The Dead Speak Ill Of The Living (The Dead Speak Paranormal Mysteries Book 1) by Robert Wilde

could throw at him, so this nice young
couple didn’t seem all that odd. They certainly weren’t the touchy feely sort
who had to hold hands every few minutes, and there seemed a distance between
the two, but there were also looks and glances as if some secret was below the
surface. It led the Agent to conclude maybe one of the pair had been married,
divorced, and was starting again. As to which one, he suspected the red head.
Although quite why the man seemed to be carrying a large rucksack round with
him when all they were doing is looking at an empty property he didn’t know. It
reminded him of the fellow who carted a big teddy round for the whole trip and
then asked it if the rooms were big enough.
      
For her part Dee was growing certain Joe was enjoying pretending to be her
fiancée just a little bit too much, and he’d have to be put down later. He was
being helpful, and polite, and soon they’d get to the whole point of him being
there, but she was sure he’d have held her hand if she’d let him.
      
Joe meanwhile was having a great time smiling at Dee and imagining they were
starting a life together. Which, in some way, they were, just not the one the Agent
had envisioned.
      
“And that’s the end, is there anywhere you’d like to see again?”
      
“I’d like to see the kitchen once more,” Dee smiled, hoping that some 1950s
clichés would prove believably distracting, “while my partner needs to go and
measure up the bedrooms.” At this point Joe produced a notepad and laser
measure from the top of the bag.
      
“Of course,” and the Agent believed he had a better chance of completing a sale
with Dee, “why doesn’t your partner attend to that while we talk.”
      
Joe smiled, walked slowly upstairs, and put his bag carefully down. Then he
removed the machine, switched it on, and asked “is anybody there?” He was aware
of the cliché.
      
Ten minutes later and the Agent was saying his goodbyes, and Dee was saying she
liked the property but would have to discuss it with her partner. Then the pair
were in her car.
      
“Did you really like?” Joe asked.
      
“Me? Yes, big rooms, needs work doing, which I like, a garden to potter in. All
good. I’d put an offer in if the rest fits.”
      
“Ah.”
      
“And you’re the rest, so spill.”
      
“The house is haunted.”
      
“Okay, I might be able to cope with that. Who by?”
      
“A man called…”
      
“Nope, not moving in there.”
      
“He’s a nice man…”
      
“I am not sharing my house with a male ghost. It took me four days to even have
a shower in my current flat, and I wince every time I have to take a piss.”
      
“This one didn’t sound like a peeping tom or anything.”
      
“Still no.”
      
“But you’d share with a woman?”
      
“Yes. The showers at school obviously had one use. Actually that’s a good way
of thinking about it, sharing. My roommate the ghost.”
      
“But still not him.”
      
“Nope. My tits are a guest appointment only.”
      
Joe felt like he’d never get an invite. He was right.
      
      
In the absence of a plan, or anything approaching a plan, the group had agreed
to meet up for a shared meal and some chat. No agenda, just four people who’d
all shared an experience, and shared a secret, relaxing in the company of the
only people they could now truly relax in. Dee’s place was chosen again,
because she’d be moving soon and they had the strangest sense that they should
get the most use out of it before it became a fading memory.
      
But while it was Dee’s house, it was Nazir doing the cooking. He’d produced a
wonderful risotto with minimal mess, which was good because Dee was hovering to
point out where all the dishes and equipment was and to be amused if he messed
it up.
      
Soon they were just waiting for Pohl to arrive down from Cambridge, and when
the door rang Dee dashed to open it.
      
“Hello, glad you could