Soul Beach (7 page)

I push myself up from the stool, my legs still weak, and slip past my parents. They barely notice me go.

As I switch on my laptop, my craving for the peace and beauty of the shore is stronger than ever.

It’s only been ten days since I first walked at the water’s edge, but already I don’t know how I could survive reality without my refuge on Soul Beach, and the miracle of
hearing my sister’s voice again.

As the page loads, I realise I don’t know how I’m going to tell Meggie about Tim. Should I even try? Does she deserve to know – or will it hurt her even more?

And yet, there’s nothing to tell yet. This is Tim we’re talking about. The first of her boyfriends to treat me like a human being, instead of Meggie’s dumb kid sister. He
talked to me about the big things: my plans, my ambitions, my ideas.

That’s not how a killer behaves, is it?

I’m trying to work out how to play it with her as the beach appears at last, and I gasp . . .

I can see
people.

Hundreds of beautiful people.

It’s like a beach party on a music video: sun worshippers clustered round the bamboo beach huts and splashing about in the turquoise water. So much for my refuge . . .

I don’t move forward. I’m too busy staring. Everyone here is young, exactly like Sam said: teens and early twenties. And not just young: gorgeous, too. There’s a rainbow of
hair and skin colours, and they’re all wearing slightly preppy clothes. The boys are in cut-off jeans or baggy surfing shorts – no skin-tight Speedos in sight – with either bare
chests, laundry-white tees or linen checked shirts.

The girls are more colourful, wearing bikinis in bright primary colours, or patterned spaghetti-strap sundresses. They’re swimming, or surfing, or lolling around on beach towels. I see one
guy with a Spanish guitar, singing an indie hit from last summer. He has a sexy voice, with a slight accent. Russian? Czech? A Japanese girl sits next to him, tapping an improvised beat on a tiny
set of drums, and the others hum a soft accompaniment.

I think I preferred the beach empty. There’s something
disturbing
about perfection. And the creepiest thing is that they all look so familiar. I suppose it’s because of the
model looks – and yet I’m sure there’s something more than that. I recognise them at a deeper level: a flutter of the eyelids, a pout, a flick of the hair.

There’s a kid over there who reminds me of the drum and bass star who was found dead in his hotel room after some serious partying. And that German girl who was all over the headlines last
year when she was kidnapped because a gang was after her dad’s scientific formula or invention or something.

Did she ever turn up?
I have a feeling her ear was couriered, on ice, to his lab.

She looks around and looks right through me. No, that girl was ordinary, even in the picture her family gave to the papers. This girl here is a supermodel. And she has both her ears . . .

As I move, I notice that they
all
look straight through me. But then perhaps I am not worth paying attention to, with my normal face and my normal body.
Their
bodies are perfect:
no sunburn, no cellulite, no sign of how they might have died.

No Meggie, either. I look for her Alice in Wonderland halo of hair. (I deserved that hair to go with my name, but instead I got impossible kinks that even Mum’s GHDs can’t iron out.)
My sister must fit right in here, with her curves and her heart-shaped face that never needed make-up, not even under the harshest studio lights.

But if the surfers and the sunbathers here are all dead, then where do
average
-looking teens go after death? The ones with thick ankles or frizzy hair? Before Meggie died, I’d never
thought about life after death, but if there is a judgement day, shouldn’t it focus on good deeds, instead of sex appeal?

‘Florrie?’

I spin round.

Oh my God . . .

Meggie, a hundred times more beautiful than before.

Her hair has lightened in the sun, so it’s even fairer than it is in the picture of her as a baby Mum keeps on the mantelpiece. Normally, Meggie just has to look at the sun to burn, her
one flaw, but right now, only her face is pink, cheeks the colour of garden roses. Her body is a flawlessly airbrushed bronze.

We reach out to touch each other at exactly the same moment . . . but my hand strikes the screen, and hers drops like a stone through empty air.

‘Oh, Meggie. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.’

She’s struggling to answer. She reaches out her arms a second time, but of course, there’s nothing there. Even if we weren’t online, I’ve seen enough movies about ghosts
to know you can’t
feel
them, beyond a half-imagined breath in your ear or the sensation of their eyes watching you.

‘Bloody hell,’ she says, moving backwards like she’s been slapped. ‘I don’t know why I did that. You look so real, that’s all.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes. Oh yes. I was frightened you might stay a blur, but you’re not. You really are here. On the Beach. With me.’

It’s then I realise that the light on the built in web cam is glowing for the first time since I got to Soul Beach. So part of me is here, in my bedroom, hunched over the screen, and then
a virtual me is on the sand. I struggle to make sense of it. ‘What am I wearing?’

‘Oh, the usual,’ she says. ‘The usual for here, that is. Today you’re in a bright red t-shirt that makes your eyes look greener, and a short denim skirt that shows your
very
lovely tanned knees.’

‘They’re not tanned at all. The weather’s been crap this summer.’ Though I only know that from newspaper headlines; I’ve hardly left the house.

‘Well, your tan looks pretty fab to me, Florrie. Then again, everyone looks fab here.’

‘I noticed. Where do the mingers go? Is there a separate heaven for them?’

She looks serious. ‘I’ve heard it’s on a rubbish tip, and, when you get there, you have to scavenge your own clothes from among the tin cans and the rotten food.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, God, Florrie, you’re still bloody gullible, aren’t you? No, there’s no audition to get onto Soul Beach. The good thing about being dead is that suddenly you’re
perfect. Look . . . .’ and she lifts up her ankle, ‘. . . my trampoline scar.’

She runs her finger along untouched, hair-free flesh.

I look closely. ‘It’s not there.’

She laughs. ‘No. And I haven’t had a single spot. No periods, no PMT, no headaches, no hangovers. There’s booze here, of course, but it doesn’t affect you in any bad way,
and after a while most people don’t bother to get drunk, because everything here is so damned
wonderful
already
.’

I suddenly notice that there’s an odd shrill tone to her words.

‘Unlimited booze but no one gets wasted?’

Meggie nods towards the group of Scandinavian-looking blond kids sitting on a rug having a picnic further along the shore.

‘Look closer. What do you see?’

I stare at them for ages, trying to work out why they make me feel so uncomfortable. The picnic is incredibly lavish, the rug laden with bright green salads, fresh juicy peaches and nectarines,
barbecued burgers and chicken, baguettes, chocolate cake, strawberries and cream.

For the first time in days, no,
months
, I feel properly hungry; it all looks so mouth-watering. Then there’s the booze: jugs of ruby red sangria with oranges floating amongst the
ice-cubes, cans of beer in a bucket, bottles of white wine with condensation frosting the glass.

Then I realise what’s wrong.

‘They’re not drinking. Or eating. Are they on drugs?’

‘No,’ Meggie replies. ‘But after a while . . . it’s hard to explain. It doesn’t really satisfy you like it did before. I guess that’s something to do with not
being alive.’

Another thought occurs to me. An awkward one. ‘What about
sex
?’

She laughs loudly now, no more tension. ‘Oh, there is
that
. Risk-free and available whenever you fancy it, especially with the newbies when they first get here. They’re
rampant when they realise there’s no need for condoms, no STDs, no pregnancy worries.’

I try not to think about whether my sister ran wild to begin with. ‘But you can actually feel touch? Between ghosts I mean.’

‘Shhh!’ She looks alarmed. ‘Don’t use that word. We’re not ghosts. I don’t know what we are. Lost souls, maybe? But we’re not
ghosts.
’

‘Sorry.’

Meggie smiles. ‘Don’t be. It’s too weird, at first, isn’t it? Anyway, yes, sex does feel good here. Not quite the same. A bit . . . distant, somehow. You know when you
kiss a new person for the first time, it’s always different, even though it’s only a variation on the same slobbery theme?’

I’ve only kissed two boys, but I don’t tell her that. ‘Hmm?’

‘The sex here is so easily available and so . . . samey that I miss something real, something as ordinary and messy as snogging. Plus, it’s extra weird because everyone here is
gorgeous. Different colours, different looks . . . yet we’re spookily similar, like mannequins. Highly shaggable mannequins, but all the same . . .’

‘Meggie! You never used to be this coarse.’

She shrugs. ‘That’ll be the company I keep. Speaking of which, would you like to meet some of my new best friends?’

Her new best friends are sitting on the bamboo steps of the beach hut, in the shade of a giant palm. They hug Meggie as though they haven’t seen her for years, but ignore
me completely – which strikes me as incredibly rude, though it does gives me the chance to study them.

There are three friends: two boys and a girl. The girl is Indian and very petite and pretty. I’d guess she’s around my age, but she looks older, thanks to enormous boobs that are
barely contained by her orange-and-white striped bikini. She wears a huge amber-and-crystal necklace that draws the eye down to her cleavage, and dangly earrings that move softly in the breeze like
wind chimes. Despite her brown skin, there’s an odd bluey sheen to her, as though she’s slightly translucent. For a moment, I imagine I can see her skull, but then I realise it’s
just the sun shining on her sharp cheekbones.

Sitting next to her is a tall, skinny guy with Italian colouring. His lilac cotton shirt is unbuttoned to show toned abs, and his gestures are larger than life. There’s something
superficial about him, somehow.

But when the other guy looks straight through me, I shiver. I can’t take my eyes off him. He reminds me of someone famous. Leonardo di Caprio, maybe. He’s chunkier than his friend,
and shorter, with blond highlights running through slightly curly hair. Not my type at all, but those eyes seem so knowing, as though he understands everything but wishes he doesn’t.
They’re old eyes, though the rest of him is young.

What is it about him that’s so intriguing? Then I realise. This guy with the knowing eyes is the only person I’ve seen on Soul Beach who doesn’t look airbrushed: compared to
the rest of the clones, he’s almost normal. Still cheesily handsome, yes, but his hair is messy, and his baggy white t-shirt is crumpled and not quite as wash-day bright as everyone
else’s. And as Meggie leans forward to greet him, he seems more awkward with the air kissing than the other two.

Meggie releases herself from the Italian stallion then looks puzzled for a second. ‘Oh. Shit. Sorry, sis, I forgot. They can’t see you until I introduce you. Not sure why. I think
they’re worried that Guests might get jealous if they never have a Visitor of their own. You’re the ultimate accessory, believe me.’

She grins at them. ‘Guys, allow me to introduce my sister, Alice.’ Meggie sounds proud of me in a way I don’t ever remember her being when we were both alive.

They turn in the direction of her hand but they still don’t seem to see me. ‘Oh,’ she says, flustered. ‘There’s obviously something I’m not getting right
here.’

‘You have to use our names,’ explains the guy in the white t-shirt. ‘It helps control who can see her and who can’t. Like privacy settings on Facebook or whatever.’
American.
Posh
American. Definitely not my type.

‘Right. In order of residency, then. This is Triti, usually known as Pretty Triti. She’s been here longer than any of us.’ The Indian girl blinks, then smiles and steps
forward.

‘You’re Meggie’s double!’ she says, air kissing me. Not that I feel anything at all. ‘I love your skirt.’ I was expecting a soft Indian voice, but instead her
accent is upper-class English, with just a hint of Cockney.

‘I love your bikini,’ I say. I want to add that it’s a miracle of engineering, but she might take that the wrong way.

‘And this is Javier, from Spain.’

Javier is the flamboyant one. He waves lazily but doesn’t move. ‘I would give you a hug, but, you know how it is.’

‘I thought you were Italian,’ I say.

He scowls moodily, like a bad actor. ‘I hate Italians. All show. No substance.’

Which seems rich, coming from a dead person . . .

‘And last but not least, Danny.’

‘Hi, Alice.’ He stands up, like the well-brought-up boy I’m sure he is. Taller than I expected. Eighteen, maybe? Either in his last year at school, or his first year at some
elite American university.

And then it strikes me that he’s not at university any more, because he’s dead. With Meggie, it doesn’t seem so strange, because I’ve had months to get used to her death.
But being introduced to people who aren’t actually alive is one of the weirdest things that has ever happened to me . . .

His all-knowing eyes meet mine. They’re a soupy green, but the colour isn’t what holds my attention. It’s the intensity, the longing. I don’t think it’s because
I’m
beautiful: I do know what lust looks like, but this is something else.

I suppose it could be a lust to be alive again.

I force myself to look away. ‘Hello, there.’ I say to them all.

Javier doesn’t try to hide his boredom, but Danny smiles. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from your sister. Good to see you here. Hope you’re not too freaked out by . . .
well, by the obvious freakiness of the whole set-up.’