The Day Henry Died: A supernatural romance Read online

  The Day Henry Died

  Lynda Renham

  About the Author

  Lynda lives in Oxford, UK. She has appeared on BBC radio discussion programmes and is a prolific blogger, Twitter and Facebook contributor. She is author of the best-selling thriller novels including: Remember Me, Secrets and Lies, Watching You and She Saw What He Did.

  The right of Lynda Renham to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Raucous Publishing 2020

  www.raucouspublishing.co.uk

  Chapter One

  Thunderclouds gathered above the rooftops of Mayberry Terrace, like malevolent angels, covering number 25 in a dark cloak. The sweet smell of rain-washed streets hung in the air. For everyone else, it was just a normal, dull, overcast Wednesday in September. However, at number 25 Mayberry Terrace, it was the day Henry Booker Frazer woke up to discover he was dead.

  Henry’s eyes snapped open just a few seconds before the alarm shrieked like an air-raid siren and shattered the peaceful silence. Henry invariably woke before the alarm, but the thought of not setting it, and leaving things to chance, filled him with dread. It was warm under the sheets and he reluctantly lifted one arm out of his cocoon and silenced the incessant screeching. His earthy brown eyes didn’t need to check the date on the clock. It was the 4th September, the day that the Lester report was due. The report had given Henry a fair amount of grief, and he was feeling quite relieved that today, he would finally see the back of it. Henry, then, as he did every morning, reached across to the warmth and comfort of his wife, Imogen.

  ‘Morning,’ he yawned into her ear, but her ear wasn’t there. Instead, he was met by a blanket of coldness. Imogen’s side of the bed was empty. Henry frowned and pricked up his ears for the sound of cascading water. However, the bathroom was silent. He searched his brain for a memory. Had she said something about an early start? He couldn’t remember. A knot of anxiety niggled in his stomach. She’d most likely gone into work early. She did that sometimes. She’d probably told him. He’d had a lot on his mind. Satisfied with that explanation, Henry climbed slowly from the bed, stretched his body with a grateful sigh, and then slipped on his spectacles, never ceasing to be amazed at the clarity they brought. The curtains were half-open and with a swish, 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. As he stood, for a moment in a world of his own, the light green front door of the house opposite opened and Henry’s neighbour, whose name he didn’t know, popped her head around it to retrieve a pint of milk from the doorstep. She wore a pink nightie and her hair was in rollers. Imogen never wore rollers in bed.

  ‘You don’t want to be sleeping next to Ena Sharples,’ she had once laughed.

  As she bent down, Henry glimpsed the swell of her milky white breasts beneath the nightie. He flushed at the sight of them. She looked up and stared straight at him, her face sad. He waved, but she turned without acknowledging him. Henry quickly pulled back from the window, embarrassed to be seen in his pyjamas, and feeling oddly like a pervert. The navy suit and starched white shirt hung neatly outside the wardrobe, waiting for the fullness of his body to make it complete. Next to it on another hanger was Imogen’s black woollen dress and cream scarf. A whisper of her White Linen perfume clung to them. At the sight of the dress, Henry again struggled to pull a memory forward. Were they going out later? He’d been so immersed in work the past week that most things had passed him by. He would message Imogen later and check.

  He carefully and meticulously checked the shirt for any marks. Sometimes, and Henry knew it wasn’t Imogen’s fault, their steam iron dribbled water, and had been known to leave a stain. But today there were no stains. From the dressing table drawer he removed a pair of black socks, releasing, as he did so, the sweet smell of orange blossom fabric conditioner. Imogen was quite fussy about the washing liquids they used.

  ‘Nothing too overpowering,’ she would say.

  From another pile, he took a pair of pants, cautious not to dislodge the neatness. He sighed with satisfaction. Henry liked a well-ordered life. The fragrance from Imogen’s shower gel clung to the en-suite’s walls. He sniffed appreciatively and then glanced at his reflection in the mirror. Henry wasn’t a vain man, but he liked to keep a check on things. Nip things in the bud, was Henry’s motto. Like the small mole on his chest for example. Henry kept an eye on his weight too. He was a well-built man and he was proud to tell anyone and everyone that it was muscle and not fat. Henry was all too aware that being overweight in your late-forties meant you were halfway to a heart attack and Henry didn’t want to be even a third of the way. He took a leisurely shower and washed his thinning hair with the special shampoo he’d seen advertised on the internet. So far, he hadn’t noticed any difference, but he imagined it took some time. After all, Rome wasn’t built in a day. The brown towelling robe felt like a second skin. It had been an extravagant purchase, but Henry believed if you buy cheap you buy twice. He’d had the towelling robe for fifteen years and it still showed no signs of wear. Henry always ate breakfast in his towelling robe. Not that he ever spilt any, but Henry preferred to be safe than sorry.

  The radiator at the top of the stairs hissed at him like a recalcitrant cat. Henry glared at it, knowing that a reprimanding stare would do nothing to help the problem, but it made him feel better nevertheless. The radiator was becoming a thorn in his side. He’d bled it several times but still the thing pestered him. He was reluctant to get in a professional. In his experience, everyone was out for what they could get and that meant Henry’s money. You couldn’t trust a soul these days. Dog eat dog, that’s how it was in Henry’s opinion. He’d worked hard for his money. Not like the layabouts these days. They had no idea what it was to do a day’s work. They charged a fortune and expected endless cups of tea and cigarette breaks. Henry abhorred smoking. He didn’t even allow workmen to smoke in the garden. He and Imogen didn’t need cigarette smoke waltzing into their home with its rancid odour leaving layers of jaundiced tar on their walls. He was paying after all. It was no wonder these people never had any money. It all went on cancer sticks and cheap beer. No, Henry had no time for people like that.

  He stepped into the kitchen. It was immaculate as always. Even the flowers in Imogen and Henry’s kitchen were afraid to wilt. The toaster sparkled like a jewel as a small shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds and craftily sneaked through a gap in the blinds. The sparkling toaster tempted Henry with its shimmering body and seductive offer of a crisp slice with a mouth-watering knob of butter. Henry resisted, even though he rather fancied a piece of toast. But it was Wednesday and on Wednesdays he always had porridge with a sprinkling of blueberries and a teaspoon of honey. Not even a sun-soaked toaster could sway him out of his routine. The fridge was neatly ordered. Fruit and yogurt on the middle shelf, vegetables on the bottom, and in the door, cartons of milk and fruit juice were lined up like soldiers on parade. The top shelf, without fail, always held their dinner for the evening. Today, Henry saw that it was Bramley apple pork saus
ages, potatoes and broccoli. He enjoyed sausages a great deal. He pulled out a box of blueberries and wiped at a speck of milk that Imogen must have spilt earlier.

  Imogen and Henry didn’t have children. They pitied those of their friends that did. Henry had seen other people’s kitchens when children were present. It seemed to him parents had no control over their offspring these days, not like when he was a boy. A child should know his place was Henry’s view. He and Imogen had always agreed that children would be a blemish on their perfect home and perfect life. It was enough to be responsible for each other. While the porridge cooked Henry collected The Times from the doormat. The microwave pinged as he re-entered the kitchen. He left the porridge to stay warm and carefully lined up his daily quota of vitamins. Henry prided himself on the fact that at forty-nine the only pills he took were vitamins and supplements. Not for him, blood pressure pills or statins. His blood pressure was textbook perfect. He took it twice a week and was never displeased with the result. If only that annoying mole would go. Perhaps he’d pay privately to have it removed and then he wouldn’t have to think about it any more.

  ‘It would have to be cosmetic surgery,’ his GP had told him. ‘There’s no medical reason for having it removed. There’s nothing sinister about it.’

  ‘But it could turn sinister,’ Henry had insisted.

  He checked on Google and read, although rare, his kind of mole could turn cancerous. Henry didn’t want to take chances with moles. He preferred not to have a mole at all, sinister or otherwise. Henry didn’t like blemishes marring his perfect life.

  ‘Just keep an eye on it,’ the doctor had reassured him.

  That was all very well, Henry had thought. But keeping an eye on it wouldn’t exactly stop anything sinister happening and by the time Henry spotted it, it could well be too late. He was unimpressed with the consultation.

  His breakfast ready, Henry sat contentedly at the small kitchen table with its blue and white jug of freesias and turned to the obituary page. The aroma of the freshly made coffee reached his grateful nostrils and Henry sighed with pleasure. He glanced up at the ceiling and was relieved to see there was no longer a water stain. Jim had done a good job. He reminded himself to look at the roof on his way out. Always good to check, thought Henry. After all, he’d paid a pretty penny to have it repaired. Good roofers were hard to come by. He and Imogen had been lucky finding Jim. Not that Henry had had much to do with Jim. He’d left all that to Imogen. After all, she was home most of the time. The greengrocer job wasn’t a demanding one, not like Henry’s. He didn’t mind Imogen working three days a week. After all, it gave her the money to buy those little things she enjoyed, like make-up and face creams. Recently she had bought a set of lace runners. Henry didn’t care for the lace runners much, but he suffered them for Imogen’s sake. They pleased her and, after all, it was her house too. No, three days a week was fine, Henry had decided. He’d not wanted her to apply for the manager’s job. He’d rather wished Alice had not even mentioned it. That would not only have been full-time but a big commitment and would most certainly have affected their time together. The last thing Henry wanted was to come home to TV dinners like many of the men he worked with. No, there was no need for Imogen to work full-time. He earned a good salary and they had everything they needed. He liked Imogen to be in the house when he got home and to be greeted with the aroma of something tasty cooking in the oven.

  A spoonful of porridge laced with honey was poised to enter his mouth when Henry uncharacteristically dropped the spoon with a clatter back into the bowl, sending bits of blueberry-tinted porridge across the well-scrubbed table. Henry’s eyes scanned the words in front of him, his brain struggling to comprehend what it was seeing. This couldn’t be right. He blinked and removed his glasses, rubbing at them vigorously with a piece of kitchen towel. He replaced the spectacles and read the words again. They hadn’t changed. Henry Booker Frazer was still reading his own obituary.

  Chapter Two

  Henry stared in disbelief at the words. His stomach churned and beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead.

  ‘This can’t be right,’ he mumbled, the newspaper trembling in his hands.

  Henry Frazer, aged 49, died tragically on 7th September. He is survived by his wife Imogen Frazer … The couple had no children …

  His normal regular beating heart now felt like it would explode in his chest. It was the unexpectedness of it. One just did not open the newspaper and read about one’s death. It was bound to cause shock.

  The 7th September, Henry thought, bemused. He did a quick calculation in his head. The 7th September was three days away. He turned to look at the desk calendar that sat on the kitchen counter. His eyes wandered past the fridge and the Isle of Wight photo that was stuck on the door depicting a sultry day by the beach. Golden sands and blue shimmering seas met his gaze. Memories of their feet sinking into that soft sand, damp from the retreating tide, filled his mind and for a moment, he forgot about the words in front of him and instead remembered their holiday. Imogen’s tanned legs curled beneath her as she read a book. Cool white wine from the rented cottage’s fridge. If he concentrated hard enough, perhaps he could transport himself there. But it wasn’t to be, and his mind cruelly dragged him back to the present and to the desk calendar. Wednesday 18th September. The words screamed at him in big, bold, black print. He brought the newspaper closer, doubting for the first time the clarity of his glasses. It too said September 18th. He could not possibly have slept for fourteen days. Henry swallowed but the saliva caught in his throat and for several moments, Henry choked. He felt a sharp pain in his leg and gripped the side of the table. The coffee mug shook, spilling its dark liquid. Henry coughed and spluttered until his face turned red. He couldn’t get his breath. Coffee dribbled down the sides of the table and onto Henry’s treasured towelling robe. Grabbing the mug roughly, he gulped down the remaining contents in a bid to stop his choking.

  Of course he wasn’t dead. It was ridiculous. He stared at the white kitchen walls as though all the answers he needed lay within them. He was in his kitchen. You wouldn’t be in your own kitchen if you were dead. ‘Calm down,’ he said firmly. ‘This is crazy. You cannot have woken up properly. It’s just a bad dream. You’re as alive as the next man.’

  He put a hand to his throat, spluttered one last time and felt his airways clear. He looked nervously at the obituary, but his eyes were too watery, and he had to wipe them to see clearly. He read the words again. Yes, it was most certainly his name.

  Henry Frazer survived by his wife Imogen Frazer.

  Of course it wasn’t him, he thought, relieved. Imogen would have made sure his full name had been in the obituary. It was another Henry Frazer. There were no doubt a few Henry Frazers in the country but there was only one Henry Booker Frazer. Henry felt sure about that. All the same, to have a wife named Imogen was quite a coincidence. Not good form for The Times though, to misprint the date, thought Henry self-righteously. He’d write them a letter this evening. He would correct the desk calendar too. Imogen must have dropped it when cleaning and hadn’t bothered to put the date right. There was always a logical explanation.

  Henry’s body collapsed with relief and he started to laugh. Quietly at first and then louder until his shoulders were heaving. What a fright that had been and what a fool he was, thinking that he had been reading his own obituary, he chided himself. It really was not good for his blood pressure.

  ‘What a fool you are Henry,’ he said aloud. His heart slowed its rapid beating and gradually the trembling of his body ceased. He was soaked in sweat. Salty droplets ran down his cheeks like summer rain. It was too hot in the house, he decided. He made a mental note to speak to Imogen about the thermostat. She obviously set it too high. He sighed at the sight of the spilt coffee. He was running late now. He tossed the remains of the porridge into the bin and sloshed the coffee down the sink. There would be no time now to make a sandwich. He would have to get something from the cafeteria an
d Henry cringed at the thought.

  He was surprised to see the thermostat was set to nineteen. It was surely hotter than nineteen in the house. He was certain of that. There must be something wrong with the heating system. He’d have to look at it tonight. The clock on the cooker told him time was rushing by. He’d never been late for work once in the twenty years he’d worked at Linley and Webster insurance brokers and he wasn’t about to start now. Hurriedly the porridge bowl and coffee mug were put in the dishwasher. He had fifteen minutes to dress, clean around the shower, and tidy his hair. Henry didn’t like to rush, and he was already sweating profusely under his dressing gown. He would have to shower again if this went on. He thought about opening a window but what if he forgot to close it in his haste? The house insurance would never cover a burglary if a window had been left open. Inviting burglars, they would say. No, best to leave them closed, he decided.

  The shower was dry already. No sign at all that he’d even had one.

  ‘That just proves it’s too hot in here,’ he mumbled. ‘I’d better turn the heating off completely.’

  The newly ironed shirt was quickly thrown on and the hanger tossed into the wardrobe. Henry then rushed down the stairs. He’d miss his bus. There wouldn’t be another for twenty minutes. Prompt they were too, it was one of the few things Henry could depend on. Henry didn’t drive. He had tried but he just could not get the hang of gears. It was all too much. Besides, there were far too many cars on the roads these days. He opened the front door, grabbed his coat and then realised he didn’t have his briefcase. He hurried back upstairs where the briefcase was lying on the chair by the wardrobe, waiting for him. He grabbed it, knocking the shirt off the hanger in his haste. He picked it up tiredly and threw it into the wash basket. Finally, and with much relief, he left the house and ran for the bus and got to his stop just as the number 193 pulled up.