Page 12 of Unalive On Air

I massage my temples. I’m really trying not to be a total twat to this guy, who it appears is experiencing his first day ever on earth, but . . .

“Can we just clarify how we know this entity adheres to Catholicism?” I say. “Or is religion a prerequisite for eternally terrorising a building? Because if that’s the case, I’m fucked. No afterlife for me.”

Charlie purses his lips together, and Ted flicks his gaze towards the open door, perhaps hoping for a hero to save him from the moment.

I realise there’s a chance I’m being too hard on the poor kid. He’s a deer in headlights. Surely he can’t believe all this bullshit. He can’t actually think that ghosts and spirits and entities are real. But the alternative to that would be wilfully acknowledging and then ignoring the scams they’re pulling on perhaps vulnerable people who are either in mourning, or are completely bonkers, and I think I like naïve Ted more.

The same can’t be said for Gerald, though. That’s one seriously shifty bastard.

“I need a piss,” I say, getting up and excusing myself before Ted has a nervous breakdown in front of my eyes.

“Gary Runcorn?” Gerald yells as soon as I’m in the hallway.

I take a tentative step into his overstuffed office.

“If you’re insistent on tackling The Paragon Phantom, then you should probably take this.” He steps aside to reveal an item on his desk that looks remarkably like a Super Soaker water pistol. It’s essentially a squirt gun, with three “chambers” in an array of primary colours.

I half want to laugh and half want to slap his gold tooth right out of his mouth. I do neither, and just stare at him as though I’m waiting to be insulted by the punchline. “What’s that?”

“PolterPulse 33X. Latest model. You just point and pew pew.”

“Point and pew pew?”

He winks at me. I think it’s the first time since learning about my preferred case that he’s shown any kindness towards me. “You’ve got it, kid.”

I pick up the PolterPulse 33X. It’s much heavier than it looks, and colder, like it’s made of frozen metallic blocks.

“Gary Runcorn?” Gerald says.

“Yeah?”

“Take the weekend off. Get all your affairs in order. Maybe go and see your parents in Spain one last time.”

“Okaaaay?”

Gerald drops a heavy, warm hand onto my shoulder and leaves it there. “It’s been nice knowing you.”

four

A Matter of Life and Death

Approximately Seventeen Hours Before I Die

I change into my freshly laundered overalls on the train from Swindon to Penzance. This uniform and my ExorSquad lanyard, which I stash in my pocket for later when I need it, are my backstage passes to the hotel and my entire investigation. If I sling my holdall over my right shoulder, the strap fully covers the stupid ghost logo. I’d rather not have anyone think I subscribe to such nonsense, or that I’m a scam artist out to grab an easy buck.

The journey is almost five hours, but the seat in the first‑class carriage is comfortable and it’s fairly quiet, save for one guy who obviously feels as though everybody could benefit from listening in to his inordinately important business call.

I wouldn’t normally travel first class—don’t have that kind of spare cash lying around—but Gerald had told me ExorSquad would reimburse me for all expenses.

“All of them?” I’d asked.

“Yup, all of them,” he’d said. “Travel, food, accommodation . . . entertainment, you name it. Just keep all your receipts, and when you get back to London, we’ll repatriate you. Whew, did I say repatriate? I meant make reparations to you . . .”

It was weird, to say the least. I’d read over and over that contract just to be sure I hadn’t misread or misunderstood anything, and it specifically said, “Employees will receive ZERO compensation or allowance for expenses. I don’t care how desperate or hungry you are, there is no budget for extras. Just get in there and get the job done.” The entire paragraph had been underlined seven times. Also weird, because I didn’t know seven layers of underlining was a feature on any word processing program, but I wasn’t about to argue. Not when free first‑class travel and fancy pants lunch and dinner were on offer.

My coronation chicken sandwich and posh paprika crisps taste so much better when I’m not paying for them.

I use this time to flip through police reports from 1995 until now, eyewitness testimonies, bank statements, CCTV footage, and fan speculations, as well as the exorcism contract and ExorSquad’s employee handbook. The latter of which is so utterly fucking useless I regret giving over the valuable real estate in my holdall for the monstrosity.