“This is Oz and D with Osian’s and Danny’s London Crime Podcast. We’ve got a real treat for everyone. We’ll be talking all things crime and ghostly in the West End, getting a tour of a few theatres with up close and personal tales of close encounters of the terrifying kind.” Osian paused the recording, satisfied with the brief intro to their next episode. He grinned over at his boyfriend, who rolled his eyes. “What? It’s perfect.”
“Still not sure about Oz and D,” Dannel teased. “Plus, it took you five takes to say a paragraph.”
“Rude and unnecessary.”
“Is that non-autistic talk for accurate and truthful?” Dannel grinned at him. “What happened to ‘it’ll only take me a minute to record the intro’?”
“Ian will be fashionably late as per usual.” Osian leaned across the table to brush a kiss against Dannel’s lips. “It’s boiling in here.”
“It’s almost summer. I imagine we’re going to have the hottest on record.” Dannel rubbed his fingers across his shortened hair. They’d both gone for shorter cuts with the unseasonably warm weather. May had been ten degrees above average, which didn’t bode well for July or August. “Ian will be here soon.”
“In a swirl of his scarf.” Osian watched Dannel continue to rub his head. Neither of them was used to the shorter length yet; Dannel, in particular, found it slightly uncomfortable at times.
They loved their eldest neighbour. Ian Barrett had fully recovered from his brush with poison the previous month—one meant for Osian. The seventy-six-year-old was a retired actor/director who consulted with a small local theatre troupe. Ian was finalising the details on a musical after spending over a year working on it. Osian and Dannel had been invited to investigate a supposed ghost haunting the show.
Just a few weeks back, they’d faced down a flesh-and-blood danger. A ghost didn’t seem too threatening. Osian hadn’t completely recovered from his brush with death.
A killer had set their eyes on Osian after one of his patients passed away while he’d worked as a paramedic. His last call-out had been a horrific traffic incident where several people had died despite their best efforts. Two relatives had decided he and the other emergency responders should pay—with their own lives.
Life had changed drastically in the short time since the killer had been captured—aside from the haircuts. Osian had returned to therapy to combat the worsening of his post-traumatic stress. The podcast, Dannel, and their family had helped pull him through.
Now a retired firefighter at the young age of thirty, Dannel had tried a volunteer position. He’d been eaten up with guilt at not going out when emergencies came in and decided to quit. His time now went to building a cosplay fabrication business, something they both worked on together, as always. They’d been joined at the hip from infancy, growing up next door to each other. From best friends to boyfriends, Osian had never looked at anyone else. Ever.
“Are you pulling out your Constantine costume?”
Osian was yanked from his thoughts by Dannel holding up a bottle of blond hair dye. “It’s easiest.”
Aside from his dark brown hair, Osian bore a striking resemblance to the actor who’d portrayed the character—Matt Ryan. Close enough he was practically his doppelganger aside from his bright blue eyes. His Constantine costume got used frequently.
“How about you? Washington from Hamilton?” Osian had a particular fondness for seeing his boyfriend in the tight breeches from the musical.
Dannel paused in helping him pack up their recording equipment to glare at him. “Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m not wearing breeches. Thought I might go as Maurice Moss from The IT Crowd, even though I’ve trimmed my afro down.”
“You’ll be glad when summer hits.” Osian thought the Moss costume would go down a treat. Dannel was a buffer, taller version of Richard Ayoade, after all.
“Did you miss the part where I’m already boiling?” Dannel grabbed a card from the table to fan himself. “It’s hot. Inside voice?”
“Definitely,” Osian assured him.
As an autistic, Dannel often struggled to modulate his voice. He’d whisper or shout. Osian had gotten used to helping him find an even tone whenever Dannel asked.
“Bonjour, my darlings,” a cheerful voice called out before their doorbell rang. “I shall await you downstairs.”
Shooting a bemused glance at Dannel, Osian grabbed his wallet and phone. He tossed Dannel’s iPhone over to him. They caught up to Ian on the stairs; he waved the edge of his colourful, thin scarf at them.
“It isn’t often two dashing gentlemen escort me to the theatre.” Ian slipped his lanky arm through Osian’s. He waited for a nod of permission from Dannel before repeating his action on the other side. “You’ll do wonders for my reputation. They’ll wonder how I keep up with you both.”
“Ian.” Osian dodged to the right to avoid walking straight into a woman fighting with her umbrella.
“Are we walking too quickly?” Dannel slowed his pace.
“Not that kind of keeping up,” Osian explained.
“Ah. In bed?” Dannel occasionally struggled with innuendo or any conversation that assumed the listener grasped subtext between the words. He tended to take things literally. “In bed? With Ian?”
“It will feed my dreams for days.” Ian ignored both of their groans. “Shall we stop for a coffee?”
Osian decided the change of subject was for the best. “There’s a café across from your theatre. How are your rehearsals going?”
“You’d make a lovely musical.” Ian sidestepped the question.
“What?” Osian didn’t know how to respond to Ian’s confident statement. “Me, specifically?”
“Star-crossed lovers. Osian Kincaid Garey, a former paramedic. Myron Dannel Ortea Junior, a former firefighter. And their handsome, wise neighbour, Ian Barrett.” He smiled beatifically and patted Osian’s arm. “My rehearsals are going splendidly. I don’t even mind the ghost. It adds a certain something to the atmosphere.”
“We’re not the Ghostbusters,” Dannel commented.
“We did cosplay as Ghostbusters a few years ago.” Osian ducked away when Dannel tried to reach around Ian to yank his shirt. “We did?”
“Not the point.” Dannel bickered with him all the way to the coffee shop. Ian seemed entertained by both of them.
Given the morning crowd, Osian slipped into the café to grab coffees for the three of them. He was excited. They hadn’t had any guests on their podcast aside from Detective Inspector Khan; this might prove to be an exciting new direction for them.
The podcast had grown significantly from where it started. Osian had never imagined anyone aside from friends and family listening in, but their audience continued to grow each week.
Three coffees and a box full of assorted mini scones later, Osian carried his purchases outside. Dannel immediately grabbed the scones from him. Typical. They went up the street, around a corner, and found themselves standing in front of the iconic Evelyn Lavelle, one of the smaller West End theatres. It was named for the legendary Edwardian actress Evelyn Lavelle, who’d been one of the most photographed women of the time. A portrait of her by the artist of the time hung backstage in the theatre. Her beautiful voice and visage were said to haunt the dressing rooms.
The theatre was a small space, with two levels of seating in a historic building from the early 1900s. Osian had always loved the Evelyn Lavelle. With beautiful, brilliant acoustics, the sound carried in a way modern auditoriums could only pretend to replicate.
Of all the theatres they’d been to, the Evelyn Lavelle certainly felt as though it might be haunted. It had been well cared for and occasionally restored to perfection over the years. He often wondered if actors and actresses from the golden age of the twenties haunted the stage.
“Are we ready?” Ian sipped his coffee before adjusting his scarf carefully around his neck. He paused when a hideous scream came from inside the theatre. “Oh dear, sounds as though the ghost has struck again.”
Osian exchanged a worried glance with Dannel. “Maybe we should head inside?”
Ian led them into the theatre. They found a crowd gathered backstage in front of a door. “What’s going on? Let me through.”
Osian stayed close behind Ian. He managed to peer between the gawkers and could only stare in shock. “Archie?”
“Oz?” Archie was kneeling on the floor, almost keening in grief, bent over a grey-haired woman prone on the ground. He leaned back to turn tear-filled eyes toward Osian. “Oz. Help her. Please?”
“Someone call 999.” Osian shoved his way through the gathered actors and stagehands. He dropped to his knees beside Archie, trying to assess the situation. “Hurry. Someone call 999. There’s not much time.”
Damn it all.
It’s already too late.
“I’ve got it.” Ian fumbled in his pocket for his phone. “Everyone make room. He’s a paramedic.”
Former paramedic.
We should’ve stayed at home.
“Does anyone know who she is?” Osian tried to delicately assess the health of the woman on the floor without moving her. He couldn’t see her face. His attention was focused on the scissors plunged into her back. “Archie?”
“My mum.”
And our morning was going so well.