Soul Fire (4 page)

I would like to say I told you so. That I knew another death was coming.

But who would I say it to? Murder is a lonely business, and, anyway, people would say, ‘Of course you saw it coming. You were the killer.’

Yet I swear it wasn’t premeditated. Can anyone but a hitman or a psychopath say with certainty when they will take a life?

It would be like waking in the morning and saying, ‘At nine ten a.m. I will kill a fly,’ when you might not even see a fly all day, or even feel the need to
open the window that could let one in.

Actions come from random encounters with opportunity. Those who obsess about motive are missing the point. One might as well argue that victims have motives, too. That they
know when their moment will come.

Really, the line that separates killer from killed is thinner than any of us would like to admit.

Wet earth falls onto my face. My hands are tied behind my back. I choke on the soil as I try to breathe.

‘Help me!’

When I wake up, I’m clawing at my face, gasping for breath. This is the same nightmare my sister used to have. She told me about it once, when she was a bit drunk. It’s as though
I’ve inherited it from her.

I’m groggy and headachy. And – I check my watch – due in school in four minutes.

‘Mum?’

I bang on my parents’ bedroom door and when she doesn’t answer, I push it open. ‘Mum, it’s almost nine.’

She doesn’t stir and I notice how young she looks when she’s asleep. Her skin is slightly puffy, from drinking a bit too much last night. I don’t blame her.

‘Alice?’ Mum sits up, her face wrinkled with worry again.

‘We’ve overslept. And I had a terrible night. And it’s still snowing. I was wondering . . . would it be all right for me to stay at home today? After what happened.’

‘After what?’ she says, scowling. Then she remembers and sinks back onto the pillow. ‘Tim. Oh, God.’

‘I don’t want to have to see people today. It’ll be all over the news. I can’t face it, Mum.’

She sighs. ‘We can’t run away from this, Alice. If you don’t go in today, it’ll be twice as tough tomorrow . . .’

But I can tell she’s close to saying yes. ‘I’m not talking about forever. Just today.
Please.’

She holds her hand up. ‘OK. I give in. Stay home with me. We can watch a movie. Order in a takeaway for lunch. Eat cake.’

I stare at my mother. She suddenly seems hyperactive. ‘Are you
pleased
that this has happened to Tim?’

‘No, of course not.’ Then she blinks. ‘But . . . but I was haunted by the idea he’d go on to live a normal life. Have a family of his own. While your sister . .
.’

‘Mum—’

‘I didn’t want it to happen like
this
, Alice, honestly. But I did want justice.’

So do I
. And so do at least two other
JusticeSeekers
. I want to go online to check if there are other messages and scour the site for evidence: not only about Tim’s death,
but also my sister’s. Finding
her
killer is still the most important thing to me.

OK, so Mum banned me last night. But she didn’t mean it. She’ll have calmed down this morning – I hope.

She leans forward and fiddles with my hair. ‘Got to focus on the future. On you, my gorgeous Alice. But let’s save the movies and the big lunch for when we’re both feeling
jollier. Take it easy today.’

‘Thanks, Mum. You’re great, you know that?’

She smiles. ‘Do I sense you’re about to ask another favour?’ I look round the room, and spot my laptop on her bookshelf. ‘I just thought . . . maybe I could take the
computer. Do some school research. I’ll even use it downstairs, if you want – so you can keep an eye on me.’

Her face hardens again. ‘Alice, for pity’s sake, can’t you manage a single day without bloody well going online? Go for a walk. Go to the shops. I don’t know. Buy some
drugs or
something
.’ Then she smiles weakly. ‘That last bit was a joke.’

But then she reaches for her purse and passes me twenty pounds. When I go to take it, she hangs on to my hand. Her skin is warm. ‘Spend it on something fun, eh, darling? We can start again
now, can’t we? Not forget Meggie, but move forward, knowing it’s all over.’

I don’t say anything. I can’t lie about
this.

She doesn’t notice, though. She just closes her eyes. ‘Close the door behind you, Alice. I don’t think I’ll bother to get up today. Then tomorrow, well. Tomorrow is the
first day of the rest of our lives.’

I’ve got myself a day off, but with the Beach and Burning Truths off limits, I don’t know what the hell to do.

I could go to Greenwich, of course, if the trains are still running through the snow. It’s where Meggie died, and now Tim, too. I’m sure Sahara would meet me, and Ade. I could use
today to find out more about what happened in his flat.

And yet . . . something stops me calling Sahara. It’s not as though I suspect her, exactly, but at the same time, if Tim didn’t kill Meggie, someone must have. Once upon a time, I
thought murderers were crazy strangers, the kind of stalkers Meggie gained as soon as she appeared on
Sing for Your Supper.

But everything I’ve read since she died insists you’re more likely to be killed by the people closest to you. I shiver. The chances are Meggie knew her murderer. And so it’s
possible . . . no,
likely
, that I do too.

Sahara? Ade? Zoe, the girl who found Meggie’s body? One of the other friends they hung around with?

I remember the language on Burning Truths. All about arming yourself with information, fighting fire with fire. Perhaps it’s better if I don’t talk to anyone who knew Meggie until
I’ve read every word of Burning Truths.

But there is someone I can to talk to, someone I can trust. Someone who also happens to have a computer set-up to rival NASA.

‘Hello, stranger,’ Lewis answers on the first ring.

‘It hasn’t been
that
long,’ I say, even though it probably has. ‘I’ve been busy with revision, sorry.’

‘Oh, right. I know how seriously you take your exams, Alice!’ He’s teasing me. He’s the only person who still does; everyone else treats me like an invalid, even now.

‘Something’s happened. I wondered if I could come over.’

‘On a school day? Don’t forget those important exams of yours.’

‘Ha, ha. Mum’s let me stay off because . . . Well, can I explain when I get there?’

There’s a pause. ‘All right, Ali. I’m stuck in the flat all day, anyway, doing some testing.’

‘The flat?’

Lewis laughs. ‘Mmm. I was finally moving out of home, remember? You were going to help me with the packing.’

Shit
. ‘Oh, Lewis. I’m sorry. After all the stuff you’ve done for me . . . I’m a rubbish friend, aren’t I?’

‘Your heart’s in the right place, though. I could pick you up in the car in half an hour if that suits you? And if you really want to help, bring your rubber gloves. The flat could
do with a woman’s touch.’

As soon as he rings off, I race out the door, almost slipping on frozen snow. At least I have money to spend, thanks to Mum’s twenty quid and a bit extra I’ve put aside. But what do
you buy for the guy who has everything – or, at least, can afford everything he wants? Lewis is well on the way to being the next Bill Gates, even though he never boasts about it. He has a
brain the size of a very large planet, and set up his first tech company from his bedroom before his GCSEs. Four years on, the only signs that he’s doing pretty well are the designer shoes
and manbags, which really don’t match his dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards hair and clothes.

Well, I definitely can’t afford designer, and all the gift shops round here are packed with pink cupcake-themed tat. If you hung around our suburb for long enough, you’d think
feminism never happened.

No wonder Meggie got away to Greenwich. This place was too small for her.

I can’t buy booze, because all the shopkeepers know me. And even though it’s his favourite, a crate of Diet Coke doesn’t quite cut it as a house-warming present. This has to be
a
good
present, to make up for neglecting him.

Lewis started off as a kind of surrogate big brother, drafted in by my mates to try to get to the bottom of the weird emails I was sent just after Meggie’s funeral. By the time Lewis
showed up, I’d discovered that the ‘weird’ emails actually came from my sister, so I’ve never told him about Soul Beach. But he’s helped me out of a few scrapes, and
more than that, he’s become a real friend. And I can’t wait to see him.

I’m passing the greengrocer’s when I see it – a huge chilli plant with the tiniest, reddest peppers emerging from the flowers. The label says they’re among the fieriest
on earth, and can irritate if not handled carefully.

I don’t know why I think that’s just right, but I do. It seems to suit Lewis; he likes to get under people’s skin.

‘Welcome to Tomlinson Towers,’ Lewis says, opening the door to his flat.

‘So this is where you’re plotting world domination these days?’

‘Well, I couldn’t stay at my mum’s forever, could I? Living with Mummy does rather reinforce the stereotype of the anti-social computer nerd. I’m lucky the FBI
didn’t break down my door, taser me senseless and cart me off to Guantanamo.’

I’m still trying to hide the badly wrapped chilli plant that Lewis has chivalrously pretended not to notice. The flat is in the basement of a Victorian house, close to the river, and as I
step inside, I half-expect it to be damp, but instead it smells green and woody, like a forest.

‘Have you overdone the air fresheners, Lewis? Oh!’

The place is small, with a giant sofa, an old tiled fireplace, and an open-plan kitchen. But where the far wall should be, there’s a set of arched patio doors, a giant glass desk, topped
with three wide-screen monitors, and beyond that . . . what looks like a mini rainforest! Glossy jungle leaves, delicate ferns, over-sized bamboos: a wild wall of colour in a glass-house.

‘Are you growing drugs, Lewis?’

He laughs. ‘Nothing as cool as that. No, I like plants. See, I am a geekafter all!’

A neglected cactus might seem geeky, but this doesn’t. ‘Did you grow them?’

‘Some of the seedlings are mine,’ he says, still guarded in case I take the piss. ‘The rest I bought, or “adopted” from Freecycle since I moved in here. It’s
amazing how many people want to give up on their unruly plants.’

I smile. Lewis is pretty unruly himself, like a gangly tree growing up towards the sun. ‘So you’re their last hope? St Francis of the Foliage?’

‘To be fair, they’re working for me too. There’s a theory that they help soak up electromagnetic radiation from computers. But before you ask, I don’t talk to them. Or
stroke them. It’s a purely platonic relationship.’

That’s when it hits me: the weirdness of being in his flat. I turn away from the wall of plants. The fireplace is filled with half-burned candles, and the chocolate brown L-shaped sofa
seems designed for two. How many girls has he entertained here since he moved in? He was lying about it needing a woman’s touch – the flat’s already super-stylish, like a
laid-back bar where you’d hang out all weekend with your mates.

I remember my plant. ‘Oh. I, uh, got you something. It’s going to look a bit pathetic next to all your trees, though.’

He takes the package, and opens it carefully. ‘Habanero chilli. Wow! Perfect, Ali. I don’t have a chilli in my collection yet. You read my mind. Thanks so much.’

He leans forward, as though he’s going to hug me, but at the last minute he stops, puts the plant down, runs his fingers through his already messy hair. ‘Right. So, can I get you a
coffee?’ He points proudly at the new espresso maker. Then he sees my face. ‘Or would you rather just tell me what’s happened straight away?’

I nod, and perch on the edge of the sofa, so it doesn’t swallow me up. He sits at the other end, and, for a moment, I almost wish I had asked for a coffee because I don’t want to say
the words out loud.

‘Tim’s dead.’

Lewis stares at me. ‘Bloody hell. How?’

‘Suffocated.’

‘Was he smothered? Like Meggie?’

I knew Lewis would make the connection straight away.

‘He had a plastic bag over his head. But it’s still asphyxiation. So it has to be the same person, doesn’t it?’

‘Hold on, Ali. A plastic bag . . . That could be suicide, right?’

‘If you think that, then you’re as blinded by the press as the rest of them!’ I snap back. ‘I thought you were different, Lewis. Aren’t you meant to be a scientist?
If you won’t listen to the evidence, I might as well go.’ I stand up.

‘Calm down. I’m on your side. But you haven’t given me the evidence yet. Sit down and take me through it.’

I do sit again, reluctantly, as I realise there is actually
no one else
I can confide in. ‘OK. Well, Tim was found by his flatmate, Ade. I told you about him before. Sahara’s
boyfriend. He came back to their place and found Tim there. There was a bottle at his side, and the bag, but no note.’

‘Go on.’

‘That’s the most important fact of all, Lewis. If he didn’t leave a note, that proves he didn’t kill himself.’

Lewis massages his head, like he can stimulate his brain cells through his scalp. ‘Alice . . . I see what you’re getting at, but not everyone leaves a note. And if he’d been
drinking, maybe it got too much for him, suddenly? He might not have planned it.’

‘Yes, but . . .’ If only I could tell Lewis about the Beach, about the look on my sister’s face when she saw Tim. That was all the proof I needed that Meggie
knew
deep
down that Tim was her soul mate, not her killer.

Of course, I can’t explain that to Lewis – but I
can
tell him about Burning Truths.

‘OK. Say Tim didn’t do it himself, then who do you think did?’ Lewis asks.

‘Someone who knew both of them. From Greenwich.’

‘Like who? Sahara? This Ade? Some other random person?’