Page 85 of Unalive On Air

Can I even log into my accounts any more?

Turns out, yes. When Swindon Sounds sacked me, they didn’t bother to revoke my access to my employee dashboard.

“Junk, junk, junk, junk,” I say, scrolling through the unread messages.

But there, right at the top, is a message from Barry Prestwich. It must have arrived overnight.

From [email protected]

To [email protected]

Subject: What the fuck?

Gaz, what the fuck was that?

Take that podcast off the air immediately. This request comes directly from the execs and the police. The fucking police, Gaz!!!!!

It goes without saying that you are forbidden from airing any more episodes using the Unalive on Air name. Should you do so, the station will contact the legal dept.

Best wishes,

Barry.

twenty-one

Cease and Desist

“Hello ghouls, gentleghosts, and those still in the land of living, it’s Gary Runcorn here with the second instalment of the Unalive on Air podcast.

“Before we get into it, I just want to clear the air about something. Last week, after the first episode went live, I received an email from my old boss at Swindon Sounds. A cease and desist, and well, I’ve already done those things. Quite literally. I’m not frightened of a few legal procedures. In fact, bring it on.

“Okay, now that’s out of the way, I want to talk to you about the revelations since last week’s episode, as well as what’s coming up tonight, and it’s a doozy.

“Most of you will know and love Imogen Savona from Peggy in the Middle, and at first, I didn’t think her acting past had any bearing on the tragedy to befoul her, but I’ve uncovered what I believe is irrefutable evidence that we have a serial killer on our hands, and that the killer is a Peggy in the Middle superfan . . .”

“That’s Angel, then!” Peter shouts as soon as the episode’s over. And, I suppose, kudos to him for waiting until the red light went off, so he didn’t interrupt the show or have his ghost voice heard.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

He briefly glances at Jeanie, whose brows have knotted together in one thin, black, wibbly line. “Angel has a signed photo of him and Jeanie on his wall.”

“Well . . . it’s not enough to finger-point right now. Jeanie was a famous local. Anybody could have had a picture taken with her and hung—” I begin.

“And he has memorabilia,” Peter continues. “I’ve never seen the programme because I was dead before it came out, but I know for a fact that he has a pipe from the show, and some sparkly things from a chandelier, and a jam jar, and it all has certificates of authenticity.”

“Okay, yeah, that’s a little more . . . suspicious,” I say. “How do you know?”

“I’ve seen it all at his house. I’ve been a ghost for so long now that I can go almost anywhere in town before I reach my boundary. I’m telling you, Angel’s weird. He calls himself a collector, but he’s always been obsessed with Jeanie. He’s definitely what you’d call . . . a superfan,” Peter says.

Jeanie waves Peter away. “No, no. He’s not a ‘superfan.’” She adds a mocking tone to the word. “He’s just a regular man with a hobby. And yes, fine, that hobby happens to be the BAFTA winning television show I co-wrote and starred in as the titular character, but honestly, I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”

“Nothing’s wrong with that per se,” Pixie says. “Unless, of course, he fucking killed us.”

Jeanie flinches and Camille steps between her and Pixie to separate the pair.

“He wouldn’t.” Jeanie sounds close to tears. “He . . . wouldn’t . . .”

I sneak a glance at Trystan, who, behind the actress’s back, mouths, “I don’t know.”