Rita smiled.
‘You don’t get to invite people to your funeral.’
Henry sighed heavily.
‘Well, people should be allowed to. Anyway, it’s ridiculous,’ he said. ‘It’s not my funeral.’
‘No,’ said Rita with a small laugh.
‘It’s some other Henry.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed.
‘I just need to be sure of that.’
They began to walk slowly towards the church. Henry’s stomach tightened as they grew closer to the entrance. The peal of the church bells seemed to be tolling, ‘Henry is dead. Henry is dead.’
‘Oh dear,’ he said.
‘Can you see your wife?’ she asked.
Henry heard the tremble in her voice.
They were about fifty yards from the church gates now and Henry could see people were milling around the entrance. He strained his neck but couldn’t see their faces. They stood there, Henry and Rita, the odd couple, not quite going forward and not quite going backwards. Henry convinced that this was someone else’s funeral and Rita praying itwassomeone else’s funeral. They were still standing there when the hearse drove into the church gates. Rita grasped Henry’s hand. It was baby smooth, the nails short and clean, unlike her jagged bitten ones. The hearse moved so slowly that Henry wondered if it would ever reach them. As it drew closer, his wide eyes alighted on the coffin and the large spray of flowers atop it. He was afraid to look but knew he had no choice. Spelt out in snowy white petals was the name Henry. He could smell the heady scent of the lilies as the car passed. He blinked several times but still the flowers readHenry. Maybe it was another Henry, he told himself. Odd, he thought, how many Henrys have died recently. It certainly was not a good week for Henrys.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ uttered Rita.
Henry was so focused on the hearse that at first he didn’t notice the black car following it. He felt a pain in his side and realised Rita had nudged him.
‘Do you know those people?’ she asked urgently, nodding at the car.
Henry’s eyes met Imogen’s as she looked out of the window. They were watery with tears and the skin around them puffy and red, but it was Imogen all right.
‘This is insane,’ muttered Henry.
He rushed to the car.
‘Imogen,’ he shouted, tapping on the window. ‘What’s going on love?’
She stared impassively at him and then turned her head to glance at Rita before facing the front again. At her side, Henry saw his parents. They were grief-stricken. His mother’s face was buried in her hands, her emotions overwhelming her.
‘I’m not dead,’ he yelled. ‘I’m here, look. Please mother, look.’
But she kept her face in her hands. In the seat opposite were Imogen’s parents and a wave of anger washed over Henry, followed by a sudden pang of loss he never expected to feel. His children should be seated there, not Imogen’s parents.
Rita felt helpless and watched with a heavy heart as Henry’s cortege travelled along the drive to the church. She wanted to comfort Henry but didn’t know how. She was starting to wish she hadn’t come. Part of her had been convinced, just like Henry, that this would be someone else’s funeral.
‘They can’t see me,’ groaned Henry. ‘What am I going to do? I can’t possibly let the funeral go ahead.’
However, Henry knew, even if he lay in front of the hearse it would do no good.
‘Tell them I’m not dead Rita,’ he said turning anxiously to her.
‘What do I say?’ asked Rita nervously.
‘Tell them you can see me. That I’m not dead, that it’s all a big mistake.’
Rita chewed her fingernail and Henry sighed.
