Page 32 of Hot Ghost Summer

“So, do we have a… What do you toffs call it? A gentleman’s agreement? I’ll find a way t’ help you move on, and you’ll stop blowing my stuff up?”

When there’s no reply, I arch an eyebrow in silent question.

“I tell you what, think on it. I have t’ go t’ the laundrette and wash the radiation out o’ my uniform because they close soon. And buy bulbs from the shop. I’ll have t’ go t’ the big shop for those, I reckon. I could take you with me… but you’d have t’ promise t’ behave. You have a very explosive temper that won’t go over well with the public.”

Still, there’s no response. I’m wondering if maybe Hollis has found a way out after all, when another message flashes up on his phone screen.

You’ll take me with you, or I’ll show you just how explosive I can be.

eleven

Murderer

Theo

“So, this is where I live.” I aim the camera of Hollis’s phone up at my building as I step out into the baking late-afternoon heat. Keeping my hand steady, I pan him around to show up and down the high street. “That walk through the park I was telling you about ends over there, by the traffic lights, but the laundrette is a five-minute walk this way.”

Stooping, I grab the strap of the ExorSquad holdall that I emptied of equipment to fill with my laundry, and hoist it over my shoulder.

“It’s not the best neighbourhood,” I continue, as someone steps around me without so much as a glance. “But it’s also not the worst. Mostly people just keep t’ themselves, but that can make it pretty lonely. Took me about a month t’ stop saying good morning, t’ folks; they don’t know what t’ do with it and so give me funny looks and cross the road. I think that’s sad, but it is what it is down ’ere.”

Another person seamlessly filters around me, as if it’s perfectly normal that I’d walk down the street with my arm stretched out in front of me while chatting with a person on a videocall.

That’s another difference between here and back home—in London, everyone thinks they’re an influencer. People don’t even go for a coffee without broadcasting the experience, but up north, I’d for sure be getting funny looks and a few comments by now.

A mischievous smile spreads across my face. I wonder if Londoners would still be so chill if they knew I was talking to a ghost?

The door to the laundrette has swollen slightly in the heatwave. Gripping Hollis between my teeth, I use both hands to tug it loose from the frame and a waft of warm, damp air that smells a little like overboiled cabbage puffs out. Most of the machines are in use, but I find a free one and drop my bag on the floor in front of it, ready to unload. Thankfully, the rancid humidity means people aren’t hanging about waiting for their loads to finish.

Taking Hollis from my mouth, I wipe the case on my shorts and look directly at the front-facing camera when I say, “I’m going t’ set you on the top ’ere while I sort my stuff. I only need a few minutes, then we’ll head off.”

No response.

Shrugging, I set him down and squat to unzip my bag. Mum always used to separate the colours from the whites, but at almost seven quid a wash, I’ve decided I’m alright if my whites aren’t exactly white, and I dump everything in together. I always bring my own detergent too, because buying it from here works out the same as the cost of a whole box from the savers shop down the road.

Closing the door, I pause. Normally, I’d program the wash cycle for economy, but I need to wash radiation out, and I’ve no idea what setting is best for that.

I scoop Hollis’s phone up from the top of the machine. “Hey, Hollis? Do you know what setting I need t’…”

The washing machine beeps once. Loudly.

“Cycle starting. Estimated time: forty-seven minutes,” reads the basic digital display.

“Oh, thanks,” I mumble, but then another loud beep comes from the machine beside me. And another from the one beside that. Slowly at first, each washing machine banked against the wall in front of me starts to beep. My lips part and a small gasp escapes.

Phone still in hand, I pivot as I track the sound across to the wall behind me, where the tumble dryers are. More beeps, all along the full row and back into the washing machines.

Faster now. Round and round.

Red LEDs display “error,” and water pumps grind and choke on misfired commands.

I know what this is.

“Hollis?”

Three tumble dryers power down, one after the other, and the steamer in the back blasts out a jet of boiling air. The fluorescent striplights overhead flicker, the sockets in the walls spark and crackle, and that metallic taste of static mixes with the humid, claustrophobic air.

I open my mouth to remind him we have an agreement, and that if he blows up the laundrette, I won’t help him move on, when everything powers down. All the lights, all the machines, everything. My shaky exhale is loud in the otherwise silent room.