Page 117 of Unalive On Air

“Where did he go?” Jean asks.

“Did he go into stasis? Will that make him return to the auditorium?” But as I say this, I know that’s not how it works. I’ve spent many a night sleeping in Trystan’s hut or on the beach with him without returning to the honeymoon suite.

Magnus steps forward, as unbothered as a cat readying itself to dive into a pile of feathers. “Not on your nelly,” he says, adds, “BRB,” and with an echoing whip crack, he’s gone too.

“Did he just say BRB?” Stove asks.

“What does it mean?” Jeanie says.

“Be right back,” he says.

A second later, Magnus stands in the trophy room, holding Peter by the scruff of his neck. “Whelp, forgot my clothes again.” Then he magics himself into a black T-shirt and grey jogging bottoms, and it’s so bizarrely ordinary that it’s weirding me out. “Thought he could run away, didn’t he?”

“Petey, what did you expect to happen?” Jeanie doesn’t even sound angry any more. Now she sounds disappointed. “You can’t leave the hotel grounds. You can’t escape us.”

“What are you going to do with him?” Trystan asks.

Peter struggles against invisible barriers. It’s like he’s standing in a transparent tube that’s just about wide enough to fit his frame.

Magnus casually hefts a shoulder. “Eh, whatever you want me to, really?”

“I thought you didn’t mess around in people’s lives?” Peter says, jerking his upper body against his bonds.

“My friend, you are not alive. You have no life to meddle in,” Magnus says.

Something clicks in Peter’s brain, and unbridled fear washes over him, draining him of colour.

Stove takes a step closer to Peter, and another. He stops a metre away from him, just out of swinging reach. “You killed me, you cunt.” His voice is even, devoid of emotion. It’s not the laddish, jokester Stove I’ve come to know and love. “I had a fucking girlfriend. We were gonna get a flat together. We had a cat. She was called Bonnie. BONNIE, PETER! YOU FUCKING KILLED ME!”

I suddenly remember we’re still live on air. I whirl around to the microphone. “Hey, so . . . sorry for the bad language. I’m going to end this episode here. Tune in next week to find out what happens. Bye.”

Pixie hits the “off” button and the red light blinks itself out. There are so many emotions flooding my system right now, I could have switched it myself.

“You can’t just . . . sentence me without a trial,” Peter says, his expression morphing into something more calculating. Instead of thrashing against his boundaries, he seems to be gently teasing them with his hands and feet. “Where’s all your proof?”

“You admitted it!” Jeanie shouts.

“I admitted to accidentally hurting you. I didn’t kill you. That was Angel.”

She balls her fists. “He wouldn’t.”

“You could have a trial if you like,” Camille says. “We could take you to the Old Scares. You could put your case to them.”

“Wonderful plan, Camille,” Magnus booms. He’s still wearing his sweatpants. He must find them as comfy as everyone else does.

“Wait, wait, wait, can’t we work something out?” In his haste to dismiss getting the poltergeists involved, Peter rushes forward and knocks his head on his invisible barrier. It makes a “doink” sound.

Magnus seems to churn this thought over. “Nah.”

“No, no, no. Please,” Peter pleads.

“This isn’t the right way to handle things,” Pixie says, and Peter’s shoulders drop in relief. “Eternal damnation is the coward’s way out. He needs to suffer. He killed a fifteen‑year‑old boy. I don’t give a shit about myself or the rest of you, but Josh was a child.”

“And not only that,” Trystan adds. “But he stole someone else’s body, their physical consciousness to do his bidding. Imagine being Franny and listening to that show and realising that without your knowledge you held a pillow over Pixie’s airways until she died. She literally has blood on her hands because of him. I don’t know what’s worse.”

Peter’s gaze flicks between Magnus, Pixie, and Trystan.

Though he should’ve been watching Jeanie, who from nowhere, slaps him across his cheeks. Peter closes his eyes for a beat, but otherwise looks unaffected.