Page 73 of Unalive On Air

When I try to touch the keyboard, my hand passes through the entire thing, including the table.

“Shall I go possess Franny?” Peter says.

Jeanie shakes her head. “It’s too much. She’s too old, and you know nothing about computers.”

“If we make you angry enough, Pixie, do you think you’d be able to type in my password?” I suggest.

“It’s a long password, isn’t it?” She places her hands on her hips and looks around the room, but we all accept there’s no other option. “I’ll give it a go. You’re gonna have to get me pissed, though.”

“Hit on her,” Stove suggests. “She hates that.”

Pixie glowers at Stove, who smiles sycophantically.

“See, it’s working already.”

“I’m not going to hit on her,” I say. Not least because I’ve never hit on anyone in my life and I wouldn’t even know where to begin, but also because I don’t want to disrespect someone I greatly admire and end up getting punched in the nose.

But I have an idea. “Pixie, get ready.”

She stands in front of my laptop, finger poised above the on button. “Okay, ready.”

“The gender equality gap still exists in twenty twenty-six,” I say.

“Ooooh, that’s good.” Pixie smashes the button, and the screen bursts to life. “Well, not good, but you understand what I mean.” She moves her finger over to the C key.

“Women earn about seventy-eight percent of what their male counterparts earn,” I say, scouring my brain for facts I know that’ll tickle her rage trigger.

“Fucking patriarchy,” she mutters, slamming her finger down on the key. A star appears in the password box. It’s working.

“Pink tax is the term coined to describe the unofficial markup of goods and services specifically marketed to women, even if they’re no different from the men’s. Typically, the products are pink, hence the phrase pink tax. I think it averages out to about ten per cent.”

Pixie growls. “Get paid less but spend more on the same items. Agh, fuck! Yes, this is brilliant. More of this!”

Camille steps in. “Uh . . . if you think about it, modern beauty standards are dictated by paedophilia.” Pixie frowns at them, whether in anger or disbelief, I’m not sure. “Women are taught to be as small, and hairless, and as unwrinkled and young looking as they possibly can, or they’ll have no worth.”

“No, that’s sad, actually. That’ll make me sad,” Pixie says, though I remember her and Trystan saying any emotion will do.

But I guess rage works best because Camille changes tack. “After you died, in the late nineties, early noughties, famous women were vilified for having cellulite or a bit of a tummy or not shaving their armpits, while well-known men committed rape and domestic abuse and dodged persecution because ‘they deserve a second chance.’”

Pixie says nothing, but her jaw clenches and something dangerous brews behind her eyes.

“Actually, I think women should shave,” Stove says. He winks at me when her expression morphs into something venomous.

She screams, as she does in her music, only this time I feel the rage rumbling underneath like thunder. Her fingers hash out the letters to “Custard Creams are king!264.”

Stove continues, a nauseating smile spread across his mouth. “Body hair is unhygienic. And ugly. Only men should have it. And while we’re on the subject, women don’t try hard enough to earn a guy’s affection. You want to put in the absolute bare minimum but expect every guy to be six foot two with bulging muscles and a fuck-off wallet and—”

“Stove, I’m done. Password’s in there. You can shut your fucking mouth,” Pixie says, her chest heaving with laboured breaths.

“Yes, Stove, you ought to be quiet now,” Jeanie adds through gritted teeth, knuckles clenched at her sides.

Stove swallows and looks around the trophy room at the rest of the ghosts without moving his head. “You know I was only saying that shit to get Pix mad?”

Nobody answers him. What follows might just be the most painfully awkward ten seconds I’ve ever witnessed, and I’ve watched both the British and US versions of The Office.

Trystan makes eye contact with me. It’s over too quickly, but in his raised eyebrows I read a thousand unsaid things.

“God, I’m sorry about him.”