Page 56 of Unalive On Air

Then with an ease the petite sixty-eight-year-old woman would not possess on her own, she hoicks my holdall bag over her shoulder and marches out of the room.

That bag weighs upwards of twenty-three kilograms. This I know from my last flight to Edinburgh, when they told me to ditch some of its contents or don’t fly. I went via train. The duffle will weigh more now if the room cleanup crew stashed the complete works of the ExorSquad manual inside it.

Peter checks left and right down the corridor before hotfooting towards the trophy room. We pass through approximately fifty metres of halls, at least half a dozen doors, and the hotel lobby to reach our end destination, and blissfully, it all seems devoid of people. The concierge on the desk isn’t someone I recognise, and fortunately for us they’re engrossed in something on their monitor.

We’ve almost made it. Not that anybody would happen upon Franny Driscoll out and about in her place of work and immediately assume that the ghost of a forty-year-old man who’s been dead for forty-two years had illegally inhabited her body in order to transport heavy studio equipment halfway across the site and set up a true crime podcast from a trophy room. Oh, and that she’s one of the prime suspects in the murder mystery that very podcast will hopefully help to solve.

Yeah, chances are pretty slim.

But not non-existent.

Only a few more steps. Peter moves quickly, with the ease of someone who actually has a body. I’ve only been dead for a day and a half, and I’m sure I’ve forgotten all the ways my muscles used to move.

“Do you want some help with that?” a voice calls out from behind us. A familiar voice.

Peter whirls around and freezes. His face drops, his mouth falling into an O.

Helga.

His ex-wife.

fifteen

Spirited Away

Peter suddenly has a choice to make.

Talk to Helga. Speak to his wife. Let her know how much he still thinks about her, how closely he watches her, how she continues to occupy his every thought.

Or carry on with our equipment transportation mission.

He glances over to our approximate location, though he can’t see us well.

Stove mimes zipping his lips together. I guess Helga might hear him too.

“You okay, Franny? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Here, let me help with this.” Helga grabs the bag from Peter and grunts as she transfers it to her own shoulder. “Jesus, what’ve you got in this? A body?”

Peter laughs nervously. His gaze flicks over to us again. Helga notices, and her eyes follow suit, and for one very long, very stomach-churning second, she stares right at me.

She sees me.

My instinct says I should duck. Or run. Or wave hello. Instead, I just stand there like a fucking lemon.

Helga tilts her head to the side and frowns. She doesn’t take her eyes off me. “What? . . . How is that possible?”

I’ve forgotten how to breathe. I’ve also forgotten that I don’t actually need to. Beside me, the rest of the ghosts have also frozen in place. In a way, it’s awesome that she sees us. Can we communicate with the living? Can we ask her all the questions we don’t have answers for yet? But also . . . what if she exorcises us? Hires a proper one this time. Not some sceptic hack in a Ghostbuster’s onesie. I’ve only just received my undeath citizenship, and now this could be taken away from me too?

Helga takes a step closer. She’s two feet from me. Another step. I’m about to find out if ghosts can pass out.

“No, no. This is wrong,” she says, hand held out in front of her.

Then she walks right through me.

“This is three months out of date.” Helga rips a WHAT’S ON AT THE PARAGON flyer from the wall and scrunches it up. “Franny, has that poster been there for the entire summer? It says May on it. Why wasn’t it changed with the rest of them?”

“Uh . . .” Peter clears his throat and affects Franny’s northern accent. “Apologies. I . . . must have overlooked it. I’ll make sure it’s on my list for next time.” It’s so far from her actual accent that it would have been a wiser decision to pretend Franny had a cold.

“It’s fine. You’ve got a lot on your mind, what with . . . Well, we both have,” Helga says, frustratingly refusing to elaborate on anything. “Where are you taking this anyway? Wasn’t this Gary’s bag? Davies didn’t want it at the station?”