‘Oh,’ said Rita. She hadn’t been expecting that.
‘Is it not convenient?’ asked Henry. ‘Could I have two sugars in the chocolate? It’s been a very odd night.’ And Henry proceeded to tell Rita all about it.
Rita was shocked to hear that Imogen had held a séance in Henry’s house. Heaven alone knows what she had conjured up. It was so unfair on Henry.
‘I wish you could have been there,’ said Henry.
Rita was grateful that she hadn’t been there. What if Henry had brought bad spirits back with him? They clung on tightly, did evil spirits. She touched the cross that lay comfortingly at her breast. Grandmother Monk had given it to her after her father’s funeral.
‘May my son rest in peace,’ she’d whispered. ‘Although I know he doesn’t deserve to. This will forever keep you safe from harm. Don’t lose it.’
She’d kissed it lovingly before placing it around Rita’s neck where it had stayed ever since. Rita stroked it now, in the same way she always did whenever she was with Billy. Nothing could touch her if she was wearing it. But, thought Rita, some spirits could ...
‘What do you make of it all?’ Henry asked, interrupting her thoughts.
Rita sipped her hot chocolate. It was now cold. She’d been so enthralled by Henry’s tale of Ouija boards and murder that she had totally forgotten about it.
‘I think séances are very dangerous,’ she said.
‘It’s stuff and nonsense,’ stated Henry.
‘But you made contact,’ she reminded him.
‘Well, yes,’ he agreed. ‘I had hoped to get through to Imogen, you see.’
‘But you were able to communicate which surely means it isn’t stuff and nonsense.’
Rita found herself disliking Imogen more and more. Why would Henry’s wife want to have an affair with that hard-looking man? If Henry was Rita’s husband, she would never ever look at another man. She placed her mug of hot chocolate into the microwave. It would have been wasteful to throw it away.
Henry stroked his chin thoughtfully.
‘It seems my life wasn’t really my life at all.’
‘Or your wife wasn’t the woman you thought she was.’
‘Yes, that too. The question now is, do I accept I’m dead? Perhaps that’s what I have to do to move on.’
Rita suddenly remembered the hot chocolate, but she was too late and had it spilled over the rim of the mug onto the microwave plate.
‘Oh,’ she exclaimed miserably, mopping up the milk.
‘I just don’t think I can go to my resting place without knowing exactly how I died,’ said Henry, oblivious to the milk catastrophe.
‘No,’ said Rita, wringing out the cloth.
‘If my wife murdered me, then I want to know.’
Rita froze with the wet cloth dripping water down the front of her blouse.
‘Imogen,’ she said stunned. ‘You think Imogen murdered you? Oh, Henry, that’s awful.’
Henry was quiet for a moment and Rita, so immersed in the horrific thoughts of Henry’s murder at the hands of his wife, didn’t notice Henry move towards her. His hand lightly touched her arm.
‘If I am dead and for no other reason, I’m grateful it brought me to you and we’ve had this time together,’ he said gently. ‘It may never have happened otherwise.’
‘I’ve enjoyed our time together,’ said Rita, surprising herself.
It may have been Henry’s weariness, an inability to fight his feelings or maybe he was desperate for comfort, but he found his arms encircling Rita’s body.
