8. Really, That’s the Hill You’re Dying On?
eight
Really, That’s the Hill You’re Dying On?
“This one’s new,” Stove says, crowding into Officer Jazz’s personal space and inspecting her face as though she were an undiscovered Agatha Christie novel at an antique book fair.
Though Officer Jazz has no idea Stove’s there. She can’t see him, or any of us, or hear us, but I wonder if she can sense our presence. Can she smell us? Feel us?
And what’s it like to put my ghost hand through a living person? Would she feel me then?
“They never last long in Helzephron,” Trystan says, appearing beside me like a . . . well, like a ghost.
I realise I’m reaching out for her and pull my hand back.
“The young officers.” Trystan nods towards the fresh-faced Jazz, and I make a sort of “meep” sound in return. “Seems like they can’t handle the everyday banality of village life. Either that or . . . it’s because Sergeant Dave Davies is a right twat.”
“Yeah, we all know the answer to that question,” Peter says, sashaying through my corpse to the other side of the room. I’m still reeling too much from Trystan’s words to feel violated by Peter stomping through my innards.
The blonde hair, the California-esque tan, the sparkling white grin, the textbook dashing surfer looks.
I had expected Trystan’s aesthetically fortunate genes and athletic prowess to have carried him through life—and afterlife.
I’d imagined, inexcusably so, that between those ocean?blue eyes there wouldn’t be that much going on.
That he would naturally fit the beach bum, airhead stereotype.
But I was wrong, and it’s making my head spin.
My biggest dilemma at the moment is figuring out who killed us all, including myself, but another riddle is unfurling right in front of me. Who is this guy? And why is he so astonishingly beautiful and, as it turns out, smart?
“So, Jazz, what do we reckon’s happened here?” Davies calls out.
Immediately, every ghost stops talking. The buzz and chatter die down, and the room goes deathly silent.
Officer Jazz surveys the devastation. Her eyes rake over my body, the smashed?up antique bed, the chandelier, the blood splatters glittering every surface. She reaches into her vest pocket and pulls out a notepad. “It’s a bit gruesome, isn’t it?” She has an East London accent.
“A bit?” Jeanie yells. “It’s a bloody war zone in here.”
“She’s Cockney!” Stove positions himself right behind the young officer, evidently reading whatever she’s jotted down.
“Long way from home. Six hours’ drive? How long do we reckon she’ll last?
There’s no shoplifting or mugging grannies in Helzephron.
No high?speed police chases. There’s only non-investigated murders, so it’s not like she’ll be doing actual work any time soon. ”
“Six months,” Jeanie says theatrically.
“I think longer,” Trystan says. “She still has that sparkle in her eye. That . . . drive for justice.”
“Mmhmm,” Stove agrees. “Won’t take Sergeant Saggy Pants here long to strip her of that, though.”
Jazz continues to glance around and take notes. Stove reads them aloud as she writes.
“Chandelier . . . no forced entry . . . bleed out . . . no signs of struggle . . . sleep, question mark . . .”
“I mean,” she says, and Stove dramatically zips his mouth shut. “It looks like an accident. There’s no indication this guy put up any kind of fight.”
Dave Davies nods along like a teacher waiting for his pupil to arrive at the correct and inevitable conclusion.
“But okay, here’s what I find odd. The chandelier just fell and didn’t cause any damage to the ceiling.
It’s made of metal. Brass? That thing must weigh at least thirty kilos.
Maybe more. How does it simply drop from the ceiling without ripping out any wall plugs or breaking the .
. . ceiling thingy?” Jazz points upwards and makes a swirly gesture with her finger.
“The ceiling rose?”
“Yeah, that. Surely it’s just plaster or whatever. It’s not actual stone?” she asks.
“Unlikely,” Davies responds. “So, what does that mean?”
Jazz glances back at her notepad and hums to herself. “That it was deliberate.” This time it’s not a question. She seems pretty certain. As do the rest of the ghosts, and me, as we’re all nodding along. “So . . . murder?”
“Ahh.” Davies raises a single finger. He’s not happy with Jazz’s summary, but really, it’s the only feasible conclusion. “You’ve already given me one piece of vital information.”
Jazz shakes her head, thinking, and Davies checks his watch and puffs out a long stream of air.
“Right, so we’re going to treat this death as non-suspicious circumstances. We need to bag up as much of the deceased’s belongings as possible, and get the body ready for whenever Angel’s guys arrive. I’ll let you find his ID and check him over for anything we might have overlooked.”
“How did he die, then, if it’s not suspicious? How did the chandelier drop from the ceiling and . . .” Jazz scribbles something else on her notepad.
“Not not-sus,” Stove reads out. “Whatever that means.”
“I have a theory,” Davies says.
“And?” Jeanie yells, hands on hips.
“Tell us, then, peabrain,” Pixie says, sizing Davies up like she’s about to fight him.
“What is it?” Jazz says.
Davies glances at his wristwatch again. “Shit. Okay, let’s just get to work and I’ll explain as we go.”
“Sunset tonight he says suicide,” Camille shouts.
Other ghosts groan.
“Aww, but you had sunset night before last,” Pixie whines.
“What does that mean?” I ask, turning to the ghost nearest to me. It’s Trystan, and I immediately regret speaking because now I have to look at him whilst he looks at me and answers my question and pretends he doesn’t see how pink my cheeks are growing.
“There’s a place, right on the tip of the headland, where you can watch the sun disappearing perfectly between the two little islands.
Enys Marow and Mernan’s Peak. It’s . . .
without doubt the most beautiful sight you’ll ever witness.
In life and in death. Seriously, if it’s a clear day, the whole beach glows orange.
But the catch is, the spot is really only wide enough to fit a single person . . . or entity.”
I feel like I need to shake my head like a dog after his speech. “But . . . sorry, I’ve only been dead a few hours, so I’m still fumbling my way through this. Can’t we . . . float or anything? In theory, couldn’t we all watch it from roughly the same angle?”
Trystan’s face slides into a subtle smile. Dangerous. “In theory, yes. But after a couple of decades with the same people and no new stories, it’s kinda nice to . . . be alone sometimes. Just you and the sea, and the sun, and the sky.”
As a big fan of my own company and avoiding people in general, I can only nod in agreement.
“So we take it in turns to go out and watch the sunset. For a moment or two, it almost feels as though . . . you’re alive again,” Trystan says.
His words hit me in the centre of my chest like a hatchet blow.
But Jeanie speaks before I get lost in my thoughts. “Gary should get the sunset tonight. It’s his first night as a ghost, it should be—” She cuts herself off when Jazz approaches the bed.
“You grab that end,” Davies says, regarding what I can only assume is the chandelier. “And I’ll take this one.”
Jazz groans as she looks down at the blood-soaked carpet and places her boots upon it. The rug squelches. She lifts a foot and inspects the bottom like she’s stepped in dog muck. “Are you sure we’re not interfering with the scene by getting our footprints and stuff in it?”
“Not a crime scene. Not suspicious, remember?” Davies says. He pulls on a pair of surgical?style gloves and passes some to Jazz. “Because it’s icky, not suspicious.”
Peter whines. “If he says not suspicious one more time, I swear I’ll possess him and start screaming the truth to his new apprentice.”
“You can do that?” I ask.
Jeanie seesaws her hand. “Not really. Well, I guess a little, but it’s more complicated than that and a whole tonne of bad stuff could happen.”
“How the fuck is it not suspicious?” Camille says, ignoring my desperate but silent plea for more info about possessions.
“Because he probably did it,” both Peter and Stove say at the same time. Then they look at each other and laugh.
“We’ve been dead together for too long,” Stove jokes.
“Okay, after three. One, two, three . . .” Davies and Jazz seize either end of the chandelier and, in what feels like super slow motion, lift it up.
“Christ, this thing is heavy,” Jazz says, vocal cords straining under the weight of holding the antique light fixture aloft. “Poor guy didn’t stand a chance. Wait, should I take some photos before we move this?”
“No need. Not suspicious,” Davies replies. His voice sounds as though he’s trying to crimp out the world’s most solid and immovable turd. “Besides . . . too late now.”
My neck—my dead neck—makes a sucking sound as the chandelier spike is pulled out. Fresh clots ooze out of the wound, instantly obscuring it.
The ghosts groan. Someone says, “Ew.” They either look away or stare, fascinated. Josh gags, and now I’m wondering if spirits can throw up. It’s pretty minging to be fair. Not quite the way I’d have chosen to go, but at least I didn’t feel any pain when it happened . . . or wait . . .
“I don’t remember what pain feels like.” The epiphany falls from my lips before I can stop it.
“Another bonus of being dead,” Jeanie says. “You can’t feel pain, even hunger. The only pain you’ll feel now will be in your heart.”
Trystan shoots me a sarcastic thumbs up. “Yay.”
Pixie laughs. “Good for songwriting, though.”
The two officers carry the chandelier a few feet to the right and place it down beside the settees.
Jazz carefully with bent knees and a straight back, and Davies hunched over so dramatically he could be cosplaying as Notre Dame’s most famous resident.
I get the sense this guy is allergic to protocol.