Page 109 of Unalive On Air

She closes her eyes, musters her rage, then opens her eyes again. “It’s not enough. I’m not angry enough. Stove, kiss me. Not on the lips.”

“Sure,” he says, then he grabs her face, and kisses her cheek wetly.

“Urgh! Still not enough!” she yells.

“Pixie! Think of someone you love.” I glance over at Jeanie, who stops her frantic pacing to look at me. “Someone once told me that love is a more powerful force than anger. It’s worth a try.”

Pixie nods, closes her eyes, and positions her hand above the shower lever. Her eyes remain closed for ten, fifteen, twenty seconds, and I’m worried Helga and Jazz will have given up the ghost, as it were, and called the end to the session. But then she opens them and slams her fist onto the lever so hard that the stream now firing out of the shower head is aggressive enough to pressure wash the tiled floor.

Within moments the room fills with hot and intensely moist air, and Jazz and Helga rush in.

“Who did you think of?” Stove asks Pixie.

I fully expect Pixie to say someone she knew from her band or someone from being alive, but she nudges him with her elbow. “You, actually. And Jeanie, and Trystan, and Camille.” She glances at me. “You too, Gary. All of you.”

Stove smiles, wipes away a fake tear. Or it could be real. Never quite sure with him. “Not Petey, though, huh?” he says in a whisper.

Condensation now completely covers the bathroom mirror. I press my fingertip against the glass and concentrate.

I can feel it. I can feel it. My finger won’t sail through the mirror. I can feel the glass. I repeat it in my head.

And . . .

A cold dampness meets my skin. I’m so elated that I accidentally push my entire hand into the wall, but a circle where my fingerprint was appears in the steam.

“Look!” Helga says, spinning Jazz around to face the mirror.

I squeak my finger down the glass, focusing, keeping it as steady as I can. And I slowly spell out.

Who was

Kelsey’s

Tip-off?

“Who was Kelsey’s tip-off?” Helga reads.

“Are you asking who told us to investigate Kelsey Cobbledick?” Jazz says.

“Yes!” I shout, and realise they can’t hear it.

“Yeeeessss!” Stove yells through cupped hands.

Jazz bites her lip. “I’m not really allowed to say.” She scrunches up her face and looks at Helga for . . . advice? A helping hand? I’m not sure.

Helga seems to understand the situation better than I do. She puts her fingers in her ears, turns her back to the police officer, and hums quietly to herself.

Jazz checks one more time to be certain that Helga can’t hear, and then she wordlessly mouths, “Francesca Driscoll.”

Oh, bingo.

“Thaaaaaannkksss!” Stove shout whispers.

And just because the moment is presenting itself to me, and I have something to prove, I place my finger against the steamed mirror once more, and I draw a testicle, a short fat cock, and another testicle. To finish it, I add a slit and three spurts of jizz.

There’s a strange, pressing silence in the trophy room. Nobody dares to speak. Pixie, Stove, Peter, Jeanie, and Camille wait around on the various pieces of storage furniture.

The ghosts watch me as I pace because I have the answer. I’ve figured out who the killer is, and yes, it’s all the same person, and no, I haven’t told anyone yet.