Page 82 of Unalive On Air

Overhead, there’s a popping sound. Like opening a bag of crisps by squeezing one end. I’m showered with something. Maybe jizz, though probably glass from the light bulb. Who gives a fuck?

Oh no, I’ve come twice and I’m still going. Masturbation marathons might just be the ruin of me.

I bash out another three orgasms before I collapse in a heap on the floor. I can’t muster the energy to go outside and tell Trystan I’m done. I can’t even muster the energy to find my overalls.

There’s smashed glass and cum everywhere, and I seem to have blown out the battery casing in the clock, exploded the tiny TV in the corner, and the radio dock with three walkie‑talkies nestled inside is smoking.

Whoops.

When I wake up, the glass is still there, covering every surface like iridescent glitter, but the jizz has vanished. Thank fuck. I’m also blissfully fully clothed again.

“Yeeew,” Trystan says, smirking from the sofa. “So . . . did you have fun last night?”

In the horrifying sobriety of daylight, I can only cringe. “I’m sorry. I got . . . silly. Very silly, actually.”

“Dude, don’t be.” He looks around at all the broken electrical items in the hut. The clock has stopped at three thirty. “I’m the reason they don’t have a newfangled electric cash register. I kept blowing them up.”

I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing, but Trystan’s already creasing.

“Mate, what the fuck was that? Why was that so good?” I decide not to be embarrassed, but to embrace this unexpected bonus of being dead.

“Honestly? Those were my exact thoughts when I found out that our ghost bodies could do that,” he replies.

I feel like I’m three beats behind every word he utters.

“Uh, did you—” I start, but Stove’s head appears through the side of the hut that’s flush with the rock face.

“Oh, good, you’re both here.” He takes in my hunched form on the floor and Trystan’s majestic command of the couch. “Something’s happened. You need to see this.”

On the TV in the bar, Officer Jazz and Officer Moustache, one of the plain‑clothed detectives from yesterday, stand side by side, microphones clipped to their shirts. Jazz looks smart in her traditional police uniform, though she may have been wearing it all night.

The entire bar is transfixed on the screen. Including Helga and Franny and about fifteen guests who have braved the early rise. The only person not staring at the TV is Peter. As usual, his eyes haven’t left his wife. He’s also pretending to be drunk or hungover, or maybe he’s genuinely exhausted from watching the news all night.

The volume plays on what I assume is the loudest setting, but it’s still excruciatingly quiet. Subtitles roll along the bottom, wildly out of sync.

“We can confirm,” Moustache says. “That following a tip-off from an unknown source, human remains were found at a remote location just outside The Paragon Hotel, Helzephron, in the early hours of this morning.”

Jeanie floats above the guests. “Ooooh, how exciting.”

Moustache keeps talking. “Investigations are underway, but we believe the body to be that of Jean Johnson, better known as the actress Imogen Savona. Most people are aware that Jean went missing in the mid nineteen nineties, over thirty years ago, and was presumed dead seven years later, but she was a well-known and well-loved figure in . . .”

“Well-known and loved,” Jeanie reads aloud, grinning.

“ . . . area and in London where she lived most of the time. We are appealing to anyone who might have information about Jean’s disappearance to call us. From the initial examination of Jean’s remains, we could ascertain that she received blunt force trauma to the base of her skull. We are therefore treating the death as suspicious. The Paragon Hotel will remain open for business, though unfortunately we will need to close a small portion while we conduct our investigations . . .”

Jeanie’s hand reaches around to feel the back of her ghost head. “Hmm,” she says curiously. “Well, what a lovely morning I’m having.” There’s not a trace of sarcasm in her voice, so I can only assume she’s being genuine. “Yours truly has returned to televisions everywhere, the hotel is getting all this fabulous PR, and two of my good friends exchanged pleasantries last night.”

I don’t understand what she’s insinuating until the other ghosts smirk at Trystan and me. By “exchange pleasantries,” Jeanie thinks we boned.

“Oh my god. No, we didn’t do that, I swear,” I say, my face turning nuclear.

Trystan coolly stays quiet. He raises a brow instead, and I wish I could be as suave as that. Just for, like, a second.

“We all heard you, darling. You’ve got nothing to hide,” Jeanie says.

Behind Jeanie, Camille covers their eyes with their palms, eventually peeking over the top.

We. All. Heard. You. Jeanie’s words clang through my thoughts like metal on metal.