“Ahhhh…” said Kyle, and looked around the castle, “I never thought we’d be empty-nesters this early, love.”

Merryl nodded and sighed.

“Missing Bratsky?” Kyle asked, putting an arm around her shoulders.

“She’s so little to be by herself in another country!” she whispered.

“Huh – you’re not all royal marble after all, are you?” he said, smiling.

Merryl heaved another sigh.

“Why don’t we move over there, then?”

“To Europe?”

Kyle nodded.

“But – the finances, the castle, the staff…”

“You mean being royal doesn’t have any perks except scholarships to hoity-toity schools?”

She mock-glared at him.

“OI! Watch it! I went to that ‘hoity-toity’ school, mister!”

“Oh, yeah, and look how you turned out!”

“Right!”

She launched herself at him, and dug an elbow into his ribs.

“OW! God, that’s not a tickle, that’s a frontal assault!”

“I’m too hoity-toity to tickle!” she gasped, evading his hands and tickling his armpits while he writhed in apparent agony, howling with laughter.

“So…” says Pete, looking seductive and rogue-ish, “I have a clean bill of health and I’m not a wanted criminal… wanna take me out on the town and show me a good time?”

I lean my head back on the wall and sigh. I’ve got a pounding stress headache, black circles under my eyes, and my work is just a little pissed off with me for disappearing for another ‘family crisis’. Fuck it all.

I look at Pete and smirk.

“Once upon a time,” I drawl, “it was the man who had to show the chick a good time… thank God for feminism, eh?”

He laughs, and winces, grabbing his side.

“Clean bill of health, eh? Better not take you riding.”

****

The place is dark and crowded, lit by occasional strobes and – funnily enough – a mirror ball with one red light aimed at it, so that little dots of pink light wander around and around the room. I buy a bottle of water and swill it down, all in one go. The secret to not getting your drink spiked is simple – buy sealed, drink bloody fast.

Pete orders a beer, takes a mouthful, then leaves the plastic cup sitting next to him on the bar, oblivious to the fact that he’s blocking the dozens of people trying to buy drinks. That boy would enjoy having his drink spiked.

I shrug, toss my empty bottle at a bin, and slide out into the closest bit of dance space. I close my eyes and give myself up to the rhythm of the dance music.

Maybe hours later, a tap on my shoulder brings me back to reality.

Pete, with two women who are both dressed like Madonna in her ‘Like a Virgin’ days. Ugh. Especially the big hair. He winks and tips his head to the side – he’s out of here. Well, duh.

I smile and nod, then close my eyes again. Dance has given way to light trance music, and it suits my mood perfectly. I sway, feeling bodies move back into place all around me, all undulating in beautiful synchronicity. I’m all me, and I’m part of The Whole.

****

“Rough night?”

Pete is red-eyed and wobbling where he stands – and most doctors would probably put him straight back in hospital.

“Two transvestites spiked my drink and shagged me all night, and I think -” he winces, “they broke some more ribs.”

I can’t help it. I laugh.

Pete scowls at me and grabs my drink, takes a large mouthful, then spits most of it out.

“UGH! What the hell IS that?” he sputters.

“Wheatgrass and pineapple,” I say, and drain the remainder before he can chuck it out on me.

“Should be outlawed by the Geneva Convention,” he says, and staggers around my hotel room.

“Coffee’s over there,” I say, and point to the cupboard over the sink.

He grunts, and starts making himself a cup, using both coffee packets and all the sugar and Extra.

“Milk?”

“Nah, not enough class for free milk.”

“Shit!” he says, and sips the black coffee, making faces.

I should have known better.

Fame and fortune and legions of adoring fans? As if. As if that was really what I wanted.

I’m a writer. A ridiculously successful one. Think the JK Rowling of the romance lit world, and there I am. People love me.

Well, no. They don’t, really. See, when you get right down to it, that’s what I was after, wasn’t I?

Love.

I thought about being famous, about having fans, and I felt a beautiful warm glow spread through my middle. Deep down, I thought I’d be loved. Finally.

There’s no love.

I took all my longings for love, romance and relationships, and I poured them into my novels.

Obviously there are a lot of other women out there feeling the same way, because my novels were – are – a runaway success. I’m rich. I’m world-famous.

I’m miserable.

It’s stupid, isn’t it? Most writers I know are, at heart, quiet and shy. We make up our own worlds and we live in them better than we live in the real world. We imagine fame as a beautiful, fulfilling goal.

My fans don’t love me, though. They think they do – maybe they do love my work – but really, they just want a piece of me. A piece of the Pansy Applegate pie. They come up to me on the street and in the supermarket and at the post office and they demand their piece of pie. The piece of me that they earnt by reading my books, loving my work, writing me letters. Because they loved what I did for them, they demand yet more, and never understand that their money doesn’t make them deserving of yet another piece of my pie. I’ve only got so many pieces, and they refuse to understand when I’m all out of myself and have nothing left to give.

“Bitch.”

“Superstar.”

“Forgotten her fans.”

“Doesn’t give a shit.”

They’re right.

I don’t.

(Trent)

Mike appears in court wearing a bright pink, very tight tshirt with ‘WANNABE LESBIAN’ spelled out with rhinestones. It’s appalling. The addition of tight black jeans – too tight, I suspect, as I see Mike wince and try to surreptitiously pull them away from his groin – makes him look like a slightly psychotic 80s reject. His hair is even puffy.

When he sees me approaching the witness stand, his eyes widen.

“FUCKER!” I see him mouth, clear as day. Oh well, he was going to work out the truth sooner or later.

I manage to get through my testimony without distorting too many facts, but without mentioning paranormal activity, either. Linda would be a bit much for these folk to handle.

As I walk toward the door, Mike turns and scowls at me – so I see his face when they call the next witness, Lazarus. He pales, and for the first time he looks scared. I think he’s just realised that he’s going down.

Linda fades in beside me and sniggers.

“Clothes your doing?” I ask quietly.

“Who else cares enough to help him get ready?” she asks, and sniggers again. “You shoulda seen his face when he realised that was all he had to wear!”

I smirk.

“You should’ve seen his face when they called Lazarus!”

****

The jury come back, and declare a decision.

Guilty of manslaughter.

Linda, sitting next to me, sighs.

“He murdered me in cold blood,” she says quietly.

I nod.

“He’s getting punished for part of it, at least,” I offer.

She smiles a little.

“I paid off his debt to the mafia-wannabe,” she says.

“Why?” I ask, shocked.

“Her hitman might not’ve missed next time… and I want Mike to be thoroughly miserable,” she says, looking sideways at me and smirking, “the bastard’d probably repent on his deathbed and go straight to heaven, otherwise – it’d be just like him.”

I snort. She’s right, it would.

“What’s happening to the rest of your money?” I ask, remembering the whole reason Mike killed her in the first place.

“I willed it all to a cat shelter, years ago,” she said, finally cracking out a proper Linda-ish grin. “I told Mike I’d left it to him, then changed my will to leave it to the cats – he’d only have lost it on the pokies or something dumb, you know?” She snickers. “So he killed his golden goose, the moron!”

I heave a sigh. She’s a tough one, but this whole thing must’ve hurt her like hell.

“Yeah, it did,” she says quietly, looking at me.

****

(Linda)

So that’s it. Mike’s in jail, and he’s scared shitless. Out here, he can pretend to be a decent member of society. In there, everyone knows him for an arsehole, you see. They won’t kill him, though. They’ll just make his life hell for a few years, and that’ll do for payback. Unless, of course, wherever I’m going will let me come back once a year and torment him, just for kicks. That’d be awesome.

You’ve been sweet. You’ve sat there and listened to this whole sordid story, and you’ve never once told me I’m a bloody idiot. Thanks for that.

Bye.

(Trent)

“They ATE me? They ATE my body? That’s why I can’t find my body, because it’s… it’s sewerage!”

Linda’s not impressed.

“Those DICKHEADS!”

She punches my wall, and her hand goes through without breaking anything – then she clenches her jaw and rips electrical wiring and insulation out through a large hole when she pulls it back out. Something fizzes, and the lights dim and go out.

I sigh. Somehow I get the idea that telling her to calm down wouldn’t be a brilliant move.

“I’m sorry, Linda,” I say helplessly.

She collapses into a little heap on the floor, and heaves with sobs.

I kneel down next to her, and put my hand on her shoulder in a weak attempt to comfort her, but my hand goes straight through – she’s completely insubstantial.

“Linda…”

I have no idea how to comfort a woman who I can’t hug, or kiss, or even touch. So I hover uselessly, a couple of tears of my own welling out of my eyes. No one deserves this kind of crap, but especially not Linda.

“Fuuuuuuck!” she wails.

****

Eventually she gets up, and she’s got her bottom jaw jutted out in a way that tells me I’d better only get in her way if it’s a matter of life and death – and probably not then, either.

“I want to see them.” she says.

“Laz and Geordie?”

She nods, and her bottom lip quivers a little as she thrusts out that lower jaw just a little more.

“You want me there?” I guess, since she hasn’t popped out of view.

She nods.

I sigh, and call another cab.

****

“Why?”

Linda’s standing in their lounge room, looking lost. Looking betrayed. Geordie and Lazarus are speechless in front of her, pole-axed by shock and guilt. It’s like they knew Linda was around, but never thought she’d find out what they’d done to her, and never thought about what they should do if she did.

“WHY?” she demands, and starts to cry. Big, ghostly tears well up in her eyes and roll down her cheeks.

Geordie, never one to be out-dramaed, starts to sob too.

“I’m so sorry, Lindy-love!” he chokes, “We never meant – we didn’t know – it was -”

God. All the emotion in this room makes me want to blubber myself, or down a couple of stiff drinks. Except I don’t think that doing something as trivial as making a drink would be a brilliant idea right now. And besides, it seems disrespectful.

“It was what?”

“It was Mike,” Lazarus says, looking straight at her for the first time, “He told us what he’d done, that it was too late, you were dead… and that you wouldn’t want him to go to prison. We didn’t want him to go to prison. He said it was an accident… we didn’t realise til his mates came round that it might not have been. But – we’d already…”

He falls silent, and stares at the carpet.

“You ate me, you arseholes!” Linda yells.

They nod meekly. Geordie sniffles, and digs in his pocket for a hankie.

“We didn’t know,” says Lazarus, and sighs, “I know that’s not much comfort, but… we didn’t know, it was just a barbecue Mike invited us to. He told us as if it was a big joke, that we just ate his ex-girlfr-”

He breaks off and buries his head in his hands.

Linda is starting to look more angry than teary.

“Do you want to make this up to me?” she demands.

They nod slowly.

“Go to the police. Tell them everything.” she says.

“But -” starts Geordie.

“No, she’s right,” says Lazarus, smiling sadly, “If we go to jail for this, we deserve it – but we owe Linda closure, darling.”

“Too fucking right!” says Linda.

“My last, grand gesture!” Geordie says in a small voice, and stands up. He wobbles a bit as he searches his pockets for another hankie. “We’ll go, Linda – we’ll tell them everything!”

“Everything?” I query him and Linda, wondering if she really wants the whole story to get out – wondering if he would ever stick to it.

She nods, decisively.

“Everything!” she says, and disappears.

I call yet another cab, and shepherd the boys into it.

“Police station, thanks.”

****

“You ate her?” the police officer looks shocked, appalled. The murder part of the story she listened to without losing a smidgeon of the ‘nothing you say can shock me’ look. Her look met its match, I guess.

“Yes! We ate her!” says Geordie loudly, and bursts into tears. Again.

The police officer sighs and motions her junior to go get more tissues. This has been a damp interview.

“Do you need a break?” she asks.

Geordie shakes his head and looks brave.

“I just want to get this over with,” he whispers, and sobs.

The junior gets back and thrusts a tissue box at Geordie. He grabs a handful and honks loudly.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, “it’s just…”

The police officer nods understandingly, her professional persona back on. The junior is looking as though he may just run back out of the room to vomit, given an opening.

“Mr Smith – you were at the same barbecue? You… umm… ingested the victim’s body too?”

“Yes, I was – I did,” Lazarus answers calmly. His mouth is quivering, but he’s refusing to cry.

“Right. And Mr French – this man, Michael Reynolds, told you that he killed Ms Stevens?”

“Yes, he did,” I say, “although he claimed it was an accident.”
She writes a bit more, then tells the recorder that the interview is finished.

“Would you mind staying around, gentlemen? We’ll need to get individual statements, now that we have the bare bones.” she says.

We all nod, and the junior goes out to get us each a crappy instant coffee in a foam cup.

(Linda)

Trent’s decided to go all noble and chivalrous on me. Hell, why do men have to DO that at the worst possible time?

He’s out of hospital, and he’s barely looking after himself, and he’s determined to continue with the case. My case. The one that nearly turned him into dead. I tried yelling at him, I tried arguing, I tried telling him he’s a bloody idiot. But he just shrugged and said he was going to keep investigating. Stubborn little shit.

****

(Trent)

Thank God, I’m out of the house. And better yet, Linda is off tormenting Mike, or something. She’s a nice chick in some ways, Linda – and a pain-in-the-arse psycho chick in others. I think maybe I liked her better when she was moping. Now she’s bustling around ‘helping’ me and she’s got sex on the mind despite a distinct lack of hormones, and … god. Remember what I said about not letting her near your trousers? Well, it’s hard to run away with a broken shoulder. You know?

I haven’t yet worked up the courage to go back to the jail – too many nasty memories. So I decide on following up the other loose end. Lazarus and Geordie. I’m about to grab my car keys from their nail when the reach makes my shoulder stab painfully and it occurs to me that driving was probably on the list of things that I shouldn’t be doing that I didn’t listen to. I call a cab, grab a beer, and wait.

****

I clamber carefully out of the cab, chucking a $20 note back to the driver.

“Thanks for being gentle, mate,” I say, and shut the door.

I glance over at Mike’s place. A second-storey window’s broken. Kids, probably. I’ve never understood the fascination with breaking stuff – stealing I get, but random destruction’s beyond me. I think about going to check it out, but I couldn’t be bothered right now. My shoulder’s starting to ache, and I just want a cup of coffee to wash down a painkiller or two.

The front door of Lazarus and Geordie’s place opens, and Geordie trots out toward the mailbox. He’s dressed in a short bathrobe and, as far as I can tell, nothing else.

“GEORDIE!” I yell, waving gingerly.

He looks up and peers at me carefully, then grins.

“Trent, baby!” he yells, “what are you doing in that ridiculous sling? It makes you look pale, dearie – positively wan!”

I walk across the road to him and get air-kissed.

“Oh, my god, what have they done to you?” he asks, taking in the bandages. “Come on, you need a nice cup of coffee – you head in, I’ll just grab the mail and follow. And make yourself comfy, you hear?” he bellows the last bit after me.

God, can you imagine Geordie doing anything covert? Ever?

I head for the lounge chairs, pausing to take a couple of huge pills out of their foil. Horse-pills, my father used to call them when they were this size. I sit down, and despite my best intentions, start to relax as Geordie comes in, dumps the mail on the counter and starts to fuss around me. He brings me a pillow, asks me ten times if I’m comfortable enough, and finally decides that what I really need is coffee.

“Here you are, dearie!” he grins as he hands me the mug, “I put in lots of milk to cool it down and,” he winks, “I irished it up a little for you! Best medicine in the world!”

I take a cautious sip to wet my throat, and nearly choke anyway. Cripes, Geordie wasn’t joking about irishing it up – there’s enough bourbon in here to kill any pain. I swallow the pills and wash them down with the alcoholic coffee, and then remember the warnings about codeine and alcohol consumption. Ah well, it’s not like I was planning to drive home anyhow.

A little later, a warm glow has spread through my body, and as long as I don’t move, I feel good. I’ve got a bourbon and coke sitting in front of me, slowly getting weaker as the icecubes melt. Geordie’s downing bourbon straight, and if he wasn’t at home I’d be worried about the mechanics of getting him there. This much alcohol might just relax him enough that he’ll spill some information.

“Mike is going nuts,” I explain to Geordie, “Poor man is stuck in a cell with only his guilt and a vengeful ghost haunting his arse. Oh, and getting shot at when he ventures out, of course. Geordie, if there’s anything you know that might help Mike out – or might help me help Linda leave this world for the next – would you tell me? Please?”

“Oh, poor little Mikey!” Geordie says and downs another bourbon. He’s onto his fifth, now, and starting to look a little shaky. “Poor little Mikey deserves everything he gets! Killing Linda like that – and he hasn’t even ponied up our share of the cash, has he? Poor little Linda, I liked that girl… ha, if she was really poor she’d still be alive, wouldn’t she, Mikey-baby would never have barbecued her arse… oh, such a nice arse, too!”

Luckily, I can’t say a thing, I’m frozen with horror.

“Such a juicy arse – all tender, and beautiful with a plum sauce!” Geordie croons, looking off into the distance. “I miss her!”

He covers his face and starts to sob.

The arseholes ate Linda!

(Mike)

I’m sitting in a spa bath with three other people, all of us naked, all of us downing shots of vodka and bourbon. We’re all getting drunker and drunker, and friendlier and friendlier. Linda rests her head on Geordie’s shoulder and slides her hand over his chest.

“Geordie baby, are you completely gay, or do you swing a little?”

“OH you naughty girl!” he squeals, “I’m all Laz’s, darlin’!”

She looks over to Laz and grins, raising an eyebrow.

“Mind if I give him a test?”

Lazarus looks at Geordie, who shrugs a little and smiles.

“Only if I get to test out your hunk, honey!”

She blows me a kiss.

“Oh, Mike’s all mine… but I’m happy to lend him out… you need his leash on?”

Lazarus whistles and Geordie giggles and I blush.

“I think I can handle him, honey… what do you think, sexy-legs?” he purrs, turning to me and slipping a hand further up my leg.

I shrug and wonder what I should be doing to stay in character. Probably keep acting shy, I think, but fuck it – I’ve been wanting this piece of arse for months. I draw back a little only to pounce, tangling his legs with mine to dunk him underwater, with me on top of him. I pull him up against my chest, and he spits out water and laughs.

“Linda, I think I should’ve asked for his leash!”

Linda’s not listening, though. She’s in mid-snog with Geordie.

A few minutes later I’m in a world of bliss until Linda calls my name and Lazarus punches me in the groin, straight up into my prostrate. It hurts like fucking hell and I scream and curl into a ball, wondering why Lazarus is so suddenly pissed with me. Then I wake up and I’m in jail again, and Linda is standing by my bed, smirking.

“What’s the matter, lover? Did I wake you from a nice dream?”

Bitch.

“You’ll never guess…” Sal whispered in Herry’s ear.

“Tell me!” Herry hissed urgently.

“Toma took me to a club downtown last night… everyone wore LINGERIE! You could see everything… some of them were in nothing! You could tell if…” – a pause to giggle – “they were bois or gois!”

Herry’s eyes went wide.

“What… tell with… everyone??? Fark, is that legal??”

“I don’t think so! Toma is such a laugh – shim’s so kinky!”

“So, what exactly did you see? Is your new lover boi or goi?”

Sal gasped and shoved Herry away, blushing furiously.

“You think we stripped off there? You – what do you think I am?” Sal looked aghast, “God, Herry, we just looked!”

Herry giggled. “You still don’t know, do you?”

“Hull, Herry, I’ve married people I wasn’t sure about!” Sal grinned, “I’m an old-fashioned sort – all cats are black in the dark!”

Herry sniggered.

****

Sal unlocked his door, walked inside, and motioned the door shut as he collapsed into a chair.

“Fork, what a day!” he said, sighing. “Butler! Vintage martini.”

His liquor bar produced a martini glass, complete with clear liquid and an olive. Sal sipped, loosened the collar of his worksuit and slowly relaxed.

A while later, martini finished, he pressed a button on the arm of his chair.

“Leave message for Toma,” he instructed, “Hi honey – wild night last night! Thanks for the fun, I had a great time. I’m wasted from work, so I’m going to have a quiet one – see you tomorrow night? How about we catch a game?”

He released the button, stood up and tossed the martini glass into the bin unit.

“Butler! Prepare sleep unit,” he instructed as he walked towards the sleep room.

A red light started to flash, and a beep sounded in time to the flashes.

“Oh, fork!” he swore, “Shite timing for a fault!”

Sal walked into the sleep room to check the unit. He stopped, and the blood drained from his face.

Toma lay on top of the sleep unit, tied to it by a wrist at each corner. Her genitals were uncovered, her breasts were unbound. The unit was soaked in blood, and Toma was very clearly dead.

(Trent)

Have you ever tried to get undressed without moving one arm and its shoulder? To put it simply – it’s bloody near impossible. I finish up struggling out of my PJs with a minimum of screaming and ditching the sling. My bottom lip hurts like hell from me biting it, and I concentrate on that pain to distract myself from the stabbing fire moving through my shoulder and neck. By the time I’m into a shower and enjoying the feeling of being in less pain and slightly clean, I have company.

“Hey, gorgeous!” purrs Linda.

I close my eyes and sigh. She’s stark naked and substantial enough for me to feel her moving slightly against the front of my body, from my chest right down to the tops of my feet. She raises herself up on tiptoe and whispers a kiss over my lips.

“Hi Linda,” I say, for lack of anything intelligent to say. “Umm…”

“Don’t worry,” she whispers in my ear, “I won’t hurt ya, honey. I’m just here to offer a hand. See you when you get out, lover.”

She giggles and disappears.

God. I couldn’t help but be turned on, the wench, and any attempt to masturbate would hurt like hell.

“Wench!” I mutter, as I turn off the water.

“I heard that!” she calls from outside the cubicle.

I try not to laugh, it hurts too much. I eventually settle for a snort.

“I’ll be good!” she says, “Now come out of there, I had a brilliant idea!”

I groan, because Linda’s brilliant ideas are usually painful for someone, but carefully get out onto the bathmat. Linda’s holding the hugest hairdrier I’ve ever seen.

“Just relax!” she says, and grins.

She aims the hairdrier at me and turns it on. And hell, it actually works. Slowly but surely, I get toasty warm and dry.

“Spread em!” she demands.

“I’m fine!”

“You can’t stay wet down there, Trent, your balls’ll go moldy!”

“You’re not going to let this rest, are you?”

“Fuck, no!” she says, with a huge grin on her face.

I shrug, and bite back a scream of pain.

“I’ve really got to stop doing that!” I squeeze out.

“Awww, poor Trenty-baby… now spread em!”

That girl’s got a one-track mind.

A little-known fact about zombies:

They’re all around you.

Take me.

I’m 14 years old. I was inducted last year. My parents have no idea. I pass for human, even though I’m an immortal undead brain-eating monster, and stuff. I’m really good at acting. My sunday school teacher thinks I’m darling. My mother thinks I’m emo (I’m not, but they taste good. Depression softens the brain, or something). I guess it makes sense. I wear thick white makeup and thick black eyeliner and weird contact lenses. I wear black a lot, because it hides the blood.

Hey, maybe all the other emo kids are zombies too. Wouldn’t that be mad?

****

Zombie myth number 1: We all eat human brains. All the time.

Not likely. I eat a balanced diet. Fresh fruit, vegetables, dairy, grains and brains. Umm, usually at least one of those a night. But it’s not like it’s a staple of my diet or anything. More like a midnight snack.

Zombie myth number 2: Zombies are all rotten, with bits falling off all the time.

Bullshit. OK, I’ve lost a finger or two, and had to do a quick fix-up job. Lucky Mum taught me to sew. But usually it’s fine, we kinda regenerate as we go. Mostly. I need to exfoliate more than most people, or I get all-over dandruff. And I don’t exactly like my skin tone, which is like, beigey-grey. Like a carpet that’s 20 years past its use-by date and used to be cream, but now is just a faded ick.

Thank God for AberZombie products. They provide me with these cool gloves that look like human skin with fishnet gloves over them. Very cute, and the texture fools everyone. I love you, AberZombie!

Sex, of course, is the real problem. That much friction really isn’t good for zombie flesh. My first experiment that way led to a hysterical teen boy screaming his way down the street and some really nasty fix-up work. And forevermore, I’ve been a born-again virgin zombie. It kinda sucks.