Page 106 of Unalive On Air

“Of course it is,” he says.

“Do you know what mine is?”

The wind picks up speed. Magnus’s cape violently slaps his thigh. Sea spray hits him in the face. No part of my person or clothing is affected by the weather, which is kinda nice.

“I do,” he says.

“And Trystan’s?”

Magnus nods.

“And you’re not telling?”

He smiles. I can’t work out if it’s a happy or solemn smile. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Can’t you just tell me?” I ask out of sheer, unfiltered desperation.

Instead of nodding, or shaking his head, or simply answering my bloody question, he “zips” his mouth shut. Literally. Big silver zip teeth appear over his lips and an oversized toggle dangles at the corner.

“I might need you to help me with something on Monday night, if that’s okay?” I say. Magnus flashes me a thumbs up. I guess that means our conversation is over. “If you ever feel lonely or bored out here, don’t be a stranger. You can hang out with us any time . . . but with clothes on.”

He unzips his mouth. “Really?”

“Of course.”

“That’s very kind, thank you. It does get rather lonely out here sometimes.” Then he closes the zip once more.

“I still have nine hundred and sixty questions left,” I say taking a stab at the rough amount.

But Magnus simply waves his fingers in a toodaloo fashion, and . . . poof, he’s gone.

twenty-six

Killer Queen

Jazz glances around the honeymoon suite as though something might attack her at any moment. One hand rests on her radio and the other flits between fight or flight, clenching and splaying by her side.

On the floor in the centre of the now blood-free rug, Helga sets up a Ouija board.

“Camille, I have a joke for you,” Stove says, and everybody groans. “Knock knock.”

Camille braces themselves. “Who’s there?”

“Ouija.”

“Ouija who?”

“Ouija mean, you don’t love me any more?” Stove laughs. Some of us muster a bemused smile. “Wow, tough crowd,” he says, making himself laugh even more.

“Why is she here?” Peter asks, his eyes flicking over to the living people. It’s uncertain exactly who he’s talking about, but I’d hazard a guess at his wife.

“Need two fleshies to operate the board,” Trystan says, slapping him on the back.

Peter’s expression remains impassive.

Eventually, after a bit of kerfuffling, triple‑checking the locks on the suite’s doors, and settling catlike onto the plush, antique, but now bloodless rug, the two women laugh.

“This is so weird,” Jazz says. “Like, okay, not that I don’t want to be as thorough in this investigation as I can, but I honestly never imagined it would involve a seance as part of my enquiries.”