Page 88 of Unalive On Air

She follows the line of my sight, and my fears seem to dawn on both of them simultaneously.

Trystan sucks in a breath and stares at me for five, ten, twenty seconds. The world dissolves. Jeanie’s there, but no longer important. He nods at me.

“My boundary is right by that stile,” he says. “I’m going to cross it now. I’ll wait for you on the beach. Okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper, after what feels like an eternity.

And with that, Trystan turns, walks about ten metres away from us to a crooked wooden stile, and dissipates.

I immediately look at Jeanie.

“I swear to you I don’t know who killed me, or you, or anyone else for that matter.” She’s lying. About some of it, or all of it, I’m not sure, but Jean Johnson is not telling the truth, and she knows I know she’s lying. “My primary motive is still finishing my unfinished business, but perhaps it’s less solving the riddle and more . . . serving justice.”

Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. Maybe if I just stay quiet, she’ll eventually tell on herself.

She doesn’t. We’re floating for at least another minute, through the stile that vanished Trystan, and right up to the edge of the town. There must be a primary school close by, because I can hear small children screaming and laughing. A zebra crossing beeps rhythmically. Crockery being handled and the indistinct chatter of adults from a nearby cafe drifts over. Someone is mowing their lawn, and the beautiful scent of cut grass fills my nostrils.

If emotions were measured like temperatures in a thermometer, mine would nearly be at breaking point, and I have no idea why. I want to cry. My throat hurts, my eyes burn, and it’s so fucking annoying because I didn’t think ghosts were supposed to feel pain any more.

Still, we keep pushing through the town.

“It’s just down this road,” Jeanie says. She sticks to the paths and pavements, rather than floating directly through people’s houses or back gardens. “You like him?”

My brain falters. Of course she’s talking about Trystan.

I see no point in denying it any longer. My emometer—emotional thermometer—can’t handle the constant pressure. I’m a person, I have feelings, and pretending that kind, handsome, funny guy doesn’t make me feel things is doing my sanity no favours.

“Yeah. I do,” I say. “I like him a lot. More than I think I’ve ever liked another person.”

“More than yourself?”

What an odd question. I consider my reply, and honestly, I don’t know. “Probably.”

Jeanie clicks her tongue. “That’s the wrong answer, luv. You can’t like another person until you truly like yourself. And you should like yourself above and before all other people. Does that make sense?”

“Um . . . I guess,” I say. Lie.

“Sometimes, not always, but sometimes you need to put Gary Runcorn first. Do what makes Gary happy. Treat him well. Because if you don’t like him, why should Trystan?”

Damn, actually, she has a point. Maybe I should be nicer to myself.

But it’s so easy and so comfortable to be mean.

“Thank you,” I say instead of the twelve hundred retorts swirling about in there.

I will save the negativity and the self-naysaying for later, because being alone with my thoughts and insecurities has never led me astray before . . .

“We’re here,” Jeanie says.

An old Cornish stone building rises in front of us. It has tinted windows and sleek, black-painted woodwork. In elegant white lettering, a sign above the door reads, K. Cobbledick Funeral Care.

A postman clad in his red jumper and brown shorts walks down the street, whistling tunelessly. He pushes open the door to Angel’s place, and Jeanie motions for us to slip in behind him. I catch it at the wrong moment, and his postal bag sails right through my stomach.

Inside, Angel sits behind a handsome antique desk, chatting on the phone. He lifts his head and thanks the postman with a nod, and I swear his eyes flit over to where Jeanie and I are standing. He looks nothing like I’d imagined.

Kelsey Cobbledick is a very tall, very broad man. He has a thick but well-groomed beard and moustache and a full head of salt and pepper hair. He’s wearing a machine‑knitted navy jumper with his shirt collar poking out around the neck and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his fuzzy tattoos of yesteryear. His tanned white skin has whiter creases at the corners of his eyes, making him look like a sailor or fisherman who’s spent a lot of time outdoors laughing.

In short, he’s gorgeous. I don’t even need to add a qualifier like “for an old guy,” the man is majestic.