Page 110 of Unalive On Air

Everyone will find out at the same time. Including Officer Jazz, Helga, Franny, Angel, and no doubt Sergeant Dave Davies, who’ll be listening live as it’s broadcast.

Only Trystan and Josh aren’t here, and as much as I want Trystan to stay away, something feels . . . not right about it. He should know who killed him and why. He’s been part of my journey since the very beginning. Hell, he was the first ghost I ever met. He should be here, and yet, my fear of losing him overrides any sense of responsibility I have.

From the trophy room windows, I can just about make out the shore line, but even if I press my face through the glass, I wouldn’t see him. He’ll be in his hut, talking to his “friends,” getting ignored because they don’t know he’s there. Or maybe Josh is showing him pornographic illustrations of my favourite canon ships soaping each other down.

I check the tiny clock on the laptop for the eleventy millionth time. Seven forty‑seven. Getting close.

I feel sick. Am I about to lose half my friends?

Only Stove attempts to break the silence with a few poorly timed Christmas cracker jokes that don’t land.

“Why did the chicken cross the road?” he asks. Nobody says anything, so he pushes on with the punchline. “Becaauuuse!” he clucks.

It’s met with zero laughter. Even Stove doesn’t laugh at his own joke like usual.

Perhaps, after all their talk of wanting to move on, the reality has finally sunk in. Some of them may no longer be here after this episode airs. Who, though? Will they all move on? Or only some of them? Besides Jeanie and Peter, has everyone else been waiting for closure? And what if Jeanie was wrong? What if I explain what happened to her, and she goes off as well? Even Camille, who has repeatedly referred to unfinished business as horseshit, is unusually anxious.

I get to my feet and circle the room again, passing through cabinets and furniture, and pausing only to gaze at Trystan’s magazine cover. At his happy, lively little face, smiling up into the sunshine.

I have never met a more beautiful man, inside or out.

“What’s the time?” I ask everyone.

Pixie, who’s closest to the laptop monitor, replies. “Seven fifty-two.”

“Can ghosts barf?” I say. I feel like I might be sick.

Nobody answers my question, sending the sensation deeper inside my body. Into my very core.

However impossible it may be, the trophy room stills further.

“Gary,” Trystan says.

I haven’t taken my eyes off his magazine cover, and there’s a genuine possibility I’m hallucinating his voice, until . . .

“Gary?”

I spin around, and there he is, standing just inside the door. His cheeks are red, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Trystan?” in contrast, my voice is a husk.

“Do we have time for a chat?” he asks.

“It’s seven fifty-six,” Pixie says.

I don’t give a fuck what the time is. The podcast can wait. “Yes, of course. Here or in private?”

“Whatever,” he says, shrugging and rushing forward to me. He cups my face and kisses me.

It’s soft at first, and then his tongue is in my mouth, and my body is reacting in other ways it shouldn’t be in front of an audience of five other ghosts. I’m vaguely aware of someone, possibly Pixie, wolf whistling.

After a few more intense and delightful seconds, he pulls away, closes his eyes, and presses his forehead to mine.

“I just needed to check something,” he says.

“And?” I ask, trying to inhale as much of his scent as possible.

“I was right all along.” Trystan pushes a gap between us and stares into my eyes. “Don’t hate me, but I’m going to stay while you record your podcast.”