The Day Henry Died: A supernatural romance

by Lynda Renham

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Henry stood by the lamp post in the pouring rain. The weather matched Henry’s mood. He imagined himself to be Henry Miles, from Graham Greene’s novel, End of the Affair. Very fitting he thought. If only this were a novel, a novel with a happy ending. He looked at the blue door of his house and then to the Georgian window at the side of it. The living room was bathed in a warm glow. Imogen had the fireside lights on. Henry had fitted those. He’d thought they would give the house a warm, cosy, cottage look. No doubt it was warm in there too, as warm as toasted marshmallow. Henry knew he could walk straight through the blue front door, but he didn’t feel ready to do that, not just yet. The last time he’d visited the house, it had been a sombre experience. He didn’t want to see that lazy, good for nothing, roofer again. Not until he could box his ears good and proper.

  His interest was awakened, when through the grey, misty rain, he recognised Cynthia’s white Peugeot as it pulled onto the driveway. It was followed by another car, driven by a woman that Henry didn’t recognise. They climbed from their cars and then stood for a few moments looking up at the house. Henry looked also but he couldn’t make out what had them so interested. Finally, it dawned on him. The woman was an estate agent.

  ‘No,’ he shouted. ‘You can’t sell my house. Cynthia, I’m warning you.’

  How quickly things were spiralling out of control. He rushed across the road, his feet sloshing through the puddles. The front door was now open, and Henry walked into the hallway behind a heavy cloud of perfume.

  Imogen closed the door and hugged her mother.

  ‘What weather!’ Cynthia shook off her coat.

  ‘This is Faye.’ Cynthia took the other woman’s coat and hustled her forward. Henry thought her to be the plainest woman he’d ever seen. Badly cut, dark hair hung straight and shapeless around her face. The tiny gold studs that adorned her earlobes did nothing to enhance her plainness. Her small shrunken eyes blinked rapidly a few times as she looked around, her nose sniffing the air like a ferret. Cynthia hung their coats and said, ‘Well, do you sense anything, Faye?’

  ‘Not at the moment,’ said Faye, her expression serious. ‘I need to tune in,’ she added mysteriously.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Cynthia with a knowledgeable nod of someone who knew all about psychically tuning in.

  Henry had a bad feeling about this.

  ‘I thought we’d have it in here.’ Imogen led them into the living room with its warm glow from the fireside lights.

  Henry detected a tremble in her voice.

  ‘Don’t sell the house, Imogen,’ he pleaded. ‘Give me time to sort this out.’

  He noticed their Ikea coffee table had been moved and now sat under the window. It looked out of place there, as if it no longer belonged to them. It’s been discarded, like me, thought Henry gloomily.

  ‘Is it okay here?’ Imogen nodded at the space in the middle of the room. Four little dents in the carpet showed where the table had once lived.

  ‘Yes, perfect.’ Faye unzipped her large black handbag.

  ‘This is nerve-wracking,’ giggled Cynthia, clenching and unclenching her hands.

  Henry watched fascinated and wondered where his father-in-law was. Surely if this was connected to selling the house then John would be here?

  Faye lifted a folded board from the bag and laid it out onto the space provided. Henry leant closer to see what it was. At first it didn’t make sense. A board with the alphabet printed on it. Why would they want that? He then looked closer and realised what it was.

  ‘A Ouija board,’ he grumbled. ‘For goodness’ sake Imogen, what are you doing?’

  Imogen stepped back from it, uncertain.

  This is getting out of hand thought Henry. Imogen doesn’t believe in this rubbish. They’d talked about it often. Laughed even at how gullible Cynthia was.

  ‘It isn’t possible that there could be something after death, like some kind of alternative reality where people have no bodies,’ she’d once said.

  ‘Your mother certainly believes in all that nonsense,’ said Henry.

  They’d just finished the haddock and eggs that Imogen had cooked to perfection and were finishing off a nice bottle of Chardonnay.

  ‘Different hands of varying size and colour have touched your mother’s body in an effort to give her piece of mind,’ he’d said.

  It was true. Her head had been manipulated, her spine massaged, her feet pummelled and wet miracle mud smeared over her pink skin. Faith healers had spoken mumbo jumbo over her, and her head was always in a self-help book. But still she worried, about her daughter, about her husband, the state of the country, her health, her breasts, and the perpetual fear that she was growing a brain tumour. Perhaps as you get older dying is a more frightening prospect, Henry had decided.

  ‘When you’re dead, you’re dead,’ Henry had said bluntly.

  Ha, if only Imogen could see him now. He was discovering being dead wasn’t as simple as everyone thought.

  ‘But what if you weren’t?’ Imogen had argued, pouring some wine. ‘What if there is more to it? After all, no one really knows what happens after you die. How could a person just go? One minute their heart is pounding, and their eyes are bright and the next …’ Imogen shuddered.

  Henry remembered the conversation and considered her words with a dull ache in his heart.

  ‘The next, eyes that once danced with light are now vacant and staring. The once rosy complexion is waxy and pale. The mouth that was so quick to smile in life lies stiff and agape. The lips that once kissed are blue and cold,’ he’d added, remembering the lines from a book he’d read once.

  So far, he wasn’t any of those things so maybe that was a good sign.

  ‘Faye said this is the best way to make contact with Henry,’ Cynthia was saying. ‘She’ll remove all spirits. Clean the house.’

  She made it sound like the house from The Exorcist, thought Henry. Anyone would think Imogen had objects flying around the living room. The only thing that moved of its own volition in their house was the washing machine on a final spin. That usually managed to judder itself into the middle of the kitchen. That was about as possessed as it got in their house.

  ‘I don’t want anything to go wrong,’ said Imogen worriedly.

  Deep frown lines etched her forehead and Henry wanted so much to comfort her. She’s looking much older, he thought. The prominent lines around her mouth, which he felt sure hadn’t been there before. She had more grey hairs, too. It was the face of someone suffering, who had loved and now grieved. It would pass, he told herself. Everything passes. Soon this would be behind them. Everything has an end. Nothing lasts forever, absolutely nothing. Not even us, Henry thought sadly.

  He looked at Faye. Surely, psychics are supposed to wear floaty dresses and jangly bracelets and wear perfume that smelt like incense sticks and most certainly, her hair should be multi-coloured, not a mousy brown. He’d expected an aura to be around her at the very least.

  ‘Do you have candles?’ asked Cynthia.

  ‘Yes,’ said Imogen rushing off to get them.

  Henry sighed. He hated candles. They caused soot and were toxic. He’d told Imogen that so many times. She returned with the candles and handed them to Cynthia.

  ‘You’ll burn the house down next,’ he muttered.

  ‘I’m really not sure …’ began Imogen.

  ‘You want to know if it’s Henry, don’t you?’ urged Cynthia.

  Henry’s head snapped up at the mention of his name. Imogen bit her nails anxiously.

  ‘But a séance,’ she said and swallowed hard. ‘I don’t believe in them.’

  ‘Quite right. It’s all nonsense,’ agreed Henry.

  Faye put a hand to her lips to silence them.

  ‘He’s here,’ said Faye. ‘I can sense him.’

  Imogen swayed and uttered ‘oh’. Cynthia looked around cautiously as though any minute Henry would materialise in front of them. Henry could almost see
the hairs rise on the back of her neck.

  ‘Is he close?’ she whispered.

  ‘No point in whispering,’ laughed Henry. ‘I can hear everything and I’m right next to you.’

  He looked at Faye. Her eyes were closed.

  ‘Are you faking it?’ he asked.

  She didn’t hear him, and Henry found he wasn’t in the least surprised. He exhaled heavily; all his irritation expelled in that one breath.

  ‘I need a drink,’ said Imogen suddenly. ‘I can’t do this without a drink.’

  Cynthia nodded.

  ‘I could do with one too. How about you Faye?’

  ‘Not while I’m working, said Faye, opening her eyes.

  ‘Working?’ laughed Henry. ‘Ripping off innocent people, more like. How much are you paying her for this, Imogen?’

  Imogen came back with glasses and a bottle of wine. Her hands were shaking so much that Cynthia quickly relieved her of both.

  ‘Let’s calm our nerves,’ said Cynthia, pouring the wine.

  ‘Yes,’ said Imogen, knocking back half a glass.

  Henry studied the wine bottle and grimaced. It was some cheap plonk from Sainsbury, no doubt.

  ‘Is it dangerous?’ Imogen asked.

  Henry closed his ears to the nonsense that spouted from Faye’s lips and decided he most likely had time to go into the wardrobe. He walked through the living room door and up the stairs. He forgot about the creaky fifth step. He was so used to it. Besides, he thought it unlikely anyone would hear him. After all, they normally never did. But it seemed when Henry was in his own home things were a bit different and from below there were screams.

  ‘Did you hear that,’ squeaked Cynthia. ‘Did you Faye?’

  ‘You see, I’m not imagining it,’ said Imogen in a shaky voice.

  Faye, showing bravery she didn’t really feel said, ‘I’ll go and look.’

  Henry stood at the top of the stairs and watched as Faye took three tentative steps.

  ‘Hello,’ she called.

  ‘Hello,’ said Henry. ‘If you’re a true psychic you would be able to see me.’

  ‘Hello, please reveal yourself.’

  Henry tutted and walked into the bedroom. The bed had been sloppily made. There were creases in the duvet cover and the pillows had been thrown on in a haphazard fashion. Henry shuddered. If there was one thing he couldn’t abide it was a creased unmade bed. The top pillowcases didn’t even match. A discarded pink cardigan lay across it. He excused Imogen because she was grieving. He supposed the bed was the last thing on her mind. The door of the wardrobe was ajar, and he peeked inside but this time all he saw were Imogen’s perfectly ironed clothes. He waited, but all his eyes met were a multitude of colours hanging limply from wooden shoulders.

  ‘Come on,’ Henry said impatiently.

  Five minutes passed and still there was no space in the wardrobe for Henry to enter. Finally, he had no alternative but to go downstairs and join the others for the séance.

  The wine glasses were now empty, and the only light was that from the flickering candle and a side lamp. Faye was sitting cross-legged on the floor with Imogen and Cynthia sitting opposite her. Faye closed her eyes, swayed slightly and then said. ‘He’s definitely here. Let’s start. His spirit is strong.’

  Henry sighed in despair.

  ‘Let’s call Henry,’ said Faye.

  ‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Cynthia.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Henry.

  ‘He’s here,’ said Faye. ‘Let’s begin.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Henry sat on the floor, resting his back against the couch. Beside him Faye, the psychic was tilting her head back, her eyes closed in concentration, while Cynthia’s bright blue eye-shadowed eyelids blinked nervously, her body stiff with tension. She’s getting ready to flee just in case I should appear, thought Henry. He glanced curiously at the Ouija board. He’d never seen one before, except in the films. As he did so, Henry noticed that the rug needed a good vacuum. Imogen was normally very observant about things like that. There would never be bits on the rug, not normally. He looked at her pale face, gaunt in the shadows.

  ‘Everyone put their fingers on the planchette,’ instructed Faye.

  Imogen shook her head.

  ‘I can’t,’ she trembled.

  Henry stared at her in surprise. She didn’t believe in that nonsense so why was she suddenly so terrified?

  ‘We can’t do it without you, dear. Isn’t that right, Faye?’ cajoled Cynthia.

  Faye leaned a hand across to Imogen who grasped it desperately.

  ‘I promise it will be alright,’ she said comfortingly.

  ‘I wouldn’t trust her,’ scoffed Henry.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Imogen fretfully, her eyes filling with tears.

  ‘I know what you’re going through,’ said Faye. ‘Trust me. I have done this many times.’

  Henry thought that Faye didn’t have an inkling of what Imogen was going through. Imogen reluctantly placed her fingers onto the planchette.

  ‘We’re just going to move it around a bit to warm it up,’ said Faye.

  ‘Are we supposed to do that?’ asked Cynthia suspiciously.

  She always thinks she knows better, thought Henry. He yawned and wondered what the time was.

  ‘Okay,’ said Faye eventually. ‘Let’s ask questions.’

  Cynthia released a nervous giggle and Faye gave her a warning look.

  ‘Is there anyone here to communicate with us?’ asked Faye.

  The candle sent quivering shadows onto the rectory red walls. Henry looked at the planchette with interest, but it didn’t move. At least, thought Henry good humouredly, there aren’t any other dead people in the house. He didn’t want it becoming an Airbnb for the deceased.

  ‘I’d like to communicate,’ said Henry with a yawn.

  ‘Henry are you with us?’ asked Faye.

  Henry turned his head to look at her. Her bold forehead was creased in concentration. Her lips, slightly apart, quivered as she spoke.

  ‘I’m here,’ he said excitedly. ‘I’m right beside you.’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Cynthia, sighing with disappointment.

  Faye shushed her.

  ‘Be positive,’ she whispered.

  Imogen’s hand was shaking so much that it was difficult to tell what was happening with the planchette.

  ‘Henry, are you with us?’ Faye asked again.

  Henry reached out to the planchette. He watched in amazement as his fingers pushed it across to the circle marked YES. It was like pushing a heavy piece of furniture and it seemed to take an eternity, but he finally did it. He looked up triumphantly. Imogen’s hand shook violently under his.

  ‘Oh my God,’ uttered Cynthia.

  ‘Who did that?’ gasped Imogen scrambling backwards, colliding with the newly positioned coffee table.

  ‘Imogen …’ began Faye, reaching out a comforting hand.

  ‘Which one of you did it?’ Imogen screamed, her breath extinguishing the candle.

  Ignoring Imogen, Faye asked, ‘Is that you Henry?’ Her breathing suddenly quickened.

  Henry felt in control, finally.

  ‘I’m back,’ he said victoriously.

  At last, he thought. I can get this business sorted.

  *

  Imogen looked as though she might faint.

  ‘We have to stop,’ she cried, jumping up. Her foot accidentally kicked the planchette sending it careening across the room.

  ‘Oh,’ cried Faye, rushing after it as though it were a much-loved cat that had just been stepped on.

  ‘Well …’ started Cynthia, looking appealingly at Faye.

  ‘It may have broken the connection,’ said Faye, clearly biting back her disappointment.

  Imogen poured more wine and seemed disinterested in the state of the planchette while Henry wanted to punch the wall in frustration. He’d just begun to get somewhere.

  ‘I need some air,’ said Imogen.

/>   Henry followed her into the garden. The rain had finally stopped but it was cold. The rain had soaked the garden. Good for the plants, he thought. One of Henry’s spades was still out. It sat alone in the mud, dirty and forlorn. Henry wanted to rescue it and return it to its rightful place in the shed.

  ‘It’s a bit nippy love,’ he said. ‘You should wear your coat.’

  Imogen rubbed at her eyes and then drank from her wine glass.

  In front of Henry’s eyes night turned miraculously into day. It reminded Henry of a biblical film he’d seen once, where the hand of God had wiped away the daylight and brought about darkness. He couldn’t recall why this had happened, but the cinematic effects were amazing. The chilly air turned to muggy suffocating warmth. Imogen was still there with her glass of wine but now Alice was with her. It was too hot, and Henry had to remove his raincoat. Imogen looked pretty. There were no lines on her face. She was relaxed. The strap of her sundress had slipped off her shoulder and Henry could just see the outline of her white lacy bra.

  ‘Shall I make us another sandwich?’ she asked Alice.

  ‘I’m fine. I’ll have a top up though.’

  ‘Henry should be home soon.’

  He remembered this. It was a few years ago. It had been a very hot summer. Henry had been playing tennis with Jack. Alice had come for lunch. He remembered it clearly because when he had come home, Alice, for some reason, had seemed off with him and had left almost immediately.

  ‘So, what does Henry think?’ Alice asked. ‘You are at some point going to tell me, aren’t you?’

  Imogen lowered her eyes.

  ‘He doesn’t want me to take it.’

  ‘What!’ cried Alice, ‘you’re joking? It’s a fantastic opportunity.’

  ‘No, I’m not joking. I’ve been dreading telling you.’

  Alice shook her head in disbelief.

  ‘But why for goodness’ sake?’

  ‘I know Alice. It’s just, well Henry likes to be the breadwinner and …’

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, doesn’t he know times have changed? We’ve not living in the 1950s. It’s not a man’s world any more.’

  ‘Now hang on,’ interrupted Henry. ‘I’m not here to defend myself.’