24
Ghost Train
I sat on a little white stool while Changing Room Girl pranced around naked, singing “Don’t Cha” by the Pussycat Dolls. Ginger Bun’s corpse rose up off the floor, the colour of blueberries. It contorted and cracked, doing a reverse crab to the song as if demonically possessed. Before I could record it on my phone, the scenery shifted and suddenly I was in the Trafford Centre food court, burger in hand. As I took a bite, I heard a tiny scream from inside the bun. I felt a crunch between my teeth, spindly little legs and feet kicking. I spat out tiny yellow feathers and looked down at the mess in my hands. A little deep-fried chick, still alive, tiny eyes and beak popping out through the batter.
“What have you done?” it said.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t stop myself.”
I
