Page 92 of Unalive On Air

Fair. I guess that’s a persona she’s crafted for herself. And what did she tell me on the way here? Like yourself more than anyone else so you can carve a path for others to like you. Or whatever, it was something along those lines.

“So, when did you two meet?” I ask.

“Oooh, well, we’ve known each other since we were kids, haven’t we?” Angel says. “She was the highlight of my year. On the first Saturday of every July, I’d wait at the railway station, and I’d help her family carry their suitcases up to the hotel in my barrow. I used to make a bit of extra pocket money that way. But after I’d dropped off the bags, we’d go off and play. On the beach, in the caves, by the railway tracks. She used to make me call her Imogen back then. Said one day she was gonna be a famous actress and that her stage name would be Imogen Savona, and when she had enough money, she was gonna buy us a big house here in Helzephron. She only went and bought the bleddy hotel, didn’t she?”

Angel laughs that big-bellied laugh that only truly happy people, particularly old guys, laugh.

It all makes so much sense now. Why Jeanie bought The Paragon. Of all the places she could have invested in, she chose here. Why it still means a lot to her that the hotel stays in business, that it remains profitable, and a place for the community.

“Helzephron really is one big happy family.” That’s what Helga had said to me, almost the very moment I’d met her, and she’d been right.

“We were always good friends,” Jeanie says. “The best of friends. But it wasn’t until we were in our twenties that we became romantically involved.”

“That’s right,” Angel says. “It was just after that time I found you passed out on the beach.”

Luckily, I’m looking at Jeanie as Angel says this, because I would have missed the fleeting look of panic that crosses her features. The wide eyes, the freeze response, the nervous guffaw.

“Oh, yeah?” I say to Angel, ladling on my nonchalance. “That sounds like a cute story. What happened then?”

Jeanie answers. “Gary doesn’t want to hear about that.” She waves a hand and gives me a warning glare.

Angel misses all of this. “It was . . . whew . . . eighty-four?”

“Eighty-four, yes,” Jeanie says, her face poker straight.

“Now, mind you,” Angel says. “I can only tell you this story so long as you promise not to utter a word to another living soul.” He laughs at his own joke. Jeanie’s expression stays as impassive as it was.

“I won’t tell anyone, living or otherwise,” I say, and I’m pretty sure Jeanie’s either going to be sick or smack me upside the head.

“So, it was eighty-four, and I was just out fishing by myself this time . . . remember that beauty of a spot I told you about near Enys Marrow?” Angel says, and I nod. “Well, I was out there and I saw someone lying on the beach. Not unusual, especially in the summer, people take naps all the time on the sand. Only it weren’t sunny, it was raining out, and the person didn’t look like they were napping. Looked more like they were passed out. As I got closer, I only realised it was my Imogen. I practically ran to her then, scooped her up in my arms, and carried her back to my house in the village. When she came round, she said she couldn’t remember how she got there.”

“How curious,” I say. “What happened then?”

“Well, there was a load of activity at the hotel, police and ambulance and all sorts, and since Imogen didn’t know what she was doing before then, we decided it would be best if we said she was with me all day. That’s when we made love for the first time.” Angel looks so pleased with himself. He has no idea how badly he’s fucked up.

I force a smile, but can’t quite stretch to an “Aww.”

Sweet baby Jesus in a tiny wicker manger, this information is gold.

I switch subjects, though, because only Jeanie can provide me with the answers I need now, and I have a feeling she won’t be as forthcoming as I’d like her to be.

“I should also ask about your nephew, Gabriel,” I say. “How is he?”

“Oh, Gabe, yes,” Angel says, smiling from ear to ear. He then launches into an hour‑long chat about everything I never asked him.

twenty-three

Only the Good Die Young

“It wasn’t Angel,” I say to Trystan when I arrive at his beach later that day.

“Why? How do you know?” he says, hopping off his ghost surfboard. He shakes invisible seawater from his hair, which is beautiful and soft and one hundred per cent dry.

“I . . .” I think about the video. About the looks shared between Angel and Jeanie. About their covert liaisons, and the heart‑wrenching sadness that they can’t be together physically. “It’s not my place to say, really, but . . .” A glance over my shoulder tells me we’re the only ghosts in the area. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course.”

I look around once more. “Angel could see me and Jeanie. He could chat to us.”