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 fromThe 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.
