Page 39 of Unalive On Air

Choose a room? I nod. “Okay.” Actually, respite from my racing thoughts would be pretty welcome right now. I don’t even think it’s properly sunk in yet.

I’m dead.

I’m so fucking dead.

I’m never going to be living any more.

Nope, still not sunk in.

Right now, they’re probably trying to contact my next of kin and figure out where to send my body. Should it be cremated or buried, or blasted into space? I never made a will. Never needed to. Didn’t own any property or even any moderately valuable assets. The only thing I had to my name, Unalive on Air, the radio station stole when they sacked me.

“Sure, I guess I could . . . chill out for a bit.” And do what, Gary? Think about what?

I stumble over to one of the cabriole settees, forget that I can’t sit down, and sail right through, only stopping after I’ve sunk a few inches into the wooden floor. It’s difficult to “feel” stuff when you’re a ghost, but I can feel the coldness from the water pipe passing directly through my appendix.

Trystan holds out two hands, like a basketball player helping a teammate up.

“Oh.” I grab his hands, which are calloused yet have no warmth, and he tugs me to my feet. “Thank you.”

“No worries, dude. It takes a while to get used to everything,” he says.

“You could do with a mentor. Someone to show you the ropes of being a ghost,” Jeanie says. There’s a wry, calculating smile on her face.

“I could assist Ga—” Camille starts, but Jeanie cuts them off.

“Trystan, why don’t you help our newest recruit find his feet around here? Help him choose a place to call his own.”

“It’s fine,” I say, and immediately want to hurt myself. Why am I trying to sabotage this? “I’ll just stay here.”

The remaining ghosts all turn to me. Some are smiling, some open-mouthed. All have their eyebrows up near their hairlines. They then look at Jeanie.

“Gary Runcorn, sweetie,” she says. “This is my room. Even with the remnants of your entrails all over my rug, this is my space. It was when I was living, and will remain so until the day I ‘move on.’ After that, you can all fight each other for this suite, but until then, it’s best you let my friend Trystan locate a more suitable spot for you.”

“Oh, what’s that?” Camille says, pretending as though they’ve heard a voice calling for them from the corridor. “It’s seven thirty on a Tuesday? Isn’t that when they do jazzercise in the dance studio?”

“Yes, yes, it is,” agrees Pixie. “I think I’ll come with you today. Stove?”

Stove startles and pulls a face like he can smell eggs. “Me? Jazzercise? Fuck that, but I do have an appointment to throw pebbles at kids on the beach. I really can’t miss that again. We’re getting into autumn now, and my opportunities will be fewer and farther in between.”

The three of them leave through the walls.

“Nice to meet you, Gary,” Pixie calls out as she vanishes.

“Yes, I hope we become good friends,” Camille says.

Silence from Stove.

At some point, Josh must have slipped out unnoticed, and now it’s just Trystan, Jeanie, and me in the suite.

But something strikes me as strange. “If this is your room, do you stay here when there are guests?”

“Oh, usually. Sometimes if there are solo travellers, I’ll simply sit in my chair over here and watch the ocean. Sometimes I chat to them. They never talk back, obviously. When there’s a couple here, I will usually hang around with Pixie for the evening, or until they’ve finished their business.” Jeanie gives a little laugh.

“Is that where you were last night?” I ask.

She startles, and panic‑looks at Trystan. “Oh, well . . . no, I wasn’t with Pixie last night. Or anyone else for that matter.”

I don’t say anything, but I let my eyebrows and firm expression do the talking.