Page 31 of Unalive On Air

“You grab that end,” Davies says, regarding what I can only assume is the chandelier. “And I’ll take this one.”

Jazz groans as she looks down at the blood-soaked carpet and places her boots upon it. The rug squelches. She lifts a foot and inspects the bottom like she’s stepped in dog muck. “Are you sure we’re not interfering with the scene by getting our footprints and stuff in it?”

“Not a crime scene. Not suspicious, remember?” Davies says. He pulls on a pair of surgical‑style gloves and passes some to Jazz. “Because it’s icky, not suspicious.”

Peter whines. “If he says not suspicious one more time, I swear I’ll possess him and start screaming the truth to his new apprentice.”

“You can do that?” I ask.

Jeanie seesaws her hand. “Not really. Well, I guess a little, but it’s more complicated than that and a whole tonne of bad stuff could happen.”

“How the fuck is it not suspicious?” Camille says, ignoring my desperate but silent plea for more info about possessions.

“Because he probably did it,” both Peter and Stove say at the same time. Then they look at each other and laugh.

“We’ve been dead together for too long,” Stove jokes.

“Okay, after three. One, two, three . . .” Davies and Jazz seize either end of the chandelier and, in what feels like super slow motion, lift it up.

“Christ, this thing is heavy,” Jazz says, vocal cords straining under the weight of holding the antique light fixture aloft. “Poor guy didn’t stand a chance. Wait, should I take some photos before we move this?”

“No need. Not suspicious,” Davies replies. His voice sounds as though he’s trying to crimp out the world’s most solid and immovable turd. “Besides . . . too late now.”

My neck—my dead neck—makes a sucking sound as the chandelier spike is pulled out. Fresh clots ooze out of the wound, instantly obscuring it.

The ghosts groan. Someone says, “Ew.” They either look away or stare, fascinated. Josh gags, and now I’m wondering if spirits can throw up. It’s pretty minging to be fair. Not quite the way I’d have chosen to go, but at least I didn’t feel any pain when it happened . . . or wait . . .

“I don’t remember what pain feels like.” The epiphany falls from my lips before I can stop it.

“Another bonus of being dead,” Jeanie says. “You can’t feel pain, even hunger. The only pain you’ll feel now will be in your heart.”

Trystan shoots me a sarcastic thumbs up. “Yay.”

Pixie laughs. “Good for songwriting, though.”

The two officers carry the chandelier a few feet to the right and place it down beside the settees. Jazz carefully with bent knees and a straight back, and Davies hunched over so dramatically he could be cosplaying as Notre Dame’s most famous resident. I get the sense this guy is allergic to protocol.

Davies straightens his spine and groans, and Jazz bounces up to her full height with her twenty-something-year-old legs and fantastic posture like carrying a chandelier half her weight was no big deal.

“What’s that under his pillow?” she says, glancing over at dead me.

Without the cage of the chandelier, my corpse looks too exposed. I’m not naked, I’m still wearing my ExorSquad overalls, but I feel more vulnerable than if I were in my birthday suit. It’s . . . embarrassing, actually. I look away. Some of the other ghosts stare transfixed at me.

Jazz strides over to the bed and gently lifts the right‑side pillow. Rigor mortis means my head continues staring blankly upwards.

“A water pistol? What is this?” Jazz holds up the PolterPulse 33X and flips it over in her hands. “Why would he have a toy under his pillow?” Her index finger idly comes to rest on the trigger.

A blinding beam of light shoots from the end of the PolterPulse and lands squarely on the settee beside the chandelier, tearing open the upholstery and spilling its horsehair guts onto the cushion below. Fifty centimetres to the left and it would have been game over for Sergeant Dave Davies.

“Bro! Not a toy.” Jazz carefully places the weapon on the bedside table with the muzzle pointing towards the wall.

“Fucking hell, that was close,” Stove says, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow. “Imagine old Sergeant Saggy Pants croaking it here, and we’re stuck with his manky ghost forever.”

Peter pulls a face. “Yikes. No, thanks.”

“Jazz, look at this.” Davies beckons his young trainee over to the couch. “Look at the burn marks that weird gun thing left.” They both crouch down to inspect. Every ghost bar Josh tries to muscle in on the viewing party. It looks like a cigarette burn, but longer, stretched out at the top and bottom. “Now look at the mark on the chandelier cable.”

We rush over, or crane our necks, or in Peter’s case, float upwards. It’s pretty clear the scorch marks match. The cable and chain have been cut clean through, and at the top, the same stretched‑out sooty burn.