The Day Henry Died: A supernatural romance Read online

  ‘Thank goodness,’ Henry sighed.

  He wouldn’t be late.

  Chapter Three

  Henry jumped on board the bus, flashed his pass at the bus driver and said in a jolly voice,

  ‘I thought I was going to miss you.’

  Henry believed politeness cost nothing. There’s not much in life that’s free these days. The bus driver, who clearly didn’t believe in politeness, free or not, simply ignored Henry. Still, thought Henry, if bus drivers took the time to chat to every passenger the buses would cease to arrive promptly. With that thought, he excused the driver and walked towards his usual seat only to find someone sitting in it. He didn’t feel comfortable in any other seat so instead, he stood. The bus was anything but luxurious. The seats had been dulled by the grime of many years. Henry imagined that when it had rolled off the assembly line the seats must have been a brilliant blue, the chrome handrails sparkling.

  He decided to make an appointment with his doctor that day, although he had no idea what he would tell him. His were not common symptoms. He very much doubted he would even find them on Google.

  ‘I’m seeing things that aren’t there,’ he’d have to tell the doctor.

  No, he couldn’t possibly say that. He would take his temperature when he arrived at the office. That was most likely the problem. No doubt, it would be high. He was clearly running a fever. No wonder he had been sweating. He had been a bit delirious this morning, that’s all it was. He would take a couple of paracetamol when he reached his desk. With a pang, he realised he had forgotten to take his regular vitamins. The obituary had completely thrown him off balance. That was what the unexpected did. It knocked you for six and day-to-day routines were thrown to one side like rubbish.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ he muttered.

  To make matters worse he had left the pill bottles on the kitchen table. Imogen would no doubt put them back in the wrong order. There was something very disturbing about things being put back in the wrong order, thought Henry. He saw his stop approaching and made his way to the front of the bus.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said to the other standing passengers, but no one moved.

  ‘So rude,’ he grumbled as he squeezed past them. He jumped off the bus as the doors were closing. The bus roared off, splashing muddy water from a puddle all over Henry’s well-polished shoes.

  ‘What’s the world coming to?’ he moaned.

  The familiar red brick building of Linley and Webster’s was ahead of him. A smiling, grey-haired employee that Henry recognised was holding the door for his colleagues and Henry stepped in behind them.

  ‘Morning,’ he smiled but they were too engrossed in their conversation to notice him.

  The overheated foyer made him perspire all over again. It was the flu, no doubt. A few people at the office had been off with it the past few weeks. Henry’s tension lifted and he decided it wasn’t necessary after all to phone the doctor. It was just a virus. He’d be back to normal in a few days.

  ‘Morning Helen,’ he said smiling at the receptionist. ‘Terrible weather isn’t it?’

  She continued chatting on the phone, her orange lips opening and closing like a goldfish. She didn’t look up at Henry once. So rude, thought Henry again. He had often mentioned to Imogen how rude the receptionist was.

  ‘She can’t even give you as much as a good morning,’ he had complained. He shrugged and walked to the stairs. The exercise would do him good.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ he said entering the office. Although a quick glance at the clock on the whitewashed wall told him he was actually on time.

  He pulled off his coat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a tissue. 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 did not relish going back to Helen to ask for one.

  He stopped abruptly at his desk. Someone was sitting at it. Henry opened his mouth to enquire who the man was when his work colleague, Sam, strolled across.

  ‘Sorry to add something else, Matt. The Lester case was another that he was handling,’ he said. ‘This needs to take priority.’

  Henry watched Sam hand over a brown folder.

  ‘Morning Sam,’ said Henry. ‘What’s happening? I’ve not handed in the Lester file yet. It’s here in my briefcase.’

  Henry could picture in his head the moment he had slotted the Lester file between Gregson’s claim and Johnson’s completed forms. It had fitted in nicely, like a perfect sized glove. It most certainly wasn’t in a brown folder.

  Sam glanced at him and nodded over to a desk in the corner.

  ‘Tim, over there, will help with any queries. Just give a shout.’

  ‘Okay thanks,’ said the man named Matt, who sported a five o’clock shadow at 9am. Henry never understood why it was called a five o’clock shadow. Why not a seven or eight o’clock? Henry decided to look it up on Google later.

  ‘I don’t think I know Matt,’ said Henry nervously. Sam ignored him and Henry felt anger surge within him.

  ‘Where are my photo and my plant?’ Henry asked crossly.

  The desk didn’t even look like his any more. There was nothing familiar on it and it was a terrible mess with folders and papers everywhere. Henry would never let his desk get into such a muddle. Where was the photo of Imogen and the chilli plant he had been growing? Where were all his folders? Someone might have told him they were moving things around.

  ‘Sam,’ he said. ‘Where’s my desk?’

  Sam turned as Helen walked in. Henry felt angry enough now to demand cups for the water dispenser but something in her tone stopped him.

  ‘Here’s the card,’ she said. ‘Can you get everyone to sign it? It can then go with the flowers.’

  She lowered her eyes as she spoke, and Sam nodded solemnly. Henry sighed and said, ‘Helen, where has my desk been moved to?’

  By now Henry wasn’t in the least surprised when Helen ignored him. He rubbed anxiously at his jaw before yelling, ‘Can anyone see me?’

  No one turned.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he said, more to himself than anyone else.

  The card was passed around the desks and Henry curiously followed it. People’s expressions changed when they saw it. Their faces clouded over. Henry did not want to see it, but he knew he had to. Finally, he was able to lean over someone’s shoulder and look.

  To Imogen, our thoughts are with you at this sad time.

  ‘I can’t get over it,’ said Sam handing the card back to Helen. ‘I mean, Henry of all people.’

  ‘I keep expecting him to walk through the door,’ said Helen, her eyes growing watery.

  ‘I know,’ nodded Sam.

  Henry took a sharp breath. This is madness, he told himself. Absolute madness and any minute you will wake up. He picked up his briefcase and followed Sam out of the office and into the gents toilets. He needed to get to his doctor. He would know what to do. On the other hand, he could go home and back to bed? Maybe that was the best thing. But it was so hot there. He thought comfortingly of home and his bed and pictured the bedroom in his mind. It was then, with a churn of his stomach that he remembered. He had knocked the shirt off the hanger. But wasn’t he wearing it? It couldn’t be on him and on the hanger. Henry stared at his reflection in the mirror. Beside him, Sam studied a pimple on his cheek and then checked his hair, parting it different ways before seeming satisfied.

  ‘Looking good,’ said Henry facetiously.

  Sam stroked his chin and then smiled at his reflection. Henry studied Sam closely. He had never had the opportunity to do so before. Sam fancied himself as a bit of a ladies’ man. He was over confident, Henry thought but conceded that from a women’s perspective he was probably very appealing. That pimple must be causing him some despair and despite his worries, Henry couldn’t help smiling. Sam was an arse licker. If Henry had been an arse licker, too, he would no doubt be the manager now, instead of Sam
. The job should have been his. Everyone knew he was qualified enough. Ageism that’s what it was. All these young upstarts from university, thinking they knew everything. They were the ones taking over. Using phrases like ‘thinking outside of the box’ or ‘it's on my radar’. Changing things, that was what they were doing.

  ‘Technology is the future,’ they had said, hinting Henry wasn’t quite up to the new cyber world.

  You couldn’t trust technology. He told them so, too. All that online stuff was iffy. You would never get him on Facebook. What was the point?

  Sam was young, keen, and willing to lick anyone’s arse to climb the ladder. He was always asking Henry for advice. Henry often considered giving him the wrong advice. That would teach him, Henry thought, but of course, he never did. It wasn’t Henry’s way. He turned his attention to his own reflection. The bright fluorescent light revealed the shirt in all its glory. Crisp white and proud. Surely if you were dead, you couldn’t see yourself, thought Henry, and felt slightly reassured. Something was wrong, but sure as eggs were eggs, he wasn’t dead, and his doctor would tell him so.

  Henry left Linley and Webster’s feeling confused and upset. The day had been completely thrown out. Henry didn’t like changes to his routine. The sympathy card incident had quite shaken him up. He took a few minutes to compose himself at the entrance but hurrying commuters, late for work, shoved past him, hurrying to get a quick coffee before marching into their offices. He joined the throng and began walking along the street with no clear idea of where he was going. A frown etched deep across his forehead. Not to worry, he told himself. Tomorrow, everything would be back to normal. His body, feeling the strain of the oddness that had befallen him, felt heavy and weak. He dragged it unwillingly across the road. Perhaps, he thought optimistically, in his delirious state he had gone to the wrong desk. Maybe that’s what had happened. However, that didn’t explain the sympathy card with its silver lettering and mournful flowers. He’d seen it with his own eyes. Where was Imogen? Did she know what was happening? He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket for his iPhone and then stared in disbelief at the empty contacts list.

  ‘What?’ he muttered, shaking his head, denying that such a thing was possible.

  His messages had all disappeared too. Not that Henry sent many messages. He much preferred speaking to people. There were no misunderstandings that way. He looked again at the contact list. Had he accidentally deleted them? It was possible. He never had got the hang of the phone. He turned it off and then on again but still the contact list was empty.

  ‘What?’ he repeated, feeling his throat turning dry.

  He struggled to remember Imogen’s number.

  ‘Damn,’ he muttered. He’d never had cause to memorise it. His throat was closing up, as if someone’s hand was tightening around it. He had that frightening sensation of choking again. He needed a drink. He waved to a passing cab, but the driver sped past without giving Henry a second glance. He waved to another driver who also ignored him. A bus screeched to a halt beside him. The doors hissed open and Henry shuffled on. He didn’t attempt to show the driver his pass. There seemed little point. He fell heavily into a nearby seat and swallowed several times. It didn’t help. He would get a drink and some paracetamol and then he would feel more like his old self.

  Chapter Four

  He needed to stay calm. He knew that anxiety would only make his condition worse. Life was challenging enough, he told himself, without making a mountain out of a molehill. He was under the weather, that’s all it was. He looked out of the window in an attempt to get his mind off his problems. The woman beside him smelt of lavender and Henry thought if he sniffed her enough it would soothe him. He’d read in a magazine once that lavender was good for just about everything. He wondered if the health benefits went as far as bringing someone back from the dead. The bus was moving at a snail’s pace and Henry strained to see what was holding them up. His eyes alighted on a hearse at the front and he felt a tightening in his chest. He turned his attention to the other passengers on the bus. It was jammed packed with people, their faces hidden behind paperback novels, newspapers or magazines. Henry envied them. He would normally be reading his own newspaper. It unnerved Henry when his routine was disturbed. He turned to the lavender woman who was studying a crossword puzzle. Henry liked crossword puzzles. He made sure to do a sudoku puzzle every day. A sudoku puzzle a day was enough to ward off dementia, Henry reasoned. Imogen said she didn’t think doing them would make any difference.

  ‘If you’re going to get it, you’ll get it,’ she’d said flatly.

  Henry had thought that quite a defeatist attitude.

  ‘You pay for the flu jab,’ he’d argued.

  ‘That’s different,’ she’d said.

  Henry couldn’t see how it was different. Prevention was better than cure, although he conceded you couldn’t cure dementia so why take the risk. A few sudoku puzzles a week was no hardship.

  He glanced idly at the puzzle, easily solving several of the clues. Suddenly a torrent of rain battered the roof like a hail of bullets. Everyone looked up, just to be sure. Who knew these days if it was torrential rain or a terrorist attack? How times had changed.

  ‘Oh damn,’ muttered the woman beside him. ‘I knew I should have brought my umbrella.’

  Henry then realised he had left his own umbrella at the office.

  ‘I left mine at the office,’ he said and then wondered if he actually really had.

  The woman clicked her tongue.

  ‘Can you see me?’ asked Henry eagerly, feeling a surge of excitement, but the woman didn’t respond, and Henry sighed. How would he get a diagnosis if the receptionist at the doctor’s surgery couldn’t see him?

  ‘Oh dear,’ he groaned.

  It would be very worrying indeed if Henry couldn’t get to see a doctor. He wiped the condensation from the window and looked out at the torrential downpour and as he did so, he thought he saw Imogen hurrying along the street, her head down against the wind and her umbrella swaying with it. Imogen would know what to do. He jumped up and called, ‘Imogen, it’s me. Wait up love.’

  The tinny sound of the bell brought the bus to a stop and Henry was jolted forward. He leapt off and looked for Imogen but now there was no sign of her. In his desperation to see her had he conjured her up? The street was a parade of colourful umbrellas. Any one of the faces hidden behind them could have been Imogen’s. Henry couldn’t remember the colour of her umbrella. Had it been blue? Why hadn’t he noticed? Surely he could be forgiven for not knowing the colour of his wife’s umbrella. Perhaps she had turned the corner. He wondered if he should walk back to the greengrocer’s where she worked. Surely Imogen, of all people would be able to see him. But she had been walking away from the shop, so it seemed pointless to go there. He glanced at his watch. Perhaps it was her break. The clock hands said seven. How could that be? He looked again. He wound the watch every morning. Henry took care of his watch. It had belonged to his grandfather. Winding it every morning had become something of a ritual for Henry. He felt certain he had wound it that morning after his shower, just as he did every day. The familiar stirrings of panic welled up again in Henry’s chest and he struggled to keep them under control. He would find Imogen and together they would sort this out. He turned the corner and glimpsed Imogen’s dark blue raincoat a few yards ahead. She was walking towards Pansies tearoom. Henry could get a drink there; a nice hot cup of tea and maybe even a scone. He and Imogen could easily sort this out over tea and scones. Pansies, was nicely sandwiched between Boots and Tesco Express. Either one of them would sell paracetamol.

  ‘Imogen,’ he called hurrying forward on wobbly legs. He stopped abruptly a few feet away and watched as the woman in the dark blue raincoat was met by a tall rugged man standing at the entrance. He hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks in that French way that Henry found quite ridiculous. Why do English people do that, he wondered. It wasn’t Imogen after all. He must have been mistaken
. Lots of women have dark blue raincoats. His wife wouldn’t be outside Pansies meeting another man. His shoulders slumped in despair and he felt frustrated tears well up behind his eyelids. His cosy vision of tea and scones vanished from his mind. Miserably, he turned to walk back towards the bus stop when he heard the woman speak. Henry stopped in his tracks. He would recognise Imogen’s voice anywhere. The couple glanced his way and Henry stared in astonishment at his wife.

  ‘Imogen?’ he said as they walked past. Her face was pale, her expression sad. She looked tired but she didn’t see him. How could she not see him? His hand reached out for the café door, but he seemed to strangely miss it. Someone pushed it open from the inside and Henry stumbled into the hot interior. He had a sudden strange sensation, almost as though he were drowning. The teashop and the diners in it blurred into aimless shapes. A nearby chair saved his fall and he sat there, dazed, for some seconds. He was perspiring heavily again. Why was everywhere so hot today? he wondered. His eyes wandered aimlessly over someone’s discarded newspaper and his heart skipped a beat. The date on the newspaper read Wednesday September 18th. How was it possible that so many days could go missing?

  ‘Not again,’ he muttered.

  Then, a thought occurred to him and he rummaged in his briefcase. He pulled out folders and papers and fought down the panic that threatened to engulf him. Where was the Lester file? He’d put it in his case the night before. Henry was organised. The Lester file had to be in by the fourth and Henry had made sure it would be. It was not possible that the strange guy, Matt, he had seen at his desk, could have it. But no matter how many times he searched through the folders, the Lester file was nowhere to be seen.

  He needed to talk to Imogen. He rushed outside but there was now no sign of her. Damn it. What had he been thinking of, sitting down? The rain was still falling steadily, and people were rushing to find shelter. His eyes searched the doorways for Imogen, but she wasn’t there. Several people were huddled in the doorway of a nearby newsagent. They would have today’s newspapers. He would finally find out for sure if it really was the 18th September. He waited for the next customer to open the door and then darted in. His glasses steamed up the minute he entered and for a time he couldn’t see the newspapers at all, let alone the date. After cleaning them with a damp handkerchief that he took from his pocket, and although the date was smeary to his eyes, he saw that it was, indeed, Wednesday 18th September, which meant that Henry had died eleven days earlier.