DEAD(ish)

The PI

My name's Trent. I'm a private detective, hired by the late Linda Stevens. Obviously, I believe in ghosts. I never used to, but Linda is a pretty determined bird with some very convincing tricks. Cripes, I don't want to start thinking about it. She'll drive me mad if I dwell on it. Let me just say this - don't ever let a ghost like Linda near your pants.

She told me about herself, and insisted that I write it down. Why? I asked. I knew I'd remember every detail - it's my job. Besides, she could always be on hand to remind me of anything that slipped my prodigious memory.

"For posterity," she said. Well, can't argue with that. Besides, arguing with a ghost is one of those exercises in futility, like chasing rainbows or trying to ride the wind. At least it is if the ghost's Linda. I'd never tried arguing with a ghost before.

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My name's Linda. I'm dead. It sucks, OK? Especially because I'm dead for no good reason. I'm dead because my dumbarse boyfriend smacked me one and then something else smacked me one and it hurt like hell and that's all I remember, to be honest. Until I woke up without a body. Now I know from books and movies that that's not the way it's supposed to happen. Well, in a way it is, right. But the ghost is always anchored by their bod, and they can't move too far away from it. Which implies that they know WHERE THE HELL IT IS. Whereas, me? I don't know where my body is, and I'm not limited to any location. And for some reason, this is really important to me. I need to find my body. Maybe I need closure, or some shit. I don't know. I just need to. So I hired Trent. He'll find my body for me. I hope. If he doesn't, I'll fire his arse and haunt him in between haunting my ex-beloved and hiring someone with a clue.

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I think that last bit's a threat.

****

I wander around the outside of the house, 'feeling the vibes'. Mike walks beside me, and I can almost feel him shaking. This guy is seriously on the edge. I pause in about every location I can think of, watching him out of the corner of my eye. I can't feel 'cold spots' for shit, but I can read people. They tense up when you're close to something they desperately don't want you to find. Although this guy is so stressed I'm not sure he'd tense up if I held a knife to his throat and threatened to rape him.

I keep wandering, over the obvious bits - shed, garage, vegie garden - nothing.

"Did Linda have anything - a treasure of some sort, like a journal - buried out here?" I ask, spreading my hands above the vegie garden in what I hope is a cold spot sensing kinda way.

He shrugs, looking puzzled and vaguely irritated.

"No bloody idea, mate - can we go back inside now? I need to sit down."

He really does look wrecked. His skin's still orange, although he's managed to bleach the colour out of his hair and eyebrows. But Linda's been having fun with nail polish, and his fingernails and toenails are a very pretty bright pink. So now he just looks like the victim of a deranged beautician. He scratches at his skull absent-mindedly.

"How'd you get the colour out of your hair?"

"I just used the stuff in the cupboard," he says and shrugs, still scratching.

Bleached his hair with household bleach? No wonder he's scratching. His head must be one big blister.

"You do know there are different kinds of bleach?"

He looks at me blankly.

Stuff it, I think. Let the neckless wonder suffer.

"Never mind."