Soul Beach (12 page)

Either way, I am convinced something is wrong . . .

Soul Beach is quiet. Hard to know what time it is ‘there’ but I’m guessing somewhere around four a.m. There’s a hint of dawn on the horizon, but the bodies on the beach
are slumped, and even the waves seem to whisper
shhh
.

No one stirs as I pass. Most of them can’t see me, after all. As I increase the pace with the mouse, my footsteps speed up, slapping against the sand until I begin to pant – it
really does feel as though my lungs are emptying as I get faster. I remember what Meggie said to me, about the beach stretching on for ever, about no one ever finding the edge.

Finally I see Danny, half-sitting, half-lying against the side of a beach hut, his shoulders slumped and his eyes closed. The images of him in his tux, and then of his plane smashed against the
desert like a broken insect, come back to me and the contrast is so shocking that I have to look away. I stalk around the other side of the hut, and find Triti and Javier asleep in one
another’s arms. He’s so long and lean, and she’s tiny, but they both look like little children, their mouths slightly open as they breathe. What happened to devastate his family
so completely?

And then I look inside the hut, through the gap between the door and the bamboo frame.

She’s on her own, a sheet half wrapped around her. How strange. I’ve seen Meggie in the nude a thousand times, I’ve bathed with her, compared freckles (thousands on me, no more
than a dozen on her). But this feels wrong. Like spying.

I put the laptop into sleep mode and shuffle into yesterday’s clothes. I try to reason with myself: at least she’s still here. At least I can still talk to her. A few moments ago, I
thought I might have been banished from this paradise, so I should be glad.

But none of that improves my mood. I wish . . .

I try to stop myself thinking it, but it’s too late. Sometimes I almost wish I was dead, too, because at least then I wouldn’t feel so left out.

The news about Tim being let out is all around school.

I feel the stares as I go through the gate, and when I’m outside sixth-form block, I’m attracting so much attention that I have to check I remembered to put on my jeans.

‘Alice!’ Cara cuts through the crowded corridor and gives me a hug. I wriggle free, though with her at my side I do feel less exposed. ‘I heard about Tim. Need a
coffee?’

‘I’m late already.’

‘Screw that. The teachers’ll let you off anything today. Make the most of it, chick.’

Before I can argue, I’m being swept towards the common room, which is empty because anyone up this early has a class to go to. Cara makes me a coffee, and when I sip it, it tastes of
booze. ‘Ugh!’

‘Medicinal,’ she explains. Cara’s mother has one of those drinks cabinets that just keeps on giving. ‘Plus, we’ve got History, haven’t we? I need something to
get through that even on a normal day.’

I take another sip. ‘I appreciate the thought, but that’s disgusting.’

She sniffs, then tastes, and pulls a face. ‘Shit, you’re right. I guess that means we’re not teen alcoholics, then.’ She walks over to the sink with the mugs and pours
them down the drain.

Cara sits back down again and reaches into her bag, pulling out a packet of chocolate biscuits. ‘Plan B.’ She makes a big pile out of them on the table in front of me.
‘The leaning tower of digestives. We can’t go to History until we’ve finished them! Agreed?’

I nod.

‘Do you still think Tim’s innocent?’ she asks.

I turn the question back onto her. ‘Do you?’

She shrugs. ‘He never seemed the murdering type to me, though I admit I’m not the best judge of men. I thought he was a bit dull. Maybe he had an awful temper that none of us saw.
His hair was sort of ginger, wasn’t it, and they say they’re the worst. Maybe he did it but didn’t mean to.’

No. Not Tim. ‘
Maybe
.’

‘You don’t sound like you believe it. Do you suspect someone else?’

‘Just because I’m her sister doesn’t mean I know who killed her, Cara. I don’t have a sixth sense.’

She sighs. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s all anyone can think about when they see me.
Oh, look, there’s Alice. Oh, wasn’t it terrible what happened? Poor Meggie, so talented
. It was bad enough when
she was alive –
Let’s hear you sing, Meggie. Alice, you can mime
– but now it’s unbearable.’ And then I realise how that sounded. ‘Sorry. I’m such a
bitch.’

Cara nods, and eats half a biscuit before she speaks. ‘I only asked because in the pub you said you were fed up with no one ever talking about Meggie.’

‘Oh.’ I see her point. ‘Sorry.’

‘No.
I’m
sorry. Today’s an exception, Alice. Sure, there’ll be times like this when it’s all anyone can think about. But if Tim did do it, they’ll get
him in the end. He’ll go to prison and then you can live the life you were always going to have. Which reminds me. Have you started on your UCAS form yet?’

I take a biscuit myself. I didn’t eat this morning and I feel slightly faint. But it tastes like cardboard. ‘No. Maybe I should go to Greenwich, like Meggie.’

‘So you can be even more paranoid about people always thinking of your sister?’ Cara shakes her head, then stands up. ‘Sometimes you’re your own worst enemy. I’ll
put up with it, I’m your best mate. But not everyone feels that way . . .’

‘Are people saying things?’ And then I wonder if she means Robbie. ‘Has Robbie been talking to you?’

‘No. He’s too loyal. But it doesn’t mean he’s
not
getting pissed off, Alice. And don’t think for a second that the Megan thing will stop other girls getting
their claws into him. I’ve already heard whispers that people think he’s fair game because of the way you treat him.’

She waits for my reaction. I feel nothing. ‘Thanks for the warning, Cara.’ I stand up too. ‘If we don’t go to History now, we might as well not bother.’

She grabs my hand. ‘Don’t leave me, Alice.
Please
. I feel like you’re slipping away.’

I stare at her. ‘Don’t be daft, Cara. I’ve got enough on my plate without you saying weird stuff.’ I walk out of the common room, feeling wired from the sugar rush. I
know she’s right. That I’m going to lose Robbie to some competitive bimbo from Year Eleven. But I don’t think I care enough to try to stop it happening.

Somehow I get through school, ignoring the whispers, and then I walk home alone.

Today the sky’s so grey it merges with the pavements, and the humidity plasters my hair to the back of my neck. I crave colour: on Soul Beach, it will be blue and gold and sunshine and
salty sea breezes that blow away any stickiness. If it isn’t actually heaven, then it must be pretty damn close. I suddenly feel slightly impatient with Meggie. What
exactly
is wrong
with eternal paradise?

OK, too much of a good thing might get samey, but given a choice between hellfire and tropical loveliness, most of us wouldn’t hesitate. Trust Meggie to find something to complain
about.

There. I’ve said it. Meggie could be a bit of a moaner.

Death smoothes away people’s faults. Meggie was beautiful and talented and generous and funny. No one could resist her. That much we’re allowed to talk about. But she could also be
moody. And selfish. And patronising. Even, occasionally, unkind. She was a human being, but now that she’s dead, she’s a saint.

Mum didn’t sit me down and say
do not speak ill of the dead
. It happened naturally. It’s only now that I’ve got her back that I can admit how maddening she could be on
the rare occasions when she wasn’t the centre of attention.

Is that why she’s so miserable on Soul Beach? On earth, her voice and her beauty made her special. Even before
Sing for Your Supper
, she stood out. But now she’s just another
pretty face in an ocean of them. I’ve heard the kids jamming by the shore, and no one on Soul Beach sings off-key.

Now she knows what it’s like to be me.

No, that’s not fair. I have a future, she doesn’t. I can’t even begin to understand how she feels. But then isn’t it torture for her when I’m on Soul Beach? My
presence is a reminder of what she’s lost. Perhaps she even wonders why it had to be
her
and not me. God knows, I wondered it myself in the early days.

Maybe
that’s
why Visitors stop going back to Soul Beach. It’s not because the living get bored hanging out with the dead. It’s because they realise that the dead
don’t want a constant reminder of what they’ve lost.

‘You know I’d never put pressure on you, Ali. It’s just that . . .’

We’re sitting on Robbie’s bed. He texted me after hearing about Tim from some kids in his school, and insisted I come over. But now we’ve somehow stumbled into The Big
Conversation, the one we’ve been avoiding for months.

It’s just that
. . . he can tell my heart’s not in it, and that must be pretty tough on his ego.

It’s just that
. . . whenever we kiss I feel my body shutting down or, worse, I feel horrified. Of course I haven’t told him that, but he’s not stupid.

It’s just that
. . . he knows the difference between the way I used to respond, and the way I tense up now when he touches me. He’ll stop and we’ll sit up and mostly
we’ll pretend it never happened. When we first got together, we could talk about anything. Now
everything
embarrasses us.

‘Do you want us to break up?’ I ask.

‘No,’ he says, but I don’t think he realises he’s nodding even as he denies it. ‘I know it’s not the most important thing in a relationship, and I love you so
much, but I fancy you so much and . . .’ he stops speaking. ‘Sorry.’

I put my hand on his. ‘Don’t apologise. We’re not fifty, are we? We’re meant to be having the time of our lives.’

‘We were so brilliant together.’

Were.

I breathe in sharply when I realise he’s talking in the past tense. It’s one thing to imagine I’ll be so mature if he wants us to split up. It’s a whole other thing now
it’s actually happening.

‘I love you, Robbie.’

But if I loved him, I’d
want
him. Maybe I’m in love with the memories of how he made me feel before it all went wrong. Now, nothing makes me feel anything any more. Nothing
except Soul Beach.

‘I love you too, Alice.’

He’s on the edge of tears and those kissable lips are drawn tight, as he tries not to break. I can’t let him cry. I know what I have to do for him. I shut my eyes.

‘But love doesn’t mean it’s not over between us, Robbie. We’d have split up months ago if you hadn’t felt sorry for me. Well, I’m a big girl now. I’ll
cope. We’d have split up when we went to university, anyway. Everybody does.’

He stares at me, unable to believe what he’s heard. That makes two of us. I am surprised at how easy it is to play the bitch.

‘Is that really what you think?’ he says eventually.

I shrug. ‘I’ve watched my parents start hating each other since Meggie died, but they’re married. They have to work on it. We don’t. Sometimes it’s best to have a
clean break.’

He doesn’t know what to say. Maybe he’s relieved. After a few seconds, I swing my legs off the bed and push my shoes back on.

I did this, so why do I still want him to say something to rescue
us
? But he’s not even looking at me. I lean forward to kiss him, because it seems like the right thing to do, and
out of habit he kisses me back properly and I pull away.

‘No.’

I walk out of the door and down the stairs and I don’t even look round when I hear Robbie’s mother come out of the kitchen to ask whether I want a coffee and a slice of homemade
carrot cake.

I’m on my own again, the dusk turning the streets even greyer than before. I close my eyes, longing to hear the waves that remind me that there’s more to life than this pretty crappy
reality.

But it’s not the waves I can hear. It’s Meggie.

Florrie.

And I answer her in my head.
I’m on my way . . .

October stinks of bonfires and rotting leaves.

Of cemeteries.

But the Beach has the same, impossible fragrance it always does, a seductive cocktail of ozone and fruit punch and sea-washed bamboo.

‘What time of year is it, Florrie?’

My sister and I are sitting together a little way from the bar, under a palm so huge that the shady area underneath feels like our own private hideaway. I come here twice, three times a day now:
morning and afternoon, plus the briefest of trips before I go to bed.

It’s as much part of my routine as brushing my teeth, though a lot more enjoyable – I can’t imagine
not
doing it. As for Meggie, she seems happier than she did when I
first arrived, more like herself. I think it might be because of me . . .

‘Er. You really don’t know?’

She opens her eyes. ‘Look around you. The weather’s always the same, so I lose track. Anyway, Sam in the bar says it’s better that way. The Guests who mark each day with a line
in the sand will never accept what’s happened.’

‘It’s autumn. October.’

‘My favourite
. Christmas is coming and the goose is getting fat
!’ That’s the other thing that’s changed: Meggie sings, now. In fact, it’s almost impossible
to stop her.

I don’t tell her that Christmas this year will be unbearable without her there.

‘Hey guys!’ She calls out to Javier and the gang, who are walking past. ‘Guess what. Summer’s over!’

They head towards us, and I try to fake a smile. I prefer it when it’s just Meggie and me: not only because Javier is annoying and Danny unsettles me and Triti makes me feel fat. But also
because now I know how the two boys died, I can’t get two images out of my head: that debris-strewn desert where Danny’s plane crashed, and Javier as that sweet, solemn boy whose life
ended with a fall from that rooftop.

‘Don’t you guys just love winter?,’ she says, as they sit down on our blanket.
Uh oh
. Looks like they’re sticking around. ‘Darker nights in cosy pubs.
Halloween. Bonfire night.’