THE SIXTH GUEST: Chapter Three - Part Three

Henry still felt a little twinge of the muscular cramp he had earlier but it wasn’t anything to cause him concern. He hadn’t been entirely sure what it was that Clare had heard him doing inside the toilet but he knew it wasn’t possible that they had both been affected by the same thing. Any turn that he might have experienced had probably been caused by what he’d been up to – another good reason to stop doing it. She was being silly going down to the hospital, thinking that all of them had been hit by the same thing. And she’d always been so down to earth. It wasn’t at all like her to be silly.

There were three pictures of Lillian, his wife, in the sanctuary: one in the last weeks of her life, one on their wedding day and one (his favourite) of her in a swimsuit on a secluded beach holiday they’d taken abroad when they were still in their twenties. Henry didn’t need any one of them to remind him of what she looked like though, especially when he still felt her with him, watching from the shadows.

The blinds were still down and without the light on or even the glowing eye of his PC monitor, the room was very dark, though not as dark as it might have been at the back of the house. The streetlamp outside saw to that.

The front doorbell rang. Henry didn’t move to answer it although he was well aware he was the only person in the house. What was the point? It would only be one of Selina’s uncouth friends, or a man to read the gas and electric meters; or some damn fool blabbering on about religion, as if that ever solved anything.

It rang again. Henry was sitting on the end of the bed, looking at his knees. He wondered if perhaps he should answer it after all; break the day up. It wasn’t likely but it could have been somebody pleasant and he didn’t have anything better to do. On the third ring he was already out on the landing and descending the stairs.

It was a man at the door. He was completely bald and well dressed in shirt, jacket and tie, smiling warmly: perhaps a salesman rather than a member of the God Squad. The house had a porch. The man was on the outside of it. As he saw Henry he opened the outer door and said, “Good evening. I was hoping to speak to Clare. Is she home?”

“No,” replied Henry. “She’s out. Who are you?”

“I’m Phil. I’m a good friend of hers. Will she be long?”

Henry regarded the smile that still hadn’t left the man’s mouth. “I don’t know. It might be hours. She’s at the hospital.”

That made the smile disappear. “Oh no. What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing as far as I could tell. She’s— Where do you know her from?”

The delay was a half second too long before the smile returned and he said, “We’ve been seeing each other. Going out I mean.”

“Really?” Henry hadn’t seen him around; Clare had never mentioned anything; and there was something off here.

“That’s right. Is she going to be okay if she’s gone to the hospital?”

“Probably. There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s just fussing. But she won’t be back until much later so...” He made to close the porch door. Phil didn’t make a move out of the way and he was a big man; not as tall or broad as Joey but enough to be like closing a door on a brick wall as far as Henry was concerned.

There was a moment when the old man wasn’t sure what would happen and almost feared the worst, then Phil broadened his smile and withdrew. “Will you mention I called?”

“Of course. Phil. I’ll remember.”

The man was still grinning and looking in when Henry closed the inner door on him. Henry walked several paces down the hall toward the foot of the stairs then went back and turned the key in the look, taking it out so that the others would be able to get in when they returned.