Page 114 of Unalive On Air

“Hi there,” Pixie calls out.

“I’m not sure if the microphone picked that up, but if you heard someone yell, ‘Hi there,’ yes, that is the ghost of Pixie Maynard. As one does when they’re partying, Pixie and Helga indulged in a few drinks and then had a heart‑to‑heart in the bathroom. My educated guess is that Helga had told Pixie everything about the sword‑box night. It’s unlikely either of the women would remember what had been said that night, but Peter, who’d been listening to the entire conversation, couldn’t take that risk. Later, when the party was over and Pixie was resting in a reading chair beside the window, he possessed a member of staff, let himself into the honeymoon suite using a skeleton key, and suffocated Pixie to death with a pillow.”

“Peter, you fucking—” Pixie yells, trying and failing to stand up from her seat. “I will fucking kill you again!”

Magnus, who’s changed his attire at some point to a medieval knight’s full shiny suit of armour, lifts his squeaky visor. “I’ve taken the liberty of freezing everyone to their seats for now. On the basis of not getting interrupted by folk wanting to rip Peter’s ghost limbs from his ghost torso.”

“Sure, thanks,” I say. Though he has a valid point, and I’m actually tremendously grateful.

He closes his visor. It squeaks. Opens it. Squeaks again. “You’re welcome.” And closes it a final time.

Because I don’t want to get any living people in trouble, I omit the name of the person Peter possessed. There’s such a thing as diminished responsibility, and though the person, and in this case I’m pretty sure it was Franny, had no say in succumbing to the ordeal, I don’t know that the courts would see it the same way.

But the motive belonged to Peter, so in fairness, it doesn’t matter which body was used.

“Later Pixie’s death would be written off as an overdose, even though my research shows there had never been a toxicology report. Does that sound familiar, Peter?”

The magician leans forward and, whilst staring me straight in the eyes, says, “No comment.”

Okay, add my name to the queue of people waiting to tear him a new one, because there is no greater crime—even homicide—than answering “no comment” to a question. Where’s his defence? Where’s his villain’s monologue? It’s so cowardly and boring.

“Moving on to the next victim, Jean Johnson. The year is ninety-five. Jeanie sits in the same honeymoon suite Pixie died in only two years earlier. She’s giving an interview to Tilda Mason from daytime TV’s Bright Morning, and the hot topic of conversation is the Peggy in the Middle spin‑off show featuring none other than our good mate, and Jean’s childhood drama‑school friend from sword-box night, Wallace Dalton. This piece never aired. Nobody knew about the casting. Nobody except one person who had listened to the entire interview as it was recorded.

“This may have been the first time Peter found out about Jean and Wallace’s long‑term friendship, or he might have known before, but this was the moment he decided he couldn’t risk Dalton chatting to Jean and potentially spilling the beans.”

Jeanie’s shaking her head, though in fairness, she doesn’t seem the slightest bit shocked.

“Peter, my belief is you possessed Jean and took her out of the hotel in her pyjamas with her dogs to her boyfriend’s house. You stayed inside her body for two days until he returned from his conference. Then you switched bodies. Jean would have been exhausted from the ordeal, and even if she’d been conscious, she would not have been able to defend herself when you struck her on the back of the head with a blunt object. Her dogs, however, put up a fight, didn’t they? They attacked you and had bitten your legs and hands before you could silence them.

“Peter, you—” I begin, but Jeanie is trying desperately to break her invisible shackles.

“Ohhhhh, ohhhhh, you used his body! You killed me through him! My fiancé! My fucking fiancé! We were going to get married. I was thinking about kids. You stole that from me. FROM US! Let me out of this fucking chair!” she screams.

“You will be rewarded with your justice, don’t worry,” Magnus says from the corner. He’s changed his outfit again. Now he’s wearing what appears to be a knitted Victorian bathing suit.

Peter finally breaks his silence. “This isn’t proof. Just because Gary bloody Runcorn says it happened doesn’t mean it actually did.”

“So tell us your version of events, then, Petey,” Stove says, spitting extra venom into his name.

Peter looks momentarily perturbed that his only ally has turned on him. “I can’t believe you’re falling for this propaganda as well.”

Stove crosses his arms, shakes his head. “Nuh-uh, you possessed Fr—”

“Sorry, Stove, gonna cut you off there. Just so I can stay on topic,” I say. On my list of names, I hastily scribble a message to the boom operator.

Do not mention Franny’s name. She could be in trouble.

And I’m just wondering how I get the note to him without getting up, stepping away from the microphone, and crossing the trophy room, when the note vanishes from my hands and a moment later appears in Stove’s. I nod a thank you to Magnus.

“Back to Jean’s story. After you dealt with the dogs that attacked you, and under the cover of darkness, you carried Jean’s body to a part of the hotel that in the past has been used as a cemetery for working animals. You dug a grave under the headstone Bones, where you dumped Jeanie and her beloved pets. Only, Jeanie was still alive, and this was where you fucked up.”

Silent “Ohs” form on people’s lips. Trystan sits forward in his chair.

“Peter, you told me you’d been inside Jean’s fiancé’s house. At the time, I didn’t think you meant whilst you were inhabiting Jean’s body, but it was there you learned who she really was. The signed photos, the memorabilia . . . you had no idea she was as famous as she was until you decided to kill h—”

Peter puffs out a long sigh. “I didn’t set out to kill her.”

Magically, a new microphone appears under his mouth. Magnus salutes me.