‘Not more tears Imogen,’ said Cynthia with a sigh. ‘You’ll make yourself ill.’
Imogen stood up abruptly.
‘I’m going to bed. I need to rest.’
‘Oh,’ said Cynthia surprised. ‘I’ll get your father to bring my night things.’
‘I want to be alone, Mum,’ Imogen said firmly.
Cynthia struggled not to show her disappointment.
‘What, after tonight?’ she said, surprised.
Imogen nodded.
‘Darling, I don’t think …’
‘I’m an adult, stop telling me what to do and what to think,’ Imogen snapped.
Henry watched the confrontation with interest. This was a different Imogen to the one he knew. Cynthia stood up, a pained expression on her face.
‘Alright, but if you need us you know where we are.’
Imogen nodded.
‘I’m sorry. I’m a bit stressed,’ she said, squeezing her mother’s arm.
‘Of course you are,’ said Cynthia walking to the door. ‘Try to rest.’
Faye clutched her bag and followed Cynthia.
‘Hey, wait,’ called Henry.
He had to stick with the psychic. It had been the most progress he’d made so far. The front door slammed and there was silence. Imogen poured the remaining wine into her glass and looked around nervously.
‘Henry,’ she whispered.
‘I’m here love,’ he said, knowing full well she couldn’t hear him. She listened intently and then with a small sob, wrapped herself in the blanket and huddled in the corner of the couch.
*
Faye sat in her car for quite some time after leaving Imogen’s house. Henry started to wonder if she was going to sleep there. The car certainly gave the impression of being well used. He’d noted one bald tyre and a fair amount of rust. It certainly wasn’t in danger of being stolen. He couldn’t fathom what Faye was waiting for. Unless the dilapidated Golf needed a certain amount of time before one attempted to start the engine. No good as a getaway car, thought Henry and he chuckled at his own joke. He got into the back seat and concentrated really hard on trying to connect with her, but it was hopeless. She gave no sign whatsoever of being aware of him. Her face was pinched and anxious. The evening had shaken all of them a great deal.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ she murmured, looking up at the house. ‘I don’t know what to do. Twenty-five pounds is twenty-five pounds after all.’
‘Ha,’ laughed Henry. ‘So that’s what’s holding you up.’
Faye couldn’t decide whether to go back and ask for payment. He could understand her dilemma. If she knocked and asked for it, she’d seem at the very least cheeky, considering she didn’t actually do very much or at the very most, cold and heartless after causing such an upset. It was a difficult one, Henry could see that. He only hoped Cynthia was paying. He’d be very cross indeed if Imogen spent twenty-five pounds on such nonsense, when there were so many other things to spend it on.
Much to Henry’s relief Faye started the engine. He had no idea where they were going but he didn’t want to let Faye out of his sight. Not just yet. He glanced at the rubbish on the back seat and grimaced. He didn’t own a car but if he did, it most certainly wouldn’t look like this. Empty crisp packets littered the seat and crumpled KitKat wrappers had been stuffed into a carrier bag. Henry wondered how Faye could stay so slim. A half-empty bottle of Lucozade rocked back and forth on the shelf behind him. He expected it to explode at any moment. The journey was short and accompanied by a debate on Radio 4. The volume was too low for Henry to hear what the debate was about but those involved got quite heated and Henry wished Faye would turn up the volume.
Faye took a slip road and Henry spotted Rita’s house and wondered what the time was. They turned into a lane and slowed. The sign outside the house said ‘Rectory’ and Henry sighed. The last person he expected to seek help from was God.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Reverend Paul Ryan was flicking through the TV Times trying to decide what rubbish he could watch on their new plasma TV screen. It gave him the opportunity to escape the real world for a short time. His wife, Miriam, was relaxing in the bath with the latest Jilly Cooper and a box of Milk Tray, courtesy of Mrs Brewer who had been brimming over with gratitude at the wonderful words Reverend Ryan had spoken at her husband’s memorial service. Miriam Ryan benefitted much from her husband’s grateful congregation. It didn’t do much for her weight though, which Paul watched in despair and Miriam ignored. ‘What can I do?’ she would say, forcing exasperation. ‘It would be plain rude to throw the gifts away.’ Paul had suggested the local hospital, but Miriam had scoffed. ‘That wouldn’t show us to be very grateful.’ Paul thought it would show them quite charitable and would do wonders for Miriam’s expanding waistline which was seriously affecting Paul’s space in their bed. Gratitude came in the guise of roses, homemade cake, boxes of chocolates, and occasionally, but only occasionally, a basket of fruit, Paul would protest.
‘It’s my job,’ he’d smile. ‘There’s absolutely no need for gifts.’
