Page 28 of Unalive On Air

Peter takes off his top hat, revealing his classic ’80s, receding blonde mullet. “How will you solve a murder if you can’t interview the suspects, though? If you can’t inspect evidence? In case you haven’t figured it out yet, we can’t touch objects with our non‑corporeal hands, we can’t operate desktop computers, we can’t communicate with the police. How can you, a ghost, expect to gather enough evidence to solve these crimes, let alone present a case to the authorities for any action to be taken?”

My gaze flits between Peter and the rest of the spirits. Something’s not being said to me. The ghosts are not all on the same page.

I look to Jeanie for an explanation as she seems to be the most sensible of this ragtag bunch of phantoms—the mum of the group I guess—and as much as I want to, I can’t bring myself to make eye contact with Trystan.

“Peter thinks we were all killed by a fleshie,” she clarifies. “Or fleshies.”

“That’s what we call living people,” Pixie clarifies further, as though I couldn’t have worked that one out on my own.

“Of course it was a fleshie,” Stove says. “We already know Helga murdered Pete—”

“No, we don’t actually know that,” Pixie says.

Stove waves her off. “And we know that it’s almost impossible to kill a fleshie if you’re undead. Believe me, I’ve tried. It would take a powerful entity to snuff someone out. I can barely move a felt-tip.”

There are so many unanswered questions popping into my head that I’m having a hard time prioritising them.

Pixie opens her mouth to argue with Stove, but I hold up a finger. “Sorry to interrupt . . .” And I genuinely am. I’m very intrigued to hear what she has to say, but I just need a few things neatened up first. “We can’t move stuff?”

To illustrate my point, Peter marches over to the smashed‑up bed and walks straight through all the detritus until he’s standing directly in the centre of my dead body. “We can’t touch anything, can’t pick anything up, can’t move jack shit.”

“Not strictly true,” Trystan says, and my heart leaps at the excuse to stare at him for a few seconds. “We can move things.” He puts a lot of emphasis on the word can, like he’s adding hidden Ts and Cs. “We just have to be really fired up to do it.”

“We can only move stuff if our emotions are . . . amplified,” Pixie adds. And as much as I’m starting to like the American rock star, my eyes are bereft at leaving Trystan’s face.

Her words trigger an idea in me. “Wouldn’t murdering a person provide you with enough emotional amplification to, you know . . . finish the job?”

“I mean, in theory,” she concedes. “But . . . okay, so if I’m moving stuff, it’s usually incidental. It’s because I’ve gotten mad mad, or elated, or . . . I’m fucking.”

Josh looks up from his vintage ghost device, raises an eyebrow, and immediately goes back to the screen.

Gary Runcorn, do not think about spectral sex. Just don’t do it, mate. At least not right now.

I clear my throat to give myself a few more seconds to gain composure. “So, we’re either looking for an emotionally unstable ghost, a really powerful one, or a living person?”

Everyone nods. No one is in disagreement with me. Good, that should actually help narrow down my list of perps.

“If I can’t interview suspects and inspect evidence and police docs, it might take me longer to figure out who killed Imogen—uh, Jeanie, but I reckon we can all find a way around it.”

Piecing together these kinds of puzzles was what I lived for when I . . . lived. Take that away from me and what do I have? Drawing dicks in condensation?

“Excellent. Oh, bravo, you,” Jeanie says, cupping my tricep again. “And yes, we’d love to help.”

I ineffectively try to step out of her touch. “I’ll start by figuring out what happened to you, Jeanie. Since you’re the reason I was called here in the first place, and then I guess if I’m not whisked away to the ‘afterlife’ or the ‘beyond’ or whatever the next place after death is, I’ll work through each of your mysterious deaths.” I still can’t look directly at Trystan, but the thought of his unencumbered attention while he answers my questions about dying sends a thrill up my spine.

“We are . . . mostly . . . of one mind in thinking it’s the same person or entity that killed us all,” Jeanie says. “Including you, Gary.”

I finger comb my moustache as I think. “So, I’ll be solving my own murder at the same time.”

It wasn’t a question, but the ghosts answer me regardless.

“Yup.” Trystan.

“Mmhmm.” Jeanie.

“Yessir.” Pixie.

“I still reckon there’s more than one killer,” Stove adds, and Peter shrugs noncommittally.