30. Beyond the Veil
thirty
Beyond the Veil
Sike!
We didn’t “move on.”
Honestly, I’m not sure what it will take to move on. Perhaps it’ll be a lifetime with Trystan before either of us sees the light at the end of the tunnel, as it were.
But we did fuck some more. Just a few hundred times. We fucked for days and days. Lost track of time completely. The sun rose and fell, and rose and fell, and we held each other and rocked into each other, and came together over and over.
Jeanie finally figured out where we were, or possibly Magnus told her.
“Boys, I hate to interrupt, but we have a visitor!” she yelled from the end of the gorse pathway, not daring to step closer to the hut.
PC Jazmin Zhou sits on the patched?up cabriole. On the coffee table beside her knees, she’s set up what appears to be some kind of nasal decongestant steamer and a dresser mirror. Items most likely brought from her own house.
“Hi, Gary,” she says. “And everyone else. Hopefully, you’re here and you can hear me okay.”
Helga bows out of the honeymoon suite and closes the door behind her.
“I don’t have very long,” Jazz continues. “There’s a bridal couple due to arrive very soon and check-in was at three.” She looks around the room, her gaze landing on nothing in particular.
What she can’t see is the ragtag collection of ghosts gathered round to listen in.
Josh, with his eyes still fixed to his phone screen.
Stove lying belly down on the plush rug as though he’s a kid at a sleepover.
Pixie and Jeanie lounging together, arm in arm, like mother and daughter.
Camille, sitting cross-legged because they’ve finally mastered it.
And Trystan, beside me, his hand on my thigh.
“I just thought you might appreciate an update on what’s happening with the case. Cases. And since I’m alone in this room, I’m not breaching any data confidentiality agreements, but please don’t broadcast this on your podcast.”
I nod, not that she sees it.
Jazz takes her notepad from her pocket and flips through it until she finds a page almost entirely filled with shorthand scribbles.
She clears her throat. “As you probably already know, Kelsey Cobbledick has been released from custody. There wasn’t sufficient evidence to charge him with the murder of Jean.
Suffering dog bites around the same time someone who had dogs went missing is, at best, an incidental coincidence.
The forensic officer in charge has said that Jean’s skull fracture is consistent with an impact from falling, but we couldn’t find this gnome that Pete . . . Peter’s ghost spoke of.
“I took the liberty of wiping the prints from the ExorSquad gun under your pillow. I could lose my job, I understand that, but the alternative is to watch an innocent woman get sentenced for a crime she was not consciously aware of. I hope you’ll forgive my actions there.
Please, please do not tell my supervisors.
“Davies is suspended on garden leave while they investigate his many transgressions. It wasn’t just with the deaths at The Paragon, it was with everything.
Not filing paperwork properly, contaminating or losing evidence, et cetera.
He’s in a world of shit right now and possibly looking at jail time.
“The police are still examining your death, and Jean’s, by picking through the old case files, but no additional evidence has presented itself.
There also seems to be a general belief that your podcast is real, like .
. . I know it’s real, and I know you’re real, but there’re a lot of naysayers about who think it’s all a prank.
Currently, the police efforts are focused on trying to find out who’s doing the pranking.
So far, what they understand is that the server traces back to this hotel, and the computer IP is registered to Gary Runcorn, so they’re not getting very far with this.
“But the good news is that everybody else loves the show. Helga’s going to move your laptop and all your stuff to a dedicated studio space that she’s soundproofing or something . . . I’m not quite sure. She said she’s gonna hire a guy from the business who knows what he’s talking about.
“She’s also said they’ve had loads of new enquiries to stay at the hotel since the podcast, and so many requests for the honeymoon suite that there’s now a waiting list. Everybody wants to catch a glimpse of the famous Paragon phantoms.
“If it’s okay with everyone, Helga would like to turn the trophy room into a museum of sorts, so that the ghosts in the hotel can live on through the memories displayed there.”
Everyone shrug?nods. Jazz can’t see this, so Pixie drags the word “sure” into the steam clouds on the mirror, startling her.
“And if it’s okay . . .” she says, pausing and looking down at her notepad. “I have been trying to get in touch with families and the like, and I have a few messages to pass on . . .” She waits, clearly nervous.
Pixie writes “OK” on the glass.
Jazz nods to herself and swallows. “Josh Little, if you’re there, your parents want you to know that they miss you very much, and they think about you every day.
Your dad says that every year on the anniversary of your passing, they go to the cinema because you loved movies so much.
He said it was the only time you ever put your phone down. ”
Josh and Jazz sob-laugh in sync. Jazz sniffs snottily and fetches an old-fashioned handkerchief from her inside pocket.
“Why the hell I started with the saddest one, I have no idea,” she says.
“Your mum and dad are doing great, both healthy and happy.
Your sister just had a baby, a little girl named Joy. Which, I think, is a lovely name.
“Um . . .” Jazz coughs again, and Jeanie takes this time to wrap her arms around Josh.
“Stove MacLeod, your dad is well. He wants you to know that he misses his buddy, and that Mum would be . . . Okay, shit, this isn’t any easier.
” She sniffs again. “That Mum would be proud of you. He said he fixed up your bike, and he’s going camping with Eileen next week before the weather turns. ”
Stove silently wipes his face.
“Camille Ciel—I hope I pronounced that okay—your friend Julia got in touch. She said that death should not make sad souls of us because it’s not the end.
It’s just the start of season two, and that you died doing what you love, forn .
. . fornicating with the paranormal. God, I can’t read my own writing.
I’m not sure if Julia meant that literally . . . Maybe she’s a poet.
“Pixie Maynard, I couldn’t get hold of your parents.
I’m still working on it, but I spoke to Johnny from your band.
They’re doing great. He told me that he and Rocky are married now.
They live in Toronto, and they have three grown-up daughters, and are enjoying a fairly quiet life.
They did pass me this, though.” She holds up a sheet of paper printed directly from an email.
“It’s a list of women-fronted bands who they think you’ll love.
I’m not sure how you can listen to them, but I expect with Gary in your ranks, you’ll figure something out. ”
Pixie looks straight at Josh’s phone, then gives the teenager a pleading stare.
Josh eventually shrugs and says, “Fine, whatever.”
“Trystan Retallack, your dad has unfortunately passed away, but your mum is in good health for her age. She’s eighty-three, and she apparently still enjoys hiking every day.”
Beside me, Trystan smiles. It’s a wobbly-lipped smile, and it wrenches my heart open.
“Dell, your sister, is doing okay. She told me to tell you, ‘you’re a butthead, and you’ll always be a butthead,’ and she ‘loves you very much,’ and she’s going to come stay at The Paragon this Christmas, so get ready for their visit.
“And Gary, your parents wanted me to say that they’re proud of you and the brilliant man you turned out to be.” Jazz is still sobbing, but my tears have dried up.
I don’t really care what my folks have to say. In a way, it’s good. I needed something to stop me from crying, or I was going to give myself a headache.
“And Jean, I didn’t contact any of your family since you’re able to keep in touch with the person you love the most.” Jazz talks to the whole room now. “I hope that’s okay, and that I didn’t overstep any boundaries here. But I thought it might be nice to get a bit of . . . closure.”
It makes no sense, but at the word closure all seven ghosts burst out laughing.
There’s a buzzing followed by a clunking sound from the other side of the suite and the door swings inwards. Framed by the jamb is a smartly dress attendant pulling a trolley laden with cases.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I was told this room was ready,” he says.
“It is!” Jazz says, hopping to her feet. “I think we’re all done here.” She unplugs the steamer, collects her mirror, and glances around the space. I know she’s looking at us. “I’ll be back. Thank you, guys,” she whispers.
“Okay,” the attendant whispers in reply. “You’re welcome.”
“Right, who’s ready for movie night?” Stove says, standing up and slapping his knees. “What’re we watching today? Whose pick is it?”
“It’s mine,” Josh says, even though it was his pick last time, and the time before that. “And we’re watching The Emperor’s New Groove.”
“Solid choice, my man,” Stove says, high fiving him.
Helga and Franny together had set up a little ghost-cinema for us in what was the old media room.
It has a TV and a bunch of beanbags that came from the teen zone, not that any of us can actually use them, but it gives the place a cosy, homely vibe.
Each week we leave movie requests for the managers on Franny’s vintage typewriter, since it’s straightforward enough to muster the emotions needed to hit a key.
It took a while to learn, but I’m glad we’re now able to watch movies with more than one word in their title.
The room attendant unloads the trolley, placing the cases at the foot of the new four?poster bed, and we make our way downstairs to the media room.
At the end of the corridor, we stop.
An old woman stands there. She’s in her eighties or nineties, easily, and she’s wearing a fluffy white towel robe. She’s staring right at us.
She reaches an arm forward, and a chill rushes up my spine. Goosebumps erupt all over my skin.
She can see us.
“What a bunch of lazy sods you all are. How come none of you thought to wake me up?” she says.
“Elsie Maplethorpe?” I ask.
“Course it bloody is. Who else’s it gonna be?”
“Oh my god, Elsie, we’re so sorry,” Pixie says.
“There was just so much going on . . .” Trystan adds.
“So, Peter’s gone, then? Killed you all, did he?” Elsie says. “This new guy solve it? He looks smart. Well, I’ve got another riddle for you. Now you can figure out who killed me, ’cause it sure as muck weren’t Peter.”
Trystan glances at me and raises an eyebrow. “Another series of Unalive on Air?”
“Oh, go on, then.”