Page 29 of Unalive On Air

Only Josh doesn’t weigh in. Eventually, under everyone’s scrutiny, he heaves his shoulders up. “Well, duh.”

“Okay.” I nod. “Okay.” And for the first time since dying, I feel a tiny ray of excitement.

“Jesus! Fucking Norah, what have we got ’ere?” A deep male voice calls from the doorway.

Peter jumps out of my corpse, as two newcomers enter the room. An older white man wearing a pressed white shirt and grey suit trousers, and a twenty-something woman of East Asian heritage in full police constable regalia step into the suite. Neither acknowledge any of the ghosts, and both head straight towards my cold, lifeless body.

“That’s Sergeant Dave Davies,” Peter says, hovering behind the man. “A bigger bellend you’ll never meet.”

“If you’re looking for your crim,” Stove says, pulling up to Dave’s other side. “Here he is.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Jeanie says in a motherly “what have I told you about jumping to conclusions” kind of way.

“Well, that’s what old Gazza’s here to prove, no?” Stove says.

I wince at the nickname, but I guess he’s not wrong.

“Jazz,” Sergeant Davis says, unable to take his eyes off my mangled corpse. “Call the station, let them know it’ll be longer than we originally said. And call Angel, tell him to collect his tax again.” Davies straightens his spine and puffs out a long, exasperated gust of air. His eyes travel up to the ceiling, to the uncracked ceiling rose and back down to my body, and he whispers to himself, “Bloody hell, I’m gonna miss snooker tonight, aren’t I?”

eight

Really, That’s the Hill You’re Dying On?

“This one’s new,” Stove says, crowding into Officer Jazz’s personal space and inspecting her face as though she were an undiscovered Agatha Christie novel at an antique book fair.

Though Officer Jazz has no idea Stove’s there. She can’t see him, or any of us, or hear us, but I wonder if she can sense our presence. Can she smell us? Feel us?

And what’s it like to put my ghost hand through a living person? Would she feel me then?

“They never last long in Helzephron,” Trystan says, appearing beside me like a . . . well, like a ghost.

I realise I’m reaching out for her and pull my hand back.

“The young officers.” Trystan nods towards the fresh-faced Jazz, and I make a sort of “meep” sound in return. “Seems like they can’t handle the everyday banality of village life. Either that or . . . it’s because Sergeant Dave Davies is a right twat.”

“Yeah, we all know the answer to that question,” Peter says, sashaying through my corpse to the other side of the room. I’m still reeling too much from Trystan’s words to feel violated by Peter stomping through my innards.

The blonde hair, the California-esque tan, the sparkling white grin, the textbook dashing surfer looks. I had expected Trystan’s aesthetically fortunate genes and athletic prowess to have carried him through life—and afterlife. I’d imagined, inexcusably so, that between those ocean‑blue eyes there wouldn’t be that much going on. That he would naturally fit the beach bum, airhead stereotype.

But I was wrong, and it’s making my head spin.

My biggest dilemma at the moment is figuring out who killed us all, including myself, but another riddle is unfurling right in front of me. Who is this guy? And why is he so astonishingly beautiful and, as it turns out, smart?

“So, Jazz, what do we reckon’s happened here?” Davies calls out.

Immediately, every ghost stops talking. The buzz and chatter die down, and the room goes deathly silent.

Officer Jazz surveys the devastation. Her eyes rake over my body, the smashed‑up antique bed, the chandelier, the blood splatters glittering every surface. She reaches into her vest pocket and pulls out a notepad. “It’s a bit gruesome, isn’t it?” She has an East London accent.

“A bit?” Jeanie yells. “It’s a bloody war zone in here.”

“She’s Cockney!” Stove positions himself right behind the young officer, evidently reading whatever she’s jotted down. “Long way from home. Six hours’ drive? How long do we reckon she’ll last? There’s no shoplifting or mugging grannies in Helzephron. No high‑speed police chases. There’s only non-investigated murders, so it’s not like she’ll be doing actual work any time soon.”

“Six months,” Jeanie says theatrically.

“I think longer,” Trystan says. “She still has that sparkle in her eye. That . . . drive for justice.”

“Mmhmm,” Stove agrees. “Won’t take Sergeant Saggy Pants here long to strip her of that, though.”