‘Imogen?’ said Henry, barely able to believe it.
‘What is it?’ she asked, sitting up. ‘Are you okay?’
He wanted to touch her, to make sure she was real. The pain of her betrayal sliced through him. Had it been a dream? Was it possible that his current reality wasn’t his reality at all? Had everything he’d ever believed and trusted been an illusion? Henry was at a loss as to what was real and what he imagined to be real. Has my reality ever been my reality? thought Henry. His head felt fit to burst. This was his reality right now, but could he trust it? He was learning that things weren’t always what they seemed. People weren’t how you imagine. Had Henry’s reality been coloured by how he wanted it to be rather than simply how it was?
‘I … I’m fine. I just had a bad dream,’ he said.
Imogen looked better, he noticed. There was no strain around her eyes. The worry frown had disappeared. Her skin was smooth and soft, just like always.
His body was soaked in sweat and there was tenderness in his chest. His eyes wandered nervously to the clock. It said 7 a.m. and the date read 4thSeptember.
‘Just a bad dream,’ he repeated. But had it just been a dream? It had all seemed so real.
Imogen pushed back the covers and slid from the bed.
‘I’ll make breakfast,’ she said, stifling another yawn.
Henry listened to the soft padding of her feet on the stairs before stepping from the bed and whipping open the curtains onto an overcast day. Black clouds hung over the rooftops of Mayberry Terrace. Henry allowed the dull light of the morning to enter the bedroom, filling it with gloom and despondency. He looked up at the grey, forlorn sky. He would need his umbrella today. The weatherman had forecast heavy rain. He stood for a brief moment waiting. His eyes fixed on the green front door opposite. No one came out.
‘Just a dream,’ he said, but he still felt nervous.
The briefcase lay innocently on the chair by the wardrobe. Henry eyed it suspiciously. Already the stitching was stretched to the point where it showed in an ugly fashion. Henry didn’t want to buy a new one. He’d had this case for years. It was familiar and sturdy. The zip slid back easily, and Henry felt inside, triumphantly pulling out the Lester file.
‘Porridge is ready,’ called Imogen.
Henry looked keenly at the radiator as he passed. It was silent and Henry smiled.
‘I didn’t get the blueberries out,’ said Imogen as he walked into the kitchen. The fridge was surprisingly full. Henry lifted his eyes hesitantly to the top shelf. It held chicken thighs and asparagus. Not a single sausage in sight.
‘Not sausages,’ he said relieved.
‘What?’
‘The fridge is full,’ he said, removing the blueberries.
‘Things for our picnic, remember? Or had you forgotten we’re going boating on Saturday?’
Henry’s heart raced and the speed of it took his breath away.
‘Henry, are you alright?’ asked Imogen, concerned.
‘No,’ he wanted to shout. ‘Not since your love turned to poison.’
It had been no dream. Henry couldn’t finish his breakfast. He tried but there was no pleasure in it.
‘I have to get going,’ he said abruptly.
‘Already?’ said Imogen, glancing over at the clock.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you angry with me Henry?’ Imogen asked pointedly.
Tell her, urged a voice in his head. Tell her what you know. Confront her now. No, thought Henry. It’s not the time. This evening over our chicken thighs, that’s the best time.
The Timesobituary page featured John Marston and Frederick Mull. Henry wasn’t mentioned. But he wouldn’t be, would he? Henry hadn’t died yet.
*
