Henry jumped aboard the bus. The driver smiled and said ‘Morning’ in a jolly voice. Henry nodded absently. His enjoyment of the day marred by what he now knew about the future.
He sat in his usual seat and chewed his fingernail. It had been a premonition, not a dream. That’s why it had seemed so real. It was a premonition that he was going to be murdered. He had three days to prevent it. Three days to stop his wife and her lover from killing him.
With a pang, he realised he hadn’t taken his regular dose of vitamins. That’s what the unexpected does. It knocks you for six and everyday routines get thrown to one side like rubbish.
‘Morning Helen,’ he said smiling at the receptionist. ‘Not the best of days?’
Please answer, Henry begged silently, but Helen continued chatting on the phone. He took the lift and tried to calm his nerves.
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 didn’t relish going back to Helen, the receptionist, and requesting some. This isn’t unusual, he told himself. There are never any cups.
He stopped abruptly at his desk. The chair was empty, cold and uninviting. It had been waiting for Henry. His chilli plant was there, desperate as always for water.
‘Morning Henry,’ called Sam. ‘Bloody wet isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Henry sounding abnormally cheerful. Sam could see him. Sam could actually see him.
‘Ben’s been down asking for the Lester report. I said I’d mention it when I saw you.’
‘I have it,’ said Henry.
Henry reached into his briefcase with slightly shaky hands. But the file was there, and he pulled it out along with the Johnson’s completed insurance forms and sighed with relief. Helen never came round with a sympathy card and everyone who saw Henry either nodded or greeted him with a good morning. Life was back to normal, at least for three days.
Chapter Forty
At twelve Henry went to the cafeteria. Usually he brought sandwiches. This morning hadn’t been what he’d imagined, and sandwiches had gone right out of his head. The cafeteria was functional to the point of depression, which was ironic considering that was pretty much all the staff served. Every item was so saggy, so bland, it was depression served cold with a limp sneer. The iced buns were the only thing that ever appealed to Henry. The tea was always anaemic. No one ever complained. It was what it was. Henry sat alone at a table in the corner and nibbled at his iced bun while thinking of Rita. She was still the only person that could help him. If he wasn’t able to stop it then she’d surely have to go to the police. Tell them that Henry’s wife and her lover had murdered him. It’s like a tragic novel, thought Henry. It was Rita that Henry couldn’t get his head around. If it had been a premonition then had he really spent time with her? People didn’t have such long premonitions, he decided. It must have been something else and maybe Rita would know all about it. He didn’t want to lose her, and he didn’t want her to get more involved with that landlord. Maybe there wasn’t a landlord. Perhaps the house didn’t even exist. Henry laid down his bun and checked his watch. It was in perfect working order. He decided he had time to visit Billy’s house.
*
He caught the bus to the end of Rita’s road and then walked towards the red bricked houses. The street was quiet and desolate. A tramp on the corner looked up at him.
‘Spare some change guvnor?’ he asked.
Henry fumbled around in his trousers for a fifty-pence piece. A cat, sitting on a windowsill, lazily watched the goings on.
‘That’s all I have,’ said Henry, who would never give more than 50p. Henry didn’t want to be responsible for the man overdosing on drugs. The tramp thanked him gratefully and Henry felt he’d done his bit.
He reached Billy’s house and looked up to the first floor. Was Rita home? He could ring her doorbell. He hesitated. What if it had been a dream? He shook his head. No, Rita had been too real. His hand moved to the bell and he was just about to push it when the door opened, and a man stood in front of him. Henry knew it was Billy. He was shrugging into a denim jacket. Henry stepped back before Billy could collide with him. He smelt Billy’s overpowering aftershave and winced. Overuse of an expensive fragrance was criminal, if you asked Henry.
‘Careful,’ said Henry harshly. Should he have it out with Billy about the slap he gave Rita?
Billy turned and stared. His eyes narrowed as he studied Henry.
‘Do I know you?’ asked Billy shiftily, his hand moving to his pocket.
Good heavens, thought Henry. I hope he doesn’t have a knife. Perhaps best not to be too hasty. I’ll mention the slap another time.
‘I’m looking for Rita,’ said Henry, changing to a friendlier tone. ‘Does she still live here?’
‘She did yesterday,’ said Billy, giving Henry the once over.
I don’t like you, thought Henry, but I’m certainly delighted you can see me.
‘She’s at work,’ added Billy before Henry could ask.
‘I’ll try later,’ said Henry, his eyes fixed on the hand that hovered over Billy’s jacket pocket.
‘You do that,’ said Billy.
