18. Curtains for You
eighteen
Curtains for You
I don’t think there’s a word that is the literal opposite of loneliness.
Companionship, fellowship, togetherness, they might come close, but none of these are what I truly mean. What I’m talking about is the non-existence of loneliness. The absence of it.
Throughout my entire life, I’ve felt lonely. Lonely and alone. I don’t think a single day passed in my childhood, adolescence, or adulthood where it hasn’t seemed like it was just me, Gary Runcorn, versus the rest of the world.
Except last night.
Last night, gazing up at the sky with Trystan, may have been the one time I’ve ever been un-lonely.
It’s like lighting a candle in a dark room. There can never be complete and total darkness while the flame still burns. That’s what he represents to me.
It’s just ironic that it took until death to find that.
Even more so that Trystan wants out of this purgatory.
I mean, it’s just my luck, isn’t it?
And now I’m torn, between dragging out the solution of these murders in order to eke out the time we have together, or solve it all as quickly as possible so that if he does “move on,” it happens before I develop deeper feelings for him.
I’ve never been in love with anyone before, but I’m familiar with sod’s law. I know that as soon as I let my guard down and allow myself to become more than physically attracted to someone, fate will find a way to rip them out of my life.
Solution? I just won’t fall in love with him.
Easy.
Today, we’re going to record the first episode of the new series of Unalive on Air, and everyone has gathered in the trophy room.
My recording equipment lies untouched where we set it up yesterday, meaning that no living person has been here.
Helga hadn’t bothered to pop her head in to see what Franny had been up to, and Franny hadn’t tried retracing her steps.
Peter and Jeanie explained that she would’ve had a blackout moment, a short period where her memories aren’t quite there, that they’re either missing or so hazy that it’d be too difficult to piece together reality.
My laptop sits on the bureau, dirty blank screen and no sign of life.
Somehow, we need to switch it on.
When I try to touch the keyboard, my hand passes through the entire thing, including the table.
“Shall I go possess Franny?” Peter says.
Jeanie shakes her head. “It’s too much. She’s too old, and you know nothing about computers.”
“If we make you angry enough, Pixie, do you think you’d be able to type in my password?” I suggest.
“It’s a long password, isn’t it?” She places her hands on her hips and looks around the room, but we all accept there’s no other option. “I’ll give it a go. You’re gonna have to get me pissed, though.”
“Hit on her,” Stove suggests. “She hates that.”
Pixie glowers at Stove, who smiles sycophantically.
“See, it’s working already.”
“I’m not going to hit on her,” I say. Not least because I’ve never hit on anyone in my life and I wouldn’t even know where to begin, but also because I don’t want to disrespect someone I greatly admire and end up getting punched in the nose.
But I have an idea. “Pixie, get ready.”
She stands in front of my laptop, finger poised above the on button. “Okay, ready.”
“The gender equality gap still exists in twenty twenty-six,” I say.
“Ooooh, that’s good.” Pixie smashes the button, and the screen bursts to life. “Well, not good, but you understand what I mean.” She moves her finger over to the C key.
“Women earn about seventy-eight percent of what their male counterparts earn,” I say, scouring my brain for facts I know that’ll tickle her rage trigger.
“Fucking patriarchy,” she mutters, slamming her finger down on the key. A star appears in the password box. It’s working.
“Pink tax is the term coined to describe the unofficial markup of goods and services specifically marketed to women, even if they’re no different from the men’s. Typically, the products are pink, hence the phrase pink tax. I think it averages out to about ten per cent.”
Pixie growls. “Get paid less but spend more on the same items. Agh, fuck! Yes, this is brilliant. More of this!”
Camille steps in. “Uh . . . if you think about it, modern beauty standards are dictated by paedophilia.” Pixie frowns at them, whether in anger or disbelief, I’m not sure.
“Women are taught to be as small, and hairless, and as unwrinkled and young looking as they possibly can, or they’ll have no worth. ”
“No, that’s sad, actually. That’ll make me sad,” Pixie says, though I remember her and Trystan saying any emotion will do.
But I guess rage works best because Camille changes tack.
“After you died, in the late nineties, early noughties, famous women were vilified for having cellulite or a bit of a tummy or not shaving their armpits, while well-known men committed rape and domestic abuse and dodged persecution because ‘they deserve a second chance.’”
Pixie says nothing, but her jaw clenches and something dangerous brews behind her eyes.
“Actually, I think women should shave,” Stove says. He winks at me when her expression morphs into something venomous.
She screams, as she does in her music, only this time I feel the rage rumbling underneath like thunder. Her fingers hash out the letters to “Custard Creams are king!264.”
Stove continues, a nauseating smile spread across his mouth.
“Body hair is unhygienic. And ugly. Only men should have it. And while we’re on the subject, women don’t try hard enough to earn a guy’s affection.
You want to put in the absolute bare minimum but expect every guy to be six foot two with bulging muscles and a fuck-off wallet and—”
“Stove, I’m done. Password’s in there. You can shut your fucking mouth,” Pixie says, her chest heaving with laboured breaths.
“Yes, Stove, you ought to be quiet now,” Jeanie adds through gritted teeth, knuckles clenched at her sides.
Stove swallows and looks around the trophy room at the rest of the ghosts without moving his head. “You know I was only saying that shit to get Pix mad?”
Nobody answers him. What follows might just be the most painfully awkward ten seconds I’ve ever witnessed, and I’ve watched both the British and US versions of The Office.
Trystan makes eye contact with me. It’s over too quickly, but in his raised eyebrows I read a thousand unsaid things.
“God, I’m sorry about him.”
“He’s not representative of us as a group.”
“Sometimes I wish he’d just keep his trap shut.”
“This is part of the reason I want off this ride.”
“Save me.”
And “We’ll talk about him later.”
Pixie has already un-minimised my recording app, yanked Stove’s mic out of his hands, and plugged it into the DJ controller.
“Okay, when I say go, can you press the record button? It’s that one there,” I say, pointing to the controller. I turn to the rest of the group. “I’ll need everyone to be quiet while the red light is on, because the ghost mic will pick up your voices as well.”
They nod.
“Also,” I add, because it’s been playing on my mind and I think in good conscience I need to give them a heads?up each time.
“I don’t think I’ve uncovered enough information to solve the murders or give any of you closure and finish your unfinished business today, but now is your final opportunity to duck out in case that happens. ”
“Yeah, I’m not ready to go yet,” Josh squeaks from the corner. “Someone come find me later.” He places his phone on a nearby display cabinet. “In case you need it.” And he leaves by zooming through the nearest wall.
“Camille?” I ask, because I know they’re enjoying being a ghost.
They shake their head. “Not scared. We’re all aware of my thoughts on unfinished business.”
“Anyone else?”
Nobody says anything. Jeanie and Pixie link hands, and a weird, random lump appears in my throat.
I step up to the mic.
Take one steadying breath.
“Do you need me to piss you off again?” Stove asks Pixie.
She scrutinises him, eyes narrowed, lip curled. “You’re good. Think I’ve got enough rage to last me at least a year.”
I hold three fingers up, silently count out a beat, and put one down. Two. Do it again. One, and thumbs-up to Pixie.
She closes her eyes. Without sound, her lips move over the words, “Fucking Stove,” and she presses the record button. A red light appears on the controller.
We’re live on air.
Unalive on air.
“Hello sleuthers, detectives, and those who have recently crossed the rainbow bridge. My name is Gary Runcorn. For anyone who’s new to my radio show—uh, I mean podcast—welcome, and for those who’ve listened before, welcome back.
This will be the new permanent home of Unalive on Air, and in theory, you’ll find me on all the regular streaming services.
“If you’re a long?time listener, you’ll know I used to have a slot every Monday night on Swindon Sounds radio station, but since then the station bosses have decided they’re not firing me per se, but moving in another direction. You can’t see this, but I’m doing air quotes right now.
“I’m not supposed to talk about any of this. I’m also not supposed to use the name Unalive on Air any longer either, but you know what . . . fuck you, Barry Prestwich. I never liked you. You’re a pretentious buffoon, and your office smells like someone’s been tumble drying trainers.
“So I’m keeping the damn name, and if you don’t like it, you can prise it from my cold dead fingers. Lol.
“For the newbies listening in, let me just explain what it is I do on Unalive on Air. I take cold cases—usually murders, but I’ve done all sorts—and examine evidence that may have been overlooked at the time to see if we can’t figure out more of the untold stories.
“Last week we were looking into the disappearance of beloved British actress, Jean—uh, Imogen Savona. I mentioned that I’d received a letter with a tip-off about Imogen’s murder from a mysterious group of people.
Well, I got to meet those people. A first for me in many ways.
But let’s just say the evidence is irrefutable.
Believe me when I say it shocked even me, and I’ve been doing this a long time.
I’ve seen and uncovered some pretty shocking things, and this is definitely up there, and if you’re a detective working with the Cornish police, you’ll want to pay attention to this part.
“Imogen Savona was murdered in August nineteen ninety-five and was buried in the old pet cemetery on the south?western border of The Paragon Hotel, Helzephron. PC Zhou, if you’re listening right now, you’ll find what’s left of Imogen’s remains under a small headstone marked with the name BONES . . .”