‘Take your pills,’ she ordered.
Imogen in charge for once, thought Henry. He swallowed them obediently and sat down.
‘Henry, please let’s not argue.’
Should he tell her about the premonition? But what if he’d got everything wrong? What if it had simply been a dream?
‘I’m going to lie down,’ he said abruptly. ‘I don’t feel good.’
‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ Imogen said, wringing her hands. ‘Perhaps you should have a couple of biscuits.’
‘I’ll make a brew,’ his father used to say whenever anything bad happened. Like a brew would put everything right. A brew and two custard creams always used to do it. Henry didn’t like custard creams. They were too sweet for his liking. He glanced at his wife. Her eyes were red. Too much wine or too much crying; Henry wasn’t sure which. He wondered what the stranger would think of them now. Would they still think he and Imogen were the epitome of marital bliss?
Chapter Forty-Two
Henry lay on the bed and listened to the sound of Imogen crying downstairs. It was occasionally interspersed with the slamming of the dishwasher or the gentle hum of the boiler as the hot water ran. He’d get up soon and have some of that chicken. After all, it was pointless to go hungry. His eyes wandered to the wardrobe. He studied it for a few seconds and then wearily pulled himself off the bed. He decided to only venture as far as the doors, he was too nervous to go any closer. Supposing, he went inside, and found himself back where he’d started. No, Henry wasn’t going to risk losing control. He felt stupid being afraid of his own wardrobe. It seemed harmless enough with just shoes, dresses, and the fragrant smell of washing conditioner. Everything was just how it had always been. Then, his eyes moved to the bedside cabinet and its secret. If the baby clothes weren’t there then he’d know it had all been a bad dream. There would be nothing to worry about. He wouldn’t die on Saturday and everything would be hunky dory,as his father would say, just as it always was after a brew and some custard creams. He moved the packets of sanitary towels to one side and there it was the flowery box. Henry’s heart sank and in that moment he felt sure he would have cried if, from behind him, Imogen hadn’t said, ‘Henry, what are you doing?’
*
The flowery box sat on the bed between them. Imogen stroked it lovingly like a pet cat. Her eyes twinkled with tears.
‘How did you find out?’ she asked.
Henry rubbed his eyes with his finger.
‘I just found it one day,’ he said.
It wasn’t a lie. He had found it. He may have discovered it in the weirdest way possible, but he couldn’t tell Imogen that.
‘I wished you’d told me,’ he said sadly. ‘I could have been there for you. It was as much my baby as yours.’
‘Oh, Henry,’ she said bursting into tears. ‘I wanted to tell you.’
‘It was that time that you had the heavy period wasn’t it?’
Imogen nodded, her eyes sad.
Outside a car door slammed, followed by the sound of cheery voices before another slammed door. People living their lives with no idea of what is happening to us, thought Henry. That at 25, Mayberry Terrace a man was fighting to save his life. Imogen pulled away and dropped her head onto the duck feather-filled pillow.
‘I’ve got such a headache,’ she said, her head sinking into its softness.
They’d had the best of everything. Henry had seen to that. No polyester-filled pillows like Imogen’s parents had. Oh no, none of that synthetic rubbish for them. He’d also refused to have the stupid teddy bears on the bed too, even though Cynthia insisted on buying them for her daughter.
‘Children have teddy bears, not adults,’ he’d scoffed.
Cynthia had taken umbrage at that. How was Henry to know she had a whole teddy bear zoo in her bedroom? He was surprised John put up with it.
‘It’s not unusual,’ Imogen had told him. ‘Lots of people have teddies on their bed.’
‘Well, I’m not one of them,’ he’d stated firmly and had relegated the teddies to the top of the wardrobe where he was determined they would serve out the rest of their days. Now, their black staring eyes winked at him. They looked like dead squirrels, judging Henry from their perch on the wardrobe. He wanted to fling them out of the window and under an oncoming car. It would delight him to watch the stuffing pour out of them. Yes, that would put them in their place.
‘Henry.’
He shook his head away from the bears.
‘What are we going to do, Henry?’
I’m going to avoid the park, thought Henry. I’m going to make sure we don’t go near the river. I’m going to make absolutely sure that I’m still here, alive and kicking by Saturday evening. I’m going to make sure that you and your lover don’t murder me. The proof of his premonition lay between them. The discovery of the baby clothes meant Henry’s premonition had been real. And unless he took steps to stop it, in less than forty-eight hours he would be dead.
