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 theDaily 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?’
