Page 42 of Unalive On Air

“Good point,” I say.

Trystan stares over the side of the cliff. For the most part, it’s a sheer drop of about a hundred metres, but nearer to the bottom, craggy “shelves” jut out at random angles, like teeth from a rusty chainsaw blade. After the rocks, there is nothing but golden sand for maybe half a kilometre. From this height, the holiday makers, surfers, and dog walkers look like tiny specks.

“So, remember when I asked you before if you wanted to be carried down the stairs?” he says, eyes still fixed on the beachgoers.

“Oh . . . wait . . . No, I don’t think—”

“Hop in.” He finally turns to me, arms out again.

Damn, I want to. I really, really want to. But . . .

“Or you can take the steps down. I know how fond of those you are. There are three hundred and twelve of them, known locally as Jacob’s Ladder, and they start all the way from over there.” He points to the left.

I have to squint to see the signposted archway indicating the top of the steps. “Uh . . .”

I mean, I can’t die again. Can I? Maybe from shame.

“Okay?” I say.

Trystan scoops me into his arms like he’s the hunky lifeguard come to pluck me out of the ocean to save me. “Good lad,” he says, then he jumps off the edge.

eleven

He Ain’t Getting Any Deader

I’m sure that ghosts in Scotland can hear my scream as Trystan jumps, with me in his arms, over the craggy edge of the cliff. We’re free falling, I imagine the same way a BASE jumper would be, but it seems to go on and on and on and we haven’t reached the ground yet.

Just how high is this drop?

I’m still screaming. My new undead lung capacity is phenomenal.

“Open your eyes,” Trystan says.

I don’t. Though I do stop yelling enough to say, “No, thank you.”

“Open them,” he says again. And that’s all I hear. Well, that and the shore lapping the sand, and a few seagulls chattering overhead. There’s no whooshing of wind against my eardrums. The sound of falling isn’t nearly as loud as I’d expected it to be.

Tentatively, I squeak one eye open. We’re moving downwards, but I wouldn’t really describe the movement as falling. It’s more like we’re travelling down an invisible escalator. I can almost hear the jazzy shopping mall music playing in the background.

“What will happen if you drop me?” I remember I’m dead, and probably can’t die again. Still, I cling to Trystan like a baby koala clinging to its mama.

“Well . . .” Trystan scrunches up his face while he thinks, and I realise I’m only inches away from it. If I tilted my head backwards and he leant his forward, our mouths would brush together. It’s a heart palpitating thought.

Suddenly I’m aware of his fingers digging into the flesh of my upper arm and knee, and the press of his firm chest and stomach along my other arm. I’m certain that if I concentrated, I could count each one of his abdominal muscles tensing against me.

“Because your spirit is so used to having a body, it will behave as though it still has one,” he says.

“I’ll plumet?”

“Yep, like a turd.” He laughs at his analogy. “But because you don’t actually have a body to stop you when you reach the bottom, the likelihood is you’ll keep going.”

“Into the ground?”

Trystan nods. “Many a cave has been discovered this way.”

“Caves?” I say.

“And since you’re so new to being dead, I’d probably have to come into the cave to rescue you.”