‘So that’s his name,’ said Henry scathingly.
‘Didn’t you know his name?’ said Rita, surprised.
Henry shook his head.
‘Not until just now.’
‘But he was at your funeral?’
Henry shrugged.
‘I don’t know why. I thought I knew more people. Imogen obviously asked him so he would make up the numbers.’
‘Oh no,’ exclaimed Rita. ‘I’m sure not.’
She squeezed his arm and they began the walk to The Black Prince. Rita was feeling anxious about walking into a packed pub on her own. Those irritating butterflies were fluttering about in her stomach again, making her feel slightly sick. Henry will be with you, she told herself. But, if no one else could see Henry, then it would really be like entering the pub alone and that terrified her. She tried to ignore the butterflies and forced herself to think of the food that would be laid out there. She was quite hungry. It was way past her usual lunchtime. She wondered what Henry would do about dinner and whether she should invite him back to her bedsit. It was tidy. Rita always made sure to clean everything away before she left for work. Perhaps they could get a Chinese takeaway and a bottle of wine. No doubt, Henry knew a good wine. She and Billy did that sometimes and then they would … No, she didn’t want to think about that at the moment. It somehow made her feel unclean and she didn’t want to feel like that while she was with Henry.
‘I’ve lost a lot of my hair,’ Henry said suddenly.
‘Yes, I saw,’ said Rita. ‘It’s a shame.’
Although she thought Henry quite handsome with or without his hair and besides, she rather thought too much was made of hair. It wasn’t that important; it was what was inside a person that really counted.
‘How did you see?’ asked Henry.
‘The pictures on the front of the order of service,’ explained Rita.
‘Oh yes,’ sighed Henry. Now everyone knew how much hair he had lost.
‘It doesn’t notice,’ said Rita reassuringly.
Henry was touched by Rita’s kind words. She was most likely right. People didn’t really care how you looked. They were always too interested in themselves. Henry felt sure that Jack couldn’t give a toss about Henry’s hair loss as long as his own hair looked good. It’s funny, thought Henry, how we worry about how we seem to others and all others are doing is worrying about how they seem to us.
‘Thanks,’ he smiled.
The relief Rita was feeling was quite overwhelming her. Henry was still here. It had been a little while now since the coffin had … well Rita really didn’t want to dwell on that. He was still here and that’s what mattered. She wondered if Henry had noticed the man that had been sitting alone in the church and the way he’d looked at Imogen. She’d perhaps ask him later when they’d had some wine.
The clouds had grown dark again and Henry felt the weight of them. What was happening to him? Who was that man in the church? Where had Henry seen him before? Why did Henry have that flashback to their house? It was eighteen years ago. He never thought of it. Or is this what happens when you’re dead? He wondered. Do you see your whole life flash before your eyes like people said? Was this how it happened, in bits? He wasn’t in heaven, or at least he didn’t think he was. Henry didn’t believe in heaven so he surely wouldn’t go there. Well, one thing he knew for sure. He needed to get this business sorted, because he couldn’t live in this nowhere land for ever.
‘I’m a bit nervous going in on my own,’ said Rita, breaking into his reverie.
He looked up to see The Black Prince pub ahead of them. Imogen was walking slowly towards the entrance with her parents either side of her like security guards. He looked around for the lone man but there was no sign of him. Everyone was waiting solemnly at the entrance. Sam and Helen were busy tapping away on their mobile phones. Trevor was rubbing at the shiny paintwork of his silver Bentley. I bet that cost a few bob that he doesn’t have, thought Henry. The brassy blonde with him was re-doing her make-up, with the aid of a small compact mirror. While the milkman stood smoking a cigarette and admiring the Bentley. Henry looked around for Larry and Jack and found them sitting in Jack’s car.
Henry nudged Rita.
‘People are going in,’ he said.
Chapter Seventeen
Henry thought Imogen looked terrible. She hadn’t looked like that yesterday. Although Henry had to concede that yesterday did seem like years ago. There were dark circles under her eyes. She was clearly tired. Poor Imogen, he thought. She’s really grieving, and I have no way of letting her know I’m okay. Unless … No, he couldn’t ask Rita. Anyway, Imogen wouldn’t understand and what was Rita supposed to say?
‘It’s okay Imogen, really it is. Your husband is standing right beside me and isn’t dead at all. I’m not sure what he is but I don’t think it’s dead.’
Henry didn’t think Imogen would respond very well to that. She didn’t have time for psychics or what she called ‘all that nonsense’. Henry would once have agreed, but now, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe there were lots of dead people like him walking around. Poor souls he thought. I wonder how they sorted everything out. Poor Imogen, it must be bad enough thinking he was dead without having a stranger tell you otherwise. But even Henry was beginning to wonder if he was indeed, actually dead. After all, no one really knew what happened after death. All the same, thought Henry angrily, someone ought to come and explain. Not leave people dangling like this.
Ray was the first to the bar, Henry noticed. He caught the smell of stale tobacco that emanated from him and wrinkled his nose.
‘This will help,’ smiled Ray, knocking back a glass of white wine.
