Page 119 of Unalive On Air

“Guess that wasn’t my unfinished business after all.”

“I don’t think anybody’s unfinished business was solving their murder,” I say.

“Hey, Magnus is letting us all go to town on Peter, if you’re interested in that?” Trystan says. “He’s making it so that Pete can feel pain again, if you wanted to go kick him for a bit. You might have to wait a while, though. Jeanie looked like she had an itinerary of trauma ready for him.”

Josh laughs, then frowns. “I dunno if I feel comfortable with that.” He thinks about how his words must have sounded. “Like, I understand he blew my face off and all that, but . . .” He shrugs. “I’m just not sure if I wanna create more . . . suffering . . .” He considers this a little more. “Or maybe I don’t wanna be the one to do it.”

“That’s fair. That’s actually a pretty grown-up take. If you decide how you want to punish him, let me know and I’ll do it on your behalf when I see him,” Trystan says.

A sly grin slips over Josh’s face. “Shove some pubes in his mouth.”

I snort with laughter.

“Um . . . sure?” Trystan agrees.

“And then rub his neck like you’re getting a dog to swallow its pills.”

“Sick and twisted. I like it,” I say.

Josh bows theatrically and floats off in the opposite direction.

Trystan turns to me. “I think I found a place that could either become your room, or if you don’t love it enough to be your room, we could just spend tonight there? It’s outside of everyone else’s boundaries except Jeanie’s and Peter’s and well . . . they’re both a little preoccupied right now, so we won’t be disturbed by anyone.”

“Show me.”

twenty-nine

Good Grief

The shepherd’s hut nestles on a cliff top beside a farmer’s field near the edge of town. Black paint has faded to charcoal and peels from the wooden sides of the cabin, decades of salt-heavy rain has rusted the tin roof, and bindweed has wrapped itself around the cast iron wheels, ensuring the wagon can go nowhere without a hefty spot of gardening beforehand. Signs of an ancient footpath meander towards the little painted steps, but since then masses of spiky gorse have swallowed it, rendering the place inaccessible to living humans. And it’s so far out of the hotel grounds no other ghost besides Jeanie could reach it.

But Jeanie has more important fish to fry at the moment. If she’s not boinking Peter on the back of the head with a lead pipe—ohhh, lead pipe, I get it now—she’ll be awaiting Angel’s release from the station.

Inside the cabin there’s a bed frame with no mattress, a surprisingly mould-free chintzy armchair, a tiny bookcase with an array of water‑damaged crime novels, and a log burner. It’s dusty, smells of damp, has an infestation of spiders and pipistrelles, and yet, it’s perfect.

“We can pretend there’s an actual bed,” Trystan says.

And then, as if by magic, though I highly suspect the all-seeing, all-knowing Magnus might have a hand in this, a sumptuous twelve‑inch‑deep mattress thumps down onto the now unbroken frame. A handsewn patchwork quilt lies atop it, accompanied by feathery soft pillows.

I mouth a silent “Thank you” to Magnus and climb onto the bed.

Trystan copies me and gasps. We can feel the bed. Its squishiness envelopes me, cradles me.

“Oh my god,” he whimpers.

“I know.”

After a few moments, Trystan leans up on his elbows, crowding me into the hut wall. “Do you know, I think that both of our unfinished businesses must have been finished and we must have moved on, because right now . . . I’m in heaven.”

I reach up, lock my fingers in his unruly blonde curls, and pull his face to mine, kissing him as though I might wake up from this wonderful dream any second.

Without pulling away, Trystan unzips my overalls. He trails warm, breathy kisses down my neck and pushes his tongue into the divot between my throat and collarbone.

I know I’m dead, but this moment right now surely has to be the highest plane of ascension one can ever reach.

“Get these fucking Venkman pyjamas off. Let me see everything,” he says, as he leans up and strips his own shirt and racer-back off.

I sit up, scoot my coveralls and boxers off my butt, and pull my vest over my head, and Trystan watches me. His eyes travel down my chest, my belly, my cock, and back to my stomach where they rest. He bites his lip, pulls his eyebrows into the sexiest frown, and moans. Then he smiles to himself, as though he’s won some kind of jackpot prize.