Page 8 of Unalive On Air

My brain cogs are warming up. Machinery clunking into place.

On another website, one of those pay‑per‑click sensationalist tabloid‑style news outlets, I find what appears to be an old, probably out of date, job advert.

WANTED: Spirit Extraction Specialists. No experience necessary. Full training provided. Competitive salary. Travel opportunities. Immediate start. Don’t delay, ring ExorSquad today!

And what a coincidence that I also happen to need a new job. I understand that the whole outfit was most likely built on exploiting people’s desperation and grief, but two birds, one stone and all that. I dial the accompanying 020 London number.

The phone rings and rings. I’m milliseconds away from hanging up when . . .

“Thank you for ringing the ExorSquad, where all your hauntings go to die. Gerald speaking,” a raspy, tobacco‑ravaged voice says. It takes me a few seconds to realise the sounds belong to a human and not an answering machine.

“Oh hi, yeah, um . . . my name is Gary Runcorn, I’m calling in response to your job advertisement . . .”

“Ah, brilliant, brilliant . . . Gary Runcorn you say?” I hear a pen scratching over paper.

“Yes.”

“How old are you, Gary Runcorn?”

“Thirty-nine.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?” he asks.

I suppose the question makes sense, it is a paranormal exorcising company after all. However, I choose to be honest. “No.”

But how difficult can the job be? I’ve seen ghost hunting programmes. All they do is mooch around a Victorian manor with an MP3 recorder and an ornamental aerial wand and relay “messages” from the beyond.

“You will do.” Gerald hums to himself, and I’m relieved that my scepticism isn’t an immediate deal breaker. The pen scratches again. “And would you say you have a strong back?”

“Huh?”

“Your back, Gary Runcorn. At thirty-nine years of age, is it giving you any problems yet, or does it still contain at least some vigour of youth?”

What the actual fuck? “Um . . . the second thing, I guess.” I may have other underlying issues but a bad back definitely isn’t one of them.

“Excellent, yes, very well. Tell me, do you have personal health insurance? And if so, how extensive is the coverage? How would you rate it from one to five?”

There’s a warning siren sounding from the deepest recesses of my brain. It’s saying, “Hang up the phone Gary. Run the fuck away.” But that would leave me no closer to figuring out what happened to Imogen Savona.

So I lie. “It’s very good. Five out of five.”

“Superb!” Gerald yells. “When can you come in for training?”

“Oh, uh . . . just like that?” I had expected a little more back and forth. An interview perhaps.

“Yep, just like that. We’re always desperate for fresh blood here at ExorSquad.”

Warning! Warning! Run, run, run.

“Pardon?”

“I said . . .” He clears his throat. “It’s always lovely to make the acquaintance of a new team member.”

Uh, no. You didn’t.

I don’t say this, though, because I need to find out more about Imogen and this thirty‑year‑long missing persons case, and getting a pay cheque whilst conducting the investigation is the cherry on the cake. It’s too tempting to pass over.

“I’m about to get fired, so I can start any time.”