Page 24 of Unalive On Air

Oh, get a grip, Gary. There’s no entity and there never has been. This whole thing is a con. Helga’s a murderer, Gerald’s a charlatan, and I’m the gullible twat falling for it all.

I don’t test out the gun, because even though the contraption looks like an eight‑year‑old kid’s Crayola sketch of a water pistol, the ghost pew pewer is very heavy, and I don’t want to accidentally blast a hole in century‑old brick work. Especially with a tropical cyclone raging just outside my window.

I nestle the weapon under the unused right-side pillow, rest my head on the left-side one, and stay alert. Eyes open, ears open, waiting for any sight or sound to let me know Helga or Franny or Sergeant Dave Davies is in the room with me.

“Garrryyy,” the voice says again. Only this time I have my eyes wide open and all the lights on, and I am about eighty per cent sure it’s the wind.

But just in case it’s not. “Listen, I know I haven’t paid for this suite and have no intentions to, but for the time being, this is my space. If anyone is here, I suggest you either make your presence known immediately or fuck all the way off. I have a weapon of . . . unknown destruction, and I won’t hesitate to use it.” I pause, waiting for any kind of acknowledgment. “And if it turns out to be a totally useless duff gun, which, let’s be fair, is an astronomically high likelihood, I will . . . just donk you on the head with it.”

Nothing. Not a sound besides the now rather soothing patter of rain on the glass.

“Gary . . .” it whispers again. Gently this time, cajolingly, like a child changing tack to gain their parents’ favour.

But the wind doesn’t change tack. It doesn’t actually want anything from me. The wind just winds. My sleep‑addled mind is adding personality, reasoning, motive.

I let my eyes close. Though I don’t plan to sleep. I’ll stay alert, keep my glasses on, and my weapon nearby. Just in case.

“Gary . . .”

But it’s definitely wind.

It’s definitely, definitely wind. Definitely, definitely, definitely nothing else.

“Garrrryyy . . .”

“Nope. Fuck off now.”

“Garrrryy . . .”

Maybe I’m hallucinating. Maybe I’m already asleep.

Shit, I can’t open my eyes.

The last thing I remember before I’m robbed of consciousness is the jingling sound ringing through the room again.

The chandelier?

seven

Death Is but the Next Great Adventure

Present Day Again (Approximately Nine Hours After I Died)

“Yeeeww! They got you too!” a blonde head says.

Just a blonde head. Poking through the wall like . . . like a fucking apparition.

Which, I guess isn’t inconceivable now, given I’ve already established that I’m dead yet undead. Can’t be the only one, I suppose.

Shortly after the blonde head appears, a torso follows, covered in a black T-shirt or vest and a red Hawaiian shirt with pink and white flowers. Then legs appear. Long, tanned legs wearing board shorts and flip-flops.

Trystan Retallack is in my suite. The local Cornish legend who featured on the cover of the trophy room magazine.

The smiling, carefree, ‘would have been five‑time surf champion had he not inexplicably drowned in 1998’ bronzed Adonis is standing in my hotel suite.

A dead man.

A ghost.