20. A Sticky End #2
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.
“We weren’t shag—I swear. I was . . .” I scratch my eyebrow and clear my throat. The “alone” I tack onto the end of my sentence is almost inaudible.
“Oh yeah, what you ‘heard’ was me,” Stove says, winking at me. “Yep, all those noises? I made ’em. Wank of absolute epic proportions. Legendary. Filled that cave to the brim with ectoplasm. To. The. Brim.”
Jeanie audibly voices her disappointment. “Oh . . . but didn’t . . .”
Pixie groans. “For the billionth time, Stove, we don’t need to know.”
“Hey, this pervert brought it up, not me.” Stove points his thumb at Jeanie. “Don’t be accusing my new BFF of sexual delinquency if you’ve got no proof to back it up with. Just because you want there to be something between Trystan and Ga—”
“I do not!” Jeanie shouts, affronted, but her cheeks are pink, and suddenly the weirdest notion blossoms in my head.
Did she invite me here to solve her murder, only to turn around and kill me herself so that a friend she’s had for twenty-eight years would feel less lonely?
It’s absurd, but . . .
I’ve seen flimsier motives in real?life cases.
Why was she so happy when she thought Trystan and I had spent the night bumping uglies? Why is she being so shifty about Peter? Why is she drip?feeding me information about her death and not giving it all freely at the outset?
It’s implausible, sure. There are so many variables that would render her whole plan redundant.
The chances of The Youngscares’ letter arriving at Swindon Sounds as planned was slim, with a slimmer chance of me hopping on a train to Helzephron. Of Trystan and me actually getting on.
It’s obvious that anyone would be attracted to Trystan, but the odds of that attraction being reciprocated are akin to bookies’ odds.
I don’t even know if he likes guys. Especially short, tubby, nerdy dorks like me.
The only things I have in my favour are my wit and my moustache. Which is now forever in need of a trim.
Furthermore, ghosts can’t kill people.
Unless she somehow has a contact in the living realms. She was very good friends with Franny before she died.
“Thick as thieves,” Helga described them.
Has she found a way to communicate with her?
Maybe through Josh’s phone . . . Is that why she murdered Josh?
Because teens are never away from their devices and therefore, she’d have realised the phone would come with him to the afterlife.
But she died in ninety-five, would she even know how to use it?
I have to massage my temples. I’m getting a headache, and not in a good way. Even if she killed Josh and me, why would she kill the others?
And who killed her?
Nobody would whack themselves on the back of the head with something heavy and blunt, then crawl out to the pet cemetery and bury themselves alive.
I shake the thought, but then another pops into my mind. A memory, actually. I close my eyes so I can remember it more clearly.
I’m on the train. The air smells like dust, AC, and the coffee I bought from the on?board cafe.
I’ve just changed into my ExorSquad coveralls.
They’re stiff around the shoulders, arms, and thighs, but I’ll quickly get used to it.
In my hands is the ExorSquad manual. I’m reading something like rule one million and eighty-five—“Never play pooh?sticks with a ghost because they will probably kill you and everyone you love”—and I’m rolling my eyes and thinking about how much of my precious time I’ve wasted by not leaving the bastard thing in London.
On the train table, between me and the row of backwards travelling seats is my laptop.
Thankfully, no one sits opposite me so I can spread my shit out.
On the screen, reruns of Peggy in the Middle play.
Lucy Lutney plays a character named Detective Inspector Drusilla Something-or-other.
She’s the one with the smarts and the knowledge.
Peggy is the hapless apprentice who bumbles her way into accidentally solving the crimes.
This episode features a character who waltzes about in a dressing gown, smoking a pipe.
One day, he gets walloped with his own pipe and knocked unconscious—the show admittedly employed a lot of creative license here—and then he’s buried alive.
“Josh, can I borrow your phone?” I say.
Josh startles, but of the rest of the ghosts, only Trystan is looking at me. The others are all watching the TV still, but I’m not sure if the detectives are talking about Jeanie any longer.
“What have you worked out?” Trystan whispers.
I give him a subtle “not here” head shake.
“What d’you want my phone for?” Josh asks, but hands it over anyway.
“Just wanna check my emails.” I accept the device from him. He’s been watching anime on mute. It’s BL—boys’ love. I quirk a brow, and he shrugs.
“I went to find the origins of your Sherlock and Watson picture, and came across the website it was posted on. Literally.” He starts laughing, pulling Jeanie’s attention to us.