

  The psychic nodded.

  ‘She went quickly didn’t she?’ he said. ‘One two three and that was it?’

  ‘Who did?’ asked Henry.

  ‘Oh yes, Aunty Mabel had a heart attack. Very sudden,’ said the woman nodding emphatically. ‘It was one two three and gone.’

  I know all about one two three and gone thought Henry. He didn’t know anything about Aunty Mabel though.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ cried Henry. ‘Can any of you see me? I’m a real dead person. At least I think I am.’

  The psychic looked straight through him. Well, this is rich, thought Henry. Here am I, a dead person, wanting to pass on messages and the psychic who is supposed to be an expert on seeing dead people probably wouldn’t see me even if I sat on him.

  ‘Can you tell my wife Imogen I’m okay?’ said Henry urgently, making one final attempt. He could now see from a label on the man’s jacket that his name was Phil.

  ‘Hello Phil. You’re supposed to see me. I’m dead and I want to give someone a message.’

  Phil continued talking to the woman at the back. Henry, now frustrated, wondered what other dead people did to make contact with psychics.

  ‘Hello,’ he said again.

  Phil continued talking to the woman at the back of the hall. Henry’s blood began to boil. What kind of caper was this? If there was someone to complain to then Henry most certainly would. A psychic who couldn’t see dead people? Whatever next, thought Henry.

  ‘I’m getting to the end of my tether with this now. Can you please get someone to sort out this business,’ Henry yelled.

  ‘There’s a celebration coming up,’ said Phil to the woman. ‘She’s showing me the 3rd or the 5th.’

  ‘I’m going to the dentist on the 5th,’ said the woman.

  ‘Ooh, that’s right you are,’ agreed the redhead.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ sighed Henry.

  ‘Is that Aunty Mabel?’ asked the woman.