Page 5 of Unalive On Air

“I don’t care what you talk about or what music you play, I just need the schedule filled. It’s two hours, can you manage that?” he’d said to me.

“I have an idea to do a true crime type programme. Taking old unsolved murders and missing persons cases and . . . solving them essentially. I’d like to call it Unalive on Air,” I’d replied.

Barry had slapped his hands together. “Bloody brilliant. I love it. We’ll sort you out with a salary. It won’t be much, mind, but every little thing helps. Let’s book you in for the next month on a trial basis and review things down the road. What do you say?”

That was two years ago. The pending review never came. Unless, of course, I counted all the four a.m. happenstance encounters with the man in the station’s kitchenette. He’d always be wearing his sweaty plastic clogs with no socks, ladling creamer into his coffee, and telling me, “Great episode, Gaz, but let’s try something a little more engaging next week.”

“I can’t fiddle the figures,” Barry says. “I can only document them and submit them to the producers, and when it comes to it, argue your case, but they want you gone. The higher ups. The station bosses.”

“Can I at least just—”

“No.”

“What about—”

“Nope. Listen, Gazza, I’ve been through the fucking mill with them. They wanted to get rid of you ages ago, and I’ve fought in your corner for too long now. You’re a decent bloke and I like you, but this ain’t what’s pulling in the listeners. The execs are gonna give you one last episode. It’ll air next Monday, and then you’re on your own.”

I suck in a breath, a “but” right on the crest of my tongue. I swallow it. What’s the point? It’s static inside my brain, like the fuzzy, crackling buzz between FM stations. I slide my fingertips under my glasses and bury my eyes behind them while I try to lower my adrenaline.

“Sure,” I say, instead of spewing out any of the knee-jerk insults I’d been brewing.

“The good news is, with no station affiliations, you’re free to start up your own podcast.”

“Yep,” I say from between my palms.

“Only . . .”

I pull my hands away. “Only?”

“Only you can’t use any of the IP connected to the programme. The name Unalive on Air and the logo belong to Swindon Sounds, and if you use either on another venture, you will open yourself up to a world of legal ramifications.”

“I thought up that name!” I’m on my feet now. No way am I letting this BBC‑wannabe station seize possession of my ideas.

Barry simply shrugs, like it’s out of his hands or that he doesn’t understand all the technical implications of transferring IP ownership. Probably the latter.

My salary at Swindon Sounds is pitiful. Not even enough to pay the ever-increasing rent on my basement studio flat, but it’s something. I make up the rest of my bill money with my zero-hour cleaning contracts at the local police station, but now I guess I’ll have to take on more shifts. Or find a second job.

“Also,” he says, and it takes all my concentrated effort to look at him, keep my mouth shut, and not tell him to go fuck himself with his pointy desk sign. “This came for you.” He passes me what appears to be an envelope in a clear plastic baggy.

It’s a letter accompanied by a note from the mail handler because the original sender had failed to include enough postage to cover the shipping costs, and a fee was owed.

The sender had not only failed to attach a stamp, but they’d also failed to even address it properly. The somewhat aggressively typewritten letters spell out:

GARY RUNCORN

MYSTERY SOLVER EXPERT

UNALIVE ON AIR

SWINDON SOUNDS RADIO STATION

SWINDON (PROBABLY)

WILTSHIRE (DEFINITELY)

No road name, no postcode. I’m surprised it arrived at all. It’s already been sliced open and marked with the date it was received at the station’s PO box. The letter itself has also been typewritten on beautiful heavyweight cream paper.

Dear Gary,