Page 3 of Unalive On Air

Ooooh, was I murdered? Death has suddenly become a lot more exciting.

But what if I depart this realm before figuring out what actually happened to me?

I couldn’t live . . . unlive with that notion. Instead, I stay put and practice sitting again.

Damn, it might be the most difficult thing I’ve ever tried.

It’s twelve thirty before someone knocks on the hotel room door. I still haven’t figured out how to not fall through the seat of the chair.

“Housekeeping?” says a youthful, masculine voice from the other side.

There’s no DO NOT DISTURB sign on the handle. All goes quiet, and a moment later the lock clunks within its chamber.

Do I hide? Or stay out in the open? Does it matter?

I don’t get time to decide before the door swings wide.

The room attendant is in his early twenties or late teens. Dark skin and hair. He’s tall and willowy thin, and he crinkles his nose upon entering. There is a distinct smell in the air. Not the stench of death, because it’s too soon for that, but it’s an ironlike, metallic scent, no doubt from the copious amounts of blood covering nearly every surface. After a few moments of surveying the wider damage to the suite—he apparently cannot see ghost me or is pretending that I’m invisible—his eyes fall upon my sad little corpse.

He vomits.

Rude.

“Hello? Alright, mate?” I wave my hands like an air traffic controller, but he’s running from the room.

Approximately six minutes later, Helga, the general manager I met yesterday, runs in through the still open door.

“Helga, hey?” I say, but there’s no response. She can’t see me either.

She’s already reaching for the little black device on her belt, and she hasn’t even looked at dead me yet. Her eyes roam over the congealed blood, and she groans.

“Franny?” she says into her radio. “Call the police, would ya?”

The radio buzzes. “What did you find?” says the feminine voice on the other end.

Helga heaves the world’s weightiest sigh and runs her fingers through her cropped, shaggy blonde hair. She finally allows herself to look at my corpse and screws up her face. “It’s happened again.”

two

And Taxes

One Week Before I Die

“Good evening detectives and sleuthers, it’s Gary Runcorn with this week’s episode of Unalive on Air. Brought to you all the way from the cozy, cramped, slightly pungent studio here at Swindon Sounds.

“On tonight’s schedule, we’re going to be re-examining an old case—the case of ‘The Old Dairy Disappearance’—and looking at whether a recent unexplained tragedy can shine light on what happened in the past.

“Now, if you remember about a year ago, I spoke about a farmer who mysteriously vanished along with his entire herd amid a money laundering scandal. The grade two listed dairy site remained untouched in the north London suburb of Cockfosters for thirty years, until very recently when developers Clawson and Stoker bought the plot and started renovation work. But that work was quickly abandoned when the gruesome body of a contractor was discovered one morning.

“I know what you’re thinking, thirty years is a long time, there’s no way to know if those two incidents are connected. But here’s what I’ve found out so far, and why I think there might just be more to it than meets the eye . . .”

“Replace me with what?”

I’m desperately trying not to yell. Heat rises in my body like mercury in a glass thermometer. It’s already bypassed my feet, my knees, my hips. Now the level’s somewhere around my belly button.

Barry Prestwich massages his temples and puffs out a breath, which shares both the volume and duration of a hot air balloon burner. “Music, Gary, music. Nobody tunes into the radio to listen to murder mysteries any more.”

Yes, yes, yes, Barry and Gary. It’s hilarious. Or so everyone tells us. Apparently it’s even funnier because the person on air right after me is named Terry. A slant rhyme at best, but these are the types of folk I’m forced to cooperate with on an almost daily basis.