Soul Beach (3 page)

I shiver. I don’t like being alone with him any more.

I log off Messenger. There’s the beach again on my screen. I can’t get rid of that picture, whatever I do. It’s not even a normal photo. It’s too vivid, the colour of the
sea too turquoise, and the breakers against the shore so bright white they fizz like sherbet in front of my eyes. It’s almost like a 3D image, even though I know you don’t see 3D images
without those stupid glasses. But whenever I see the picture, it makes me think of the email, and it’s driving me mad.

I search for my old photo collage in My Pictures, but when I find it, it won’t let me load it as wallpaper. The blood rushes so loudly in my head that it sounds like waves.

‘Enough!’

I slam the laptop lid shut. Is this just a phase? Mum told me that when you grieve, you go through these different phases, and anger is one of them. But now I’ve shut the computer, the
rage has gone, like that.

And yet . . . I can hear Mum’s hairdryer humming next door, and the telly blaring downstairs.

But underneath the routine noises of our house, is the distant but unmistakeable sound of waves crashing against the sand.

Robbie, Cara and her new man, Mickey, are in the pub garden already.

‘Hello, lovely Alice!’ Robbie gets up, kisses me on the lips, and heads for the bar.

Mickey mutters some kind of Neanderthal greeting. He’s twenty-two. Cara met him when he served her a Big Mac and Fries. He’s cute, in that
bit of rough
way Cara likes these
days.

‘So have you replied to that email?’ she says to me, over Mickey’s head.

I nod.

‘I knew you would. And?’

‘No reply yet.’

‘I’ve been thinking,’ she says. ‘It’s not random, is it? Someone wants to get at you, Ali. Or get your attention.’

‘Yeah. But who wants my attention that badly?’

Robbie arrives back with my beer. ‘Someone trying to get your attention, Al? Should I know about this?’

I shoot Cara a warning look but she chooses not to see it.

‘We’re trying to work out who is sending these freaky emails to Alice.’

I see hurt in his eyes. I used to be able to spend hours debating what exact shade of brown they were, chestnut or dark chocolate. ‘It’s nothing. Just another one of those nutters
with a thing about Meggie,’ I tell him.

‘But they’ve got your email address?’

‘Really, it’s nothing,’ I repeat.

‘It was your sister, wasn’t it? says Mickey, waking up. ‘That got murdered.’

‘Yes.’

‘Pretty, wasn’t she? And she was famous. I remember her on that talent show. Wouldn’t have thought she was your sister.’

Robbie’s hand tightens into a fist, ready to defend my honour. Mickey hasn’t noticed. ‘I had a mate that got murdered,’ he continues. ‘Well, it was my
brother’s best mate’s cousin. Punch-up, outside a pub. Someone draws a blade, next thing . . .’ and to make the point, he pulls a finger across his throat.

‘Mickey?’ says Cara. Her voice is soft but her eyes are almost as black as her hair.

He turns to look at her.

‘Please sod off and leave me alone. Forever.’

Mickey’s face twists, like a glove puppet’s. Then he picks up his pint. ‘Never fancied you anyway. Stuck-up cow,’ then he nods at me and Robbie as he stands up,
‘stuck up mates. Oh, and
your
dead sister was way nicer looking.’

Robbie tries to go after him, but I put my hand out to stop him. ‘He’s not worth it.’ I don’t add that I reckon that thug could floor Robbie with one punch. Or that
Mickey only said what most people think when they realise who I am.

‘So, this email thing?’ Robbie says.

‘Really, it’s not an issue, OK? Someone hacked into Meggie’s account, and I’ve had a couple of stupid emails.’

‘That’s horrible,’ he says, taking my hand and stroking it. Six months ago that sensation would have left me unable to speak. ‘Lewis could track them down, throw a cyber
shit storm at them, if you want.’

Lewis is Robbie’s geeky older brother’s even geekier best friend. He’s one of those geniuses who started their own web design outfit before uni and ended up not bothering to go
to college. Apparently he’s going to be as rich as Bill Gates, but he’s never had a girlfriend.

‘No, please.’ I let go of his hand to pick up my beer. ‘The truth is, I almost like getting the emails. They . . . well, they kind of remind me that she existed.’

‘Oh, mate,’ says Cara, ‘of course she existed. She still exists, because we remember her. The whole of Britain does. Even that thicko Mickey knows who she was.’

‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But no one talks about her any more, do they?’

Cara and Robbie exchange glances, like doctors with a nervous patient.

‘We weren’t sure you were up to talking about her,’ Robbie says. ‘We should have asked, though. Memories keep people alive, don’t they?’

I hesitate. They are my two best friends in all the world. Maybe I can tell them the thing that scares me most in the world. I take a deep breath.

‘If the memories keep her alive, then what happens when I forget her?’

They look shocked.

‘You won’t,’ Robbie says.

I shake my head. ‘I won’t forget
about
her. But already . . . well, I know that one of her two front teeth was chipped but
I can’t even remember which
one
.’

‘The right one,’ says Cara, tapping her own slightly nicotine-stained tooth. ‘Same as mine.’

‘I don’t think that’s quite what Ali meant,’ says Robbie. ‘Look. It’s not the details. It’s how Meggie made you feel that counts.’

He doesn’t understand either. The feeling that every time I forget something about my sister, I am betraying her. That I am a poor excuse for a sister. But I should have known there was no
point in trying to explain: right now, the world seems an even lonelier place. ‘Yeah, maybe. Thanks, guys. Who’s on the bar tonight?’

‘Dopey bloke with the tats,’ says Cara. Then she winks. ‘You remember. From the Christmas party. Mr Octopus. He’ll do
anything
for me.’

‘Good,’ I say. ‘Because I could really use something stronger than a beer right now.’

I tiptoe into the house, hoping to avoid the Spanish Inquisition.

‘Alice?’ Dad calls out from the living room. I freeze.

‘Going straight to bed,’ I yell. ‘I’m really tired.’ I hold my breath.

He grunts ‘OK, goodnight then, sweetheart.’ I don’t suppose he wants to talk any more than I do.

I switch on the laptop, though I bet whoever is behind the whole scam has skulked off into cyberspace like the cowardly hacker he is.

I stare at the subject line. I can’t believe he’s replied. Maybe this guy is so stalkery that he’d settle for second best sister?

Or maybe it really
is
her.

Well, obviously I’m not that stupid. I focus on my two choices: open, or delete.

No choice at all, is it?

At first, I think I must be drunker than I realised. The text is more like hand-writing than a typeface, and
blurred
handwriting at that, as though the ink has run in the rain . . .

Except it isn’t ink, is it? I’m looking at a computer screen, not paper.

But that’s not the weirdest thing.

I close my eyes. I imagined it, didn’t I?

I open my eyes again, and it’s still there.

I am Alice Florence Forster. Conceived – oh God, how could they have given me
that
middle name for
that
reason? – in an Italian hotel on my parents’ wedding
anniversary. Meggie’s middle name is London. She was actually conceived in a one-bedroom flat in Shepherd’s Bush, but even my mother knew that would be a step too far.

My
middle name is a closely guarded secret, known only to six people: my form teacher, my doctor, my dentist, my embarrassing parents.

And my sister.

The only person in the world who can get away with calling me Florrie.

I read it over and over again. No full stop at the end of the sentence. That is so
not
like my big sister. As well as being a singing prodigy, she got A*s in GCSE and A Level English. No
one ever accused my sister of
just
being a pretty face. So her lack of punctuation proves there must be something wrong with her.

Of course there’s something wrong with her, you dozy cow. Meggie is dead.

Except I don’t think I believe that any more.

I
know
it’s her. The same way I knew that scary Cara would be my best friend the minute I saw her in the playground at secondary school, or that Robbie would be the first boy I ever
kissed. I
know
.

Everything outside this room is the same – I can hear my father snoring on the sofa downstairs, the only place he can still sleep soundly– but everything in
here
is changed.
My heart beats loud and fast. Should I run down, wake him up, tell him that Meggie is with us?

I laugh at myself. Yeah. Show him three emails that prove my sister’s immortal. That’s really going to help. They’ll have me in the loony bin before I can say
‘afterlife’.

I could call Cara, but she’d demand to come over even though it’s past midnight, and I bet she still wouldn’t believe me. Plus, there’s no way I am letting her know my
middle name is Florence. Not after keeping it secret for eleven years.

Or Robbie? He’d come back here now and hold me the way I need to be held, but he’d probably be texting geeky Lewis behind my back, getting him to block the site, which is the last
thing in the whole world I want right now. This might be madness, but it’s all I’ve got.

So that’s it, then. I’m on my own.

I scroll down the Soul Beach email, and my cursor hovers over the activation link. My hand trembles and the screen seems to pulse with my heartbeat.

‘Hold on, Meggie. I’m coming,’ I whisper.

In the distance, I can hear the waves.

The idea that heaven might be run by West Coast software nerds makes me smile, despite the fear I’m feeling as I stare at the screen. The fear that this might be for
real. Or, worse, the fear that it might not be.

I click Yes, even though I know that’ll give whoever or
whatever
this is complete control of my laptop, as well as my emotions. And then I hold my breath.

The beach appears gradually, as though I’m walking through early morning mist that clears with every step I take.

Before I can even see the place, I
feel
it, like an electrical charge through my body. For a moment, it’s frighteningly physical, almost paralysing, but then I am warm, fizzy, like
my blood has been replaced by champagne.

I blink, and the mist clears, to reveal
that
beach. The one from my desktop. The colours are even more dazzling: every grain of sand is a slightly different shade of gold, so realistic
that they seem to shift under my feet as I walk. And the turquoise brilliance of the sea, with white foam cresting on the waves, cools my eyes. The breakers whoosh against the shoreline, and they
sound nothing like the artificial waves on Mum’s relaxation tapes. These are too real to be relaxing: forceful and stroppy, as if aware of their own power.

And now I realise.
Those
are the sounds I’ve been mistaking for anger, for blood rushing through my head. Why didn’t I recognise them sooner?

I walk along the beach courtesy of my mouse, though the movement is so fluid that I am hardly aware of it. I scour the horizon for people, but nothing interrupts the holiday-brochure perfection,
except clusters of bamboo huts on stilts, and what looks like a deserted beach bar with a palm-leaf roof, a long way in the distance. The bay is enclosed by sharp, green-scrub coloured rocks that
rise sharply upwards, protecting the landscape from anything that might spoil it.

I have never been anywhere this breath-taking. I could so easily lie down right here, feel the warm sand mould to the shape of my body, and the healing heat of the sun on my face . . .

Then I remember I’m looking for Meggie.

Anger replaces that rush of pleasure and contentment. That’s the first time since May that I’ve forgotten about her death. I don’t think I’ve even forgotten in my
sleep.

So how
could
I forget now?

I rage against myself, furious that I’m so shallow, and then furious with this place for
making
me forget.

‘What is this? I don’t want to be on a sodding desert island. I just want to see Meggie,’ I burst out.

I look around me. Bloody hell. I am in my bedroom, shouting at my computer. I’ve totally lost it now, haven’t I? Or maybe I lost it the minute I believed my sister still existed.

Disappointment comes in waves, harder and faster than the ones on the screen. I’m crushed. I wanted to believe in this, because I can’t believe in anything else. But it’s
nothing but a tropical con trick.

I try to click out of the site, but wherever I move my mouse, I can’t find the little x in the right hand corner, and I can’t even find the File menu to exit that way. The more
agitated I get, the less effect I have on the images in front of me. The water still laps at the shoreline, the sun still bounces off the water, the sand still feels warm between my toes.