Page 61 of Unalive On Air

I open my mouth to argue, but snap it shut again. “Excellent point. Unalive on Air it is.”

Josh logs into my account, then minimises the tab so that it’s ready and waiting for the next recording sesh. I’m still not sure how we’re going to operate the computer without Franny’s body, or if we can continue to borrow her once a week. That seems . . . morally questionable, especially if she’ll come out of it each time more bruised than a forgotten lunch-bag banana. I don’t even know if I can edit the episode, so I guess we’ll have to aim for a one take jobby. Pretend I’m back on the radio.

“Right, now, let’s all look at Gary’s search engine history,” Josh says.

“HOLY FUCK, NO!” I shout into the mic. My words echo throughout the trophy room. I glance at Trystan, who says nothing but raises his brows. “Don’t you dare, Josh. I mean please, no.”

Josh bursts out laughing. It’s disconcerting coming from a sixty-eight-year-old woman, but my adrenaline is pumping so fast I hardly have space to consider this. “Just kidding, but now I’m very curious.”

Stove leans closer to me. “I knew you were a little freak like me,” he whispers.

“Right!” Jeanie shouts, cutting through everything. “Now we have all of that . . . stuff dealt with, how about we come up with some juicy revelations for the next episode of Unalive on Air?”

My heart rate is slowly returning to normal, but I’ve still got one eye on Trystan. What does he think I have in my search history? Does he even know what search engine history means?

“Yes, content! We need content for the next show. Something big that will suck in a whole heap of new listeners,” I say. I won’t look at him. I won’t find a way to explain those websites, those images. I won’t dig this hole any deeper.

“Excellent.” Jeanie slaps her hands together. “How about I show you the exact spot where my body was buried?”

sixteen

Pushing Up Daisies

Would you look at that? Undeniable proof that Jean Johnson, also known as Imogen Savona and occasionally known as Peggy in the Middle, was murdered. Or if not murdered, at the very least a deliberate, albeit sloppy attempt to hide her remains in the scrubland on the outskirts of the hotel’s grounds.

“None of these brambles existed when I was dumped here,” Jeanie says, hands on hips, staring at a spot in the centre of all the thorns and blackberries. “Actually, this was the pet cemetery, where they buried all the horses and dogs that worked with them during construction. You’ll find my remains under a tiny tombstone marked ‘Bones.’”

“How do you know your body’s hidden there?” I ask.

Jeanie sighs. “Because whoever murdered me didn’t do a very good job. They buried me alive. This is the site of my death, and the place my ghost returns to every time I cross my boundary lines.”

“Oh, wow. Buried alive, amazing.” I change tack when I clock Jeanie’s expression. “I mean, that’s awful.” I click my tongue. “Gruesome.”

I have to pretend I’m not totally giddy with excitement. When has there ever been a time in history that someone’s had the chance to interview a buried‑alive murder victim? Literally never.

“What did it feel like being in the soil? Were you in a casket or just . . .” I mime something akin to a dumper truck dropping its load into a hole.

“Don’t recall,” Jeanie says with a shrug. “Went to bed, fell asleep, woke up dead.”

I nod. “Yeah, same.” A thought pops into my head. “How many of us were sleeping when we died? And does anyone actually remember dying?” I can’t believe I didn’t think to ask this question before.

“I was asleep,” Pixie says. “But I might be the only one.”

“Okay, it’s a pain in the arse, but can each of you talk me through your final moments? What do you remember happening? And most importantly, were there any people present on your last day? Also, if any details stood out as weird.” My soul wants to turn straight to Trystan, to listen to the cadence of his voice, but my head needs to begin chronologically. “Okay, Peter, mind if we start with you?”

Peter rubs his face like a groggy toddler waking from a nap. “Sure.” His eyes flicker shut, then open one at a time. “We were doing a show. It was about four or something in the afternoon. We’d done this act hundreds of times before, all over the country and continental Europe.”

He heaves an enormous sigh, muscle memory I suppose, but I use this opportunity to pluck out my pencil and scrap of paper to make notes. They’ll disappear later today, but hopefully I can figure something out before they vanish.

“I’d set all the tricks up before we went on stage, including the sword-box illusion. As far as I know, nobody tampered with my equipment beforehand. The only people allowed backstage were the hotel managers, the dressers, me, and Hels.”

“So, you never noticed anything out of place?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Everything was as it always was. I only knew I was going to die when the sword entered the box. It went in at a different angle, and it made a different sound than usual. I called out to Hels, but she didn’t stop, and everybody in the audience just thought it was part of the show. The sword penetrated my chest, pierced my heart, and according to my watch . . .” He pulls his sleeve up to show me the digital Casio G-Shock beauty on his wrist. “Fucking flowers,” he says, pulling the bouquet out once again and tossing it aside. “Four minutes had passed between blacking out and dying, then coming around as a ghost.”

“What happened then?” I ask.

“It was quiet for a while. People thought it was all part of the bit. Then when they realised it wasn’t, screaming. Lots of screaming. Lots of traumatised kids.” He tells the tale like he’s relishing it, but then I remember he’s an entertainer, and his death story is probably the only “show” he has left.