Page 53 of Unalive On Air

“She’s a twitcher,” I say, mostly for my own benefit, since I’m sure everybody else already knows.

“It’s a ruse,” Stove says. “The birdwatching gig is just a cover story to enable her to carry a scope in broad daylight.”

“Ignore him.” Jeanie slaps Stove on the back of his head. It’s hard enough that he loses his grip on his microphone, but not hard enough to stop him from bursting out into laughter. “Franny loves her birds. All these photos are pictures she’s taken. Some of them are a little blurry. Like this one here, apparently it’s a bearded tit . . .”

But I can’t seem to take my eyes off the radio in the corner to look at presumably a photo of myself.

Jeanie stops talking and follows the line of my gaze with her own. “Ah, yes, that’s how we used to listen to your show each week.”

A heavy sadness, like a weighted sensory blanket, presses in on me from every side. I had always known that the last episode of Unalive on Air would be my last episode, but somehow it took dying for that to really sink in. I’d always thought that perhaps there could be more. Perhaps I could’ve convinced the producers to give me one more go.

“Come on, darling. We don’t have to stay here.” Jeanie puts her arm over my shoulder and tries to lead me through the wall.

“If it’s any consolation,” Pixie says, with that respectful sadness people show mourners. “I’m really going to miss our Monday nights listening to your show.”

“Same,” says Jeanie. “It was always the highlight of my week.”

“Mine too.” This time it’s Trystan, and my heart does a traitorous little triple jump in my chest.

“I can’t believe there won’t be any more.” Camille sighs and waves their hand through the radio. For a second it cuts to static before returning to normal.

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” a small voice says from the corner. It’s Josh. Once again he’s slipped in unnoticed by anyone. “It doesn’t have to be over.”

Trystan laughs. “Yeeeew, Josh, not sure if you’ve noticed this, but . . . we’re dead. We’re not exactly in a position to operate any kind of radio recording equipment.”

“Ha ha ha,” Josh deadpans. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about this for a while now—”

Stove interrupts. “What, all of one day?”

Josh, in all his fifteen-year-old sarcastic genius, doesn’t reply to Stove. Instead, he sighs and glances at me like a teacher waiting for the class to fall in line before continuing with the lesson. “Yes, actually. Anyway, I think I’ve figured out a way we could broadcast Unalive on Air live . . . or unalive, as ghosts.”

fourteen

A Real Dead Ringer

Before I even have a chance to process Josh’s words, my heart tries to escape my chest by smashing its way through my ribs.

It’s highly likely he doesn’t truly mean what he said, that perhaps he’s taking the piss, or thinking of play pretend. He is a kid after all, and I’m desperately trying not to let my imagination run away from me, but I’m already picturing myself tucked up inside that tiny Swindon Sounds studio. The red LIVE light casting a cosy, warm, brothel-like glow over the DJ controller. Instantly, I feel my cortisol levels dropping.

Annoying that I still produce the stress hormone after death.

“Explain yourself,” Jeanie demands of Josh, echoing my exact thoughts.

“Well . . . I mean, it’s a long shot, but . . .” Josh scratches his shoulder, rubs the side of his Converse against the front of the other, scrunches up his face. “Okay, Stove has a microphone, yeah? And I have a regular phone, and sound waves seem to transcend the living and dead realms . . .”

I think back to the whispered “Garys” and the way the radio cut out when Camille waved their hand through it, and maybe he’s onto something.

“Also, look at this . . .” Josh disappears through a door connected to Franny’s office. When nobody follows him, he pokes his head back into the room. “Guys . . . come on.”

It’s a cupboard. Tinier than both the cleaning supplies cupboard and the stationery closet. Two metres by three at most, with heavy‑duty garage‑type shelving running parallel against the walls. On the bottommost shelf of the right‑hand unit is my duffel bag.

That’s my bag, alright. I can see the iron‑on Donatello Turtles patch that I got aged eight from Swindon Market, the scuffed to fuck front pocket where the holdall used to sit flush against my rear bike tyre, and the luggage tag from my last flight to Seville—seven years ago—to visit my parents.

Inside that bag sits all my portable recording equipment. My DJ controller, headphones, mic, speakers, and laptop.

“But . . .” Though my internal organs are practically dancing at the prospect of recording another episode, or more, my brain is working in overdrive, slotting together every piece of intelligence about the undead I’ve gleaned in the past few days. “We can’t operate that equipment. We can’t even touch it.”

As though testing my own knowledge, I press my hand against my bag. It slips right through it.