Page 11 of Unalive On Air

Gerald doesn’t answer me. “Come along, Charlie, let’s get you settled into training.” And then he’s gone, through the door, and into another room.

“Do you get the sense that by signing those forms we’ve probably fucked up somewhere?” Charlie says. But he too gets to his feet and follows Gerald.

The training room transpires to be a space no bigger, no brighter, and no fresher smelling than a public toilet. The grey polyester carpet and underlay is so threadbare I can see gaps in the floorboards, and the places where it hasn’t completely worn through are wet. Squelchy underfoot. There’s no natural light, but there is an ancient overhead projector, and a pathetic plastic fan puffing stale pissy air towards me.

“All of those risk factors are likely to occur here in the training room, aren’t they?” I ask.

Beside me, Charlie laughs. Another guy, a newcomer, trips over the threshold in his hurry to share this glorious space with us.

“Hi, hi, um . . . I’m Ted,” he says, stumbling again as he tugs on a cord. A tattered white screen drops into place against the wall.

Ted is a youngster, early twenties probably, and has the nervous erratic energy that only two types of people possess: caffeine addicts, and folks who are scared of their own shadow.

I’m willing to bet that it’s a little from column A and a little from column B with Ted.

I feel kinda bad for the guy and decide to go easy on him, reining in my sarcasm to base levels as he starts talking us through some of the ExorSquad rules.

“Rule four one two, never accept food or drink from a spirit,” Ted says.

Charlie flips open his handbook to the relevant section. I’ve left mine on the table by the door, so I lean over and skim read from his page.

Do not consume anything offered by the deceased . . .

Yada yada . . .

We’ve lost three operatives this year alone to “just a biscuit” . . .

Yada yada . . .

An inexplicable compulsion to waltz . . .

Blah blah blah . . .

Ghost food tastes like disappointment and ectoplasm.

“Three operatives,” Charlie says. “This year alone. To ghost biscuits.”

“What kind of biscuits?” I ask.

“I don’t think that’s a relevant question,” Ted says.

I glance at Charlie and raise a brow, feeling less and less sorry for Ted as the training session goes on. Not a relevant fucking question my arse.

How are biscuits ever not relevant?

We’re given carrier bags with some bits and bobs inside. What appears to be a regular torch, a couple of vials of clear liquid, something that looks suspiciously like a light-up walkie-talkie, and a plastic container filled with Sainsbury’s own brand table salt.

“It’s sanctified salt,” Ted clarifies.

“Mmhmm, and what’s this?” I hold up one of the vials.

“Holy water. The salt creates barriers against the spirits, and the holy water weakens the ghosts,” Ted says. “And the other thing in your bags are EMF readers. That’s electromagnetic field. For detecting activity.”

It all seems just so fucking farfetched. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if Ted gave us a Pokédex, an armful of Poké Balls, and told us to get out there and “catch ’em all.”

“Circling back to the holy water. Are you telling me this liquid has been blessed by a member of the clergy?” I ask.

Ted nods and swallows loud enough for me to hear.