Page 94 of Unalive On Air

“Sure, all the time. It’s not as morally squiffy as possessing a person or animal. So, okay, if you want to feel solid for a while, you can go into an object and just . . . sit there. Like, if someone leaves their board in the water, I’ll become the board and let myself float for a bit, get tossed around a little. It’s not like being alive, but you can feel the world once more.”

Again, this is another one of those things I feel like I should’ve been told at the beginning. Although I’m not sure how much I want to be slapped about on the ocean surface, it’d be nice to have the option if the ceaseless void ever becomes too overwhelming.

“You have to be careful, though. Like, I’ve heard of spirits getting trapped in things, and if you get too worked up inside an object, you could break it. Smashed mirrors, popped light bulbs, that kind of thing. One time, Camille possessed a tennis ball in the gym and when the racket hit them, they exploded.”

Trystan’s laughing, but I’m thinking it’s probably best I don’t possess any objects. I don’t want to accidentally blow someone’s fingers off.

“You ready to surf now?” he says.

“You’ll tell me exactly what to do and when to do it, yeah?”

“Of course.” He pulls on my arm, kicks his flip-flops off, and runs into the shoreline. “Get on,” he says, holding the suspended board out.

I clamber stiffly on top of his ghost surfboard, lying flat like a sea lion atop it, while he pushes me out so far into the water, I can no longer tell if he’s touching the sand still or floating along.

“I feel like an absolute turnip,” I say, though I’m glad the splashes don’t land on my glasses lenses.

“Why? You seem scared, but otherwise you look great.”

“No I don’t.”

He stops the board. “Granted your death clothes are a little . . . sombre, but that’s hardly your fault. It could be worse. You could be stark bollock naked like Magnus—”

“Wait.” I try to sit up, but my hand slips, and I immediately give up, flopping like a walrus back onto it. “Angel said when he was a kid a naked man pulled him out of the water and since then he’d been able to see dead people. That was Magnus. I’m willing to bet ghost money on that.”

“That’s not possible. Magnus died in twenty twelve.”

I can’t prove it. There’s zero proof whatsoever, but I just have a feeling. “He’s a poltergeist, or a mage, or something, I swear. He’s not like all the other ghosts.”

“Do you think he’s the one killing everyone?” Trystan asks.

“No idea. Probably not. I guess I’d need to find a motive before I know for definite.”

“You still surfing with me?” he asks.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Good, because here comes a wave. Pop up!”

I hop to my feet the way we practiced, but I slip forward. Before I faceplant the ghost board, arms close around my waist and Trystan’s pulling me upright.

He’s behind me, holding me up, his body moulding to mine. Or mine to his. His chest against my shoulders, stomach along my back, his thighs following the curve of mine, his . . .

Okay, Gary, be civilised, but Trystan’s dick area is pressing into your coccyx.

I’m not civilised. Internally, I’m freaking out. It’s right there. Oh my god, it’s right there.

I become weightless, letting Trystan take control of everything. It feels wild and free, and the wind is actually touching my face and—

“Gary, do you have your eyes closed again?”

“Yes!” I yell.

“You need to open them!”

I do, and immediately turn around to look at him, but the shift in my weight pitches us both forward, and we fall into the foamy white sea. I can’t drown, but Trystan holds me tightly, like he does when he carries me down to the beach from the hotel, and I can’t help it, I close my eyes and nestle my head against him.

Please don’t finish your unfinished business, I think.