12. Estimated Time of Departure #2
And I guess it’s not up to me. If Trystan wants off this ride, Trystan wants off. Who am I to deny him that? Did I not spend a huge chunk of my youth campaigning for my grandmother’s autonomy over her death? What’s the difference?
It feels crap, though. I feel crappy. I’ve only just entered the ghostdom, and the one person I thought could actually turn out to be a friend is essentially using me to end his own afterlife.
Maybe “using me” is the wrong choice of words, but I honestly felt like we had, or could have, some kind of connection.
Probably best to solve the murders as quickly as I can, then. That way I don’t risk developing any emotional attachments that I might later come to regret. I’ve been rejected my fair share in life, in increasingly more creative ways, but literally evanescing to get away from me takes the biscuit.
Man, I miss biscuits.
“Okay, let’s do this,” I say, clapping my hands together to blast away the doom clouds building inside my thoughts. “Let’s solve your murder. You can, of course, change your mind at any time, okay? Just let me know.”
“Thank you. I will do.” Trystan places his hand on my shoulder.
I shuck it and step away.
“Where do you want to start?” he asks.
“Franny Driscoll. She’s high on my list of potential suspects.
She seems to have been present, or nearby, at every one of these deaths.
She discovered your body in the trophy room, as well as Pixie’s and Stove’s, and was the first to uncover Jeanie’s disappearance.
It’s become a reoccurring pattern.” I accidentally slip into my radio presenter voice.
“And you know what I say about reoccurring patterns?”
Trystan’s eyes light up. “It might as well be a flashing neon arrow,” he says, quoting from my show.
“And then, I don’t know if there’s any way to observe Angel, but I’d like to pay them a visit.”
“Angel’s funeral home is just outside my boundaries. In fact, I think only Jeanie’s and Peter’s boundaries stretch out that wide. I’ve never met him, but I have only heard bad things.”
“Oh, really?” I say, my intrigue finally overriding this weird sense of premature loss. “And Angel’s a he?” I hadn’t known. “Is Angel his Christian name?”
“Nah, it’s Kelsey Cobbledick.”
I snort. “Wow, yeah, I can see why he goes by Angel. I wonder how he got that moniker. What have you heard about him, then?”
“Oh, not too much, really. Mostly that he’s a crabby old bastard who hates emmets and—”
I interrupt with a raised eyebrow.
“Means holiday maker. The type who flock to the county in the summer. Angel’s particularly grumpy about the lack of parking and the InnBreezes. Whatever those are . . .”
“InnBreeze is a holiday broker company where ordinary folk put their properties up for rent. It started as a way for people to make extra money by letting out their homes while they were away, but over time it’s basically morphed into second, third, fourth, et cetera, property owners snatching up affordable housing and turning them into holiday lets.
It’s been quite controversial because . .
.” I’ve slipped into presenter mode again.
I suddenly realise how much I’m boring Trystan, how I’m talking into the void, and close my mouth.
He stares at me, a half smile on his face, like he’s working something out. “Because . . .”
Is he taking the piss? All my life I’ve only ever heard, “Jesus, you talk a lot.” Or “Gary, perhaps we should give others the opportunity to speak.” Or “Shut up for five fucking seconds, Gaz. You’re sending everyone to sleep.
” That last one came from Mum. I’m not used to people actually listening to me.
“Why’s it controversial?” Trystan says.
I shake the nagging negative thoughts. “Uh . . . because it means that locals and families who’ve lived in these small villages and towns for generations can’t afford to stay local.
Because it hikes up property prices, and folk are essentially driven out of their homes by rich Londoners who’ll rarely visit.
” I puff out a big stream of air as though I have functioning lungs.
“Yeah . . .” Trystan says, running a hand through his sun-bleached curls. “Kinda with Angel on this one.”
“Same.”
“So, do you think Angel could have played a part in our murders?” Trystan asks. “Maybe he kills people because he’s bored at work all day and it gives him something to do the next morning?” Damn, he’s very cute. “Oooooor, maybe . . . he does it because we’re all emmets and . . . I dunno.”
“Well . . .” I’m not outright dismissing it. I’ve learned enough in my few years of sleuthing to know that no reason is too petty for some people. “Pixie’s American, was here for a gig. Stove is, I think Scottish, but again, here for work. I’m from Wiltshire. Camille is French?”
“Belgian.”
“Peter is Cornish, though?” I ask.
“No, Plymouth. He’s a Janner, and his wife is Swedish.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Where’s Josh from?”
“Surrey. On holiday with his family.”
Okay, okay. Maybe Trystan’s onto something here.
“But you’re local, no? And so is Jeanie.” Or at least that’s what I read.
“I am. I grew up just down the road. This was my beach. My first jobs were at this hotel. Lifeguard and surf instructor . . .” He half smiles, but it drops quickly.
The chasm creaks open again. This had always been his hut.
“Jeanie?” I ask, in an effort to redirect the convo.
“Auntie Jeanie,” he says. “Is from east London. That drama school accent of hers is one hundred per cent put on. Her real voice is more ‘apples and pears’ and ‘Berkshire hunt’ than the ‘dahling’ you actually hear.”
“Interesting.” I’m starting to realise there’s a lot more to Jeanie than she—and the news articles, the glossy write?ups, the glamourous shoots, and the charity fundraisers—would have me believe. “So, Peggy in the Middle is—”
“Her real voice? Yeah.”
“You’re the anomaly here. The only true local. If what you’re saying is correct and Angel was motivated by some sort of ‘us versus them’ grudge, why you?”
Trystan shrugs. “Maybe he killed everyone but me. Maybe someone else killed me. There could be more than one killer?”
“Could be. I’ve seen Hot Fuzz, I know that’s a possibility.”
“What’s Hot Fuzz?” Trystan asks.
“Oh my god!”
My life flashes before my eyes. Of course he’s never seen it. The movie came out in 2007. Suddenly I’m faced with the very real prospect of showing someone the greatest film of all time for the first time ever.
How many times have I wished for the ability to scrub my brain clean so I can watch my favourite media with brand new eyes?
I’ll live—unlive—vicariously through Trystan.
An actual dream come true. I just have to figure out how we can get our dead hands on a copy and play it on one of the hotel’s TVs.
“Okay, before I solve your murder and you fuck off to the after-afterlife, there might be a few movies I need to show you.”
Trystan smiles, then turns his face away from me, but I’m sure I caught his cheeks flaring pink. “Sure, which ones?”
“The Matrix was ninety-nine, did you see that?” I say. He shakes his head. “Shit, I can’t believe you’ve never seen The Matrix. What about Amélie?”
“Nope.”
“Howl’s Moving Castle?”
“I don’t recognise any of these names.”
I bite my knuckle, overwhelmed.
“Oh my god, holy fucking shit. You won’t have seen The Lord of the Rings Trilogy Extended Edition.”
Trystan laughs. I can’t tell if it’s through bemusement or fear. “The cartoon? Yeah, I’ve seen that.”
“Oh, no. Oh, my sweet summer child, this is so, so much more than that. It’s live action.
Eleven?plus hours in total. The cast and crew spent like three years in New Zealand filming.
Epic. Absolutely epic. One hundred per cent the reason for my bisexual awakening.
Well, that and Neo and Trinity.” And . . . oh shit, I’ve said too much.
Trystan doesn’t respond to my bisexual comment. I’m praying he didn’t hear me.
“So, uh . . . do you want to take the steps up to the hotel, or do you want me to carry you again?” he says. I can barely hear him over the tumult in my stomach and the ghost blood rushing in my ears.
I glance over to Jacob’s Ladder. Fuck, it’s so far, and so high.
I close my eyes, give myself one second to compose my teenage panic. Okay, Gary, we can do this. We can slot inside his arms and let him fly us three hundred feet into the air without developing any feelings for him. You’ve got this.
“Carry me?” I say weakly.