‘Ok,’ said Rita.
‘I’ll be back,’ said Henry positively.
Rita smiled gratefully and then Henry was gone. She finished the last of her drink and without even removing her clothes, climbed under the duvet and wept.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Henry passed the fish and chip shop on his way to Mayberry Terrace. The smell of vinegar, fish and ketchup reminded him of Friday nights. He could taste the salt on his fingers as he’d licked off the fat; the sharp tang of pickled onions still on his tongue. They’d often have fish and chips on a Friday night, he and Imogen. He looked at the long queue and then walked on by. Street lights made the rain-drenched streets glisten like diamonds. Henry thought that if he stood long enough in the rain perhaps he would drown to death all over again and maybe this time it would be all over. After all, he didn’t want to drift along like this for years. He looked up at the leaden sky, the aroma of chips fading fast. He tried to think when Imogen’s resentment had begun. Had it been when she’d turned down the manager’s job? Had the resentment grown like a cancer, eventually becoming all consuming? She’d been moody at times, but he’d put that down to the time of the month. Women were known to have fluctuating hormones, but perhaps it had been more than that. The resentment had taken her over. He imagined Alice hadn’t helped. How quickly love could turn to hate if you don’t nurture it. Had she swallowed her resentment too often, until it had felt like acid was pouring into her soul?
He strolled past the greengrocer’s, all fruit and vegetation now hidden behind a dark green shutter. He could walk through it, he thought gleefully, and take some Pink Lady apples. That would teach Alice. A pity he hadn’t thought of that when passing the fish and chip shop. Ahead of him, Tesco Express was busy with late night shoppers grabbing last-minute necessities. That much craved for bar of chocolate, or the forgotten loaf of bread. Henry wished he was a last-minute shopper, grabbing something that Imogen had forgotten earlier.Imogen.The name conjured up a woman he’d never really understood. This had been her fault too, he thought comfortingly. She’d been blinded by her love for him and had been arrogant enough to think she could change him; that her needs would become his. She’d been wrong. All around her had been silence. He now knew she had craved for the shattering of that peace. To have heard a child squealing with delight as it bounded into the kitchen bursting with liquid sunshine from within. Hadn’t he, honestly, wanted that too? Not at the start but certainly as time went on. But he’d considered his wife. Her need had been to remain childless. How well we deceived each other, Henry thought sadly. Imogen had been right. How had they lived such a lie? They’d lived a life both of them hadn’t wanted.
‘At the expense of my life,’ groaned Henry.
He turned into Mayberry Terrace and felt a longing for normality that was so intense it manifested itself as a sharp pain in the centre of his chest. He steeled himself for the sight of Jim’s car. The sense of relief when he saw it wasn’t there gave him an unexpected lift. This was quickly replaced, however, by the fear that Imogen may have gone off with the grubby little turd. The lights were on though, and Henry could see, through the bay window, the glowing redness of their log burner.
It was hot in the house. Imogen was curled up on the sofa, alone, Henry was pleased to see. Another bottle of wine was sitting on the carpet.
‘You’re drunk,’ Henry fumed, his nostrils flaring. ‘So, well you should be. Attempting to block out what you did? You murderous witch. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? I’m stuck.’
He stamped his feet angrily. Imogen stretched out her legs and a small sob escaped her lips. Henry was unmoved.
‘Well, how could you?’ he raged. ‘What was wrong with a simple divorce? Well? Well?’
Imogen sat up slowly and dabbed at her eyes with a screwed up wet tissue. Henry stared at her, a vein in his neck twitching angrily.
‘Have you had him in our bedroom? I bet you have. I hope it’s all been worth it. You … You …’ he broke off, his nails digging into his palms. He strode from the room, took the stairs two at a time before bursting into the bedroom. The bed was made. The pillowcases still didn’t match. The light pink cardigan that had lain across it earlier was still there. Henry was breathless and felt the need to sit down. The memory foam mattress felt firm and familiar beneath him. The wardrobe door was open, and he could see his best, black lace-up shoes. Henry remembered they needed a clean. He lifted his tired body from the bed and dragged it to the wardrobe. He suddenly felt exceptionally tired. Something wasn’t right. He was dizzy. He forced his tired body along the floor to the wardrobe doors.
‘Shall we go boating on Saturday?’
Henry turned his weary head to the right. The bright lights of the indoor shopping centre made his eyes hurt. He hated the shopping centre. It was always the same temperature inside no matter what the time of year. Henry found it quite disconcerting. Everything was the same,the polished floors, the tense faces on the shoppers. Only the piped music and the fashions changed. People aren't people in there, they're consumers. They see one another as obstacles – both to walk around and wait behind for a turn to reach the tills. The only smiling faces are the ones who are selling.
‘It depends on the weather,’ replied Henry.
I look fed up, he thought.
‘I rather fancy it,’ said Imogen, studying a pair of boots in a shop window. ‘I could get some bits for a picnic as we’re out.’
He’d been so good natured about it. Agreeing happily to what was to be his murder. Imogen had been calm, joyful even. Calculating, was the word, thought Henry. Cold, calculating and ruthless was his wife. Had he ever really known her?
Henry watched while being aware of a sharp stabbing in his chest. He felt too weak to keep his head up. Eventually, the pain settled into a sort of dull ache and he lifted his head again to hear himself say,
‘Well, okay, if that’s what you fancy.’
Henry dropped his head and whispered, ‘No.’
Imogen, excited now, began to plan their picnic. Henry spotted a new gardening book in a shop window and was sidetracked.
‘It’ll be fun,’ she said.
Not for me it won’t, thought Henry and then everything went black.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Henry awoke to the feel of soft sheets on his skin and the sight of the morning light trickling in through a gap in the curtains. The sheets smelt of orange blossom. Henry thought that was too good to be true and kept his eyes shut. Not knowing seemed far safer. He’d had one too many surprises. So, he soaked in the warmth and fragrance of the covers. This must be heaven, he decided. Who’d have thought it? That such a thing could ever exist? Had he finally reached the end of his journey?
He pricked his ears for familiar sounds, but his heart was pounding too loudly. It was as though a shot of adrenalin had been injected into his veins. There was a movement beside him, and Henry’s eyes snapped open as an alarm shrieked. He reached over to silence it. Then, he heard breathing that wasn’t his own. Henry was in his bedroom. He looked around curiously for a younger Henry, but he wasn’t there. The wardrobe door was closed, and Henry was the right side of it. There was another movement beside him, and this time Henry turned. Imogen lay at the side of him, one arm flung over her face.
‘You were restless last night,’ she said, yawning.
