Soul Beach (9 page)

Yes, Soul Beach feels like the most incredible blessing, but it occurs to me for the first time that it could also be a burden . . .

In London it’s dark and rainy. Fat drops fall steadily on the reporters below my bedroom window.

But on Soul Beach it’s scorching.

I can’t
feel
the heat, but I can see it, a desert haze that makes the shore look unreal. The place seems different to me tonight, and it takes a moment or two to remember what
Meggie said about there being no animals here. But that doesn’t mean I don’t still tingle with excitement when I take my first steps.

As I walk, I notice that the people on the beach are lying in small clusters, not moving. And then it strikes me: they look as though they’re all dead.

‘Alice?’

I look round and see the American guy with the sad green eyes.

‘I’m Danny, remember? Your sister introduced us yesterday,’ he says, holding out his hand, then withdrawing it again. ‘Sorry, I keep forgetting that we’re on
different planes.’

‘Is that what you think? That the Beach is a kind of parallel universe?’

He shrugs. ‘What do I know? I’m a simple American homeboy. I don’t think about the bigger things, they make my head hurt.’

I stare at him. Our eyes meet, but this time he looks away first.

‘That was a joke,’ he says, kicking at the sand.

‘Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know Americans did irony.’
Why did I say that?

His eyes narrow, then he laughs. ‘Believe it. I spend hours trying to make sense of why I landed up here. Doesn’t get me anywhere, but hey, it passes the time . . .’ He nods at
a group of beach boys, asleep next to their boards. ‘And it sure beats the alternatives. Surfing’s for dummies.’

‘Right.’ I thought he was the only one of Meggie’s friends I wanted to meet again, but now he’s here, he makes me feel unsettled. There’s something too restless
about him, or maybe too raw.

Is it possible to feel unsettled
in a good way?

‘I think Megan is . . . um. Having a lie down. With a good friend. I can go and find her if you like?’

‘Yes, I’m sure she’d like to know that—’ and then I realise what he means by a
lie down
. ‘Oh. No. No, that’s fine. I can log off and try
later.’

His smile is still broad, but now his eyes are more guarded. ‘You don’t have to leave right now. It’s cool to chat to Visitors.’ He leans in a little closer. ‘After
a while here, Guests get kinda one track. Half of them want to talk about books I’ve never read or movies I’ve never seen or singers I’ve never heard of, and the other half want
to screw. I mean, I don’t say that to boast. Seriously. I say it to prove how desperate folks get around here.’

Danny’s deadpan delivery makes me laugh out loud. He smiles again and my sadness is gone, just for a moment.

‘So, you’ll wait with me?’

I nod. Maybe he’s not so difficult to be around after all.

‘Fancy a tour?’

‘Sure,’ I say, glad of the breeze. I know it’s virtual, and yet . . .

I follow him, past the groups of tanned bodies, as beautifully draped across the sand as bronzes in a museum.

‘Those are the musicians,’ he says, pointing to two clusters of people. ‘Choir on the left, the ones with neater hair. Rock on the right. Every day they try to muss up their
bangs and they wake up all shiny and tangle-free. Both are good, though. Sometimes they sing at the same time, like a weird competition. That’s not so good.

‘Over there is the beach bar, but I guess you know all about that.’

I stare at him. ‘How did you know?’

‘It’s where all the Visitors go first. Kinda like an induction. I do my research.’ And he taps the side of his nose.

‘What else do you know?’

He sighs. ‘More than I want to, Alice, that’s for sure. Some questions I wish I’d never tried to answer.’

I open my mouth to ask what those might be, but he puts his finger to his lips and shakes his head.

‘Let’s go by the jetty,’ he says.

‘If there’s a jetty, does that mean there are boats?’

His eyes cloud and for a moment he seems . . . empty, as though there’s nothing there, no sight, no knowledge, just a blank. Then I blink and he’s smiling. ‘Do you see a
schedule?’ And he laughs.

There’s no one else by the jetty.

‘Too hot for most people today,’ he says, and I know it’s because I have a vivid imagination, but when we stop, sweat is trickling down the back of my neck.

He sits at the very end, looking out to sea, and I join him. The sound of the waves becomes louder, and when he dips his feet in the water, I hear splashing. His feet are pale and bloodless in
the sea.

I wonder how Danny died.

‘It won’t always be this hard for your sister,’ he says. ‘I arrived nine months before she did and it’s tough at first, adjusting to your new . . .
status
.’

‘What’s the biggest shock?’ I ask. ‘I’d like to understand.’

‘Ah, you’re sweet.’

‘Don’t patronise me.’

‘I wouldn’t dare. But if I’m honest – and maybe this is jealousy because no one’s shown up for
me –
I don’t know if it’s a good thing,
letting family visit. No offence.’

‘None taken. Why?’

‘Because there’s
nothing
you can do to help her. Plus you’ll never understand, unless it happens to you, which is the last thing Megan would want.’

‘I can
try
to understand.’

‘Sure,’ his voice softens. ‘But trust me, you won’t. Here is
forever
, right. No exit. I don’t know if you ever come to terms with it. I haven’t.’
And he kicks the water so forcefully that it splashes in my face. It’s cool and refreshing.

I brush the seawater away. Even though, of course, it doesn’t exist.

‘Is there really no way out? No one ever leaves?’

He shrugs. ‘Not while I’ve been here. There are rumours.’ He laughs, but it’s a bitter laugh. ‘Look around you, Alice, this is like a giant open-air university
dorm. Of course there are
rumours
. It’s like a hobby for some people. Making stuff up. But I don’t know if I believe them.’

‘What do the rumours say?’

‘That you’ll only get away if . . .’ he leans in close, ‘if
whatever landed you here in the first place is resolved
, back in the real world.’

‘Right.’ I don’t understand, but I drag myself back to that ‘real’ world and scribble down what he said on a heart-shaped Post-It. Maybe it’ll make sense
later. ‘And that’s all?’

He looks at me evenly. ‘You guys aren’t Catholics, are you?’

‘Church of England. And only then to get into the right school.’

‘Well, they accept all gods on Soul Beach. Or no god at all. But at church sometimes people talked to me about limbo.’

‘Limbo?’
That
word again.

‘He’s not started on his religion shtick, has he, Florrie?’

I look around and there’s Meggie, looking slightly flushed. The weather or her ‘lie down’? None of my business, I suppose. ‘He’s just keeping me company.’

Danny gets up. ‘It’s only a theory.’ He winks at my sister, then leaves. His legs are strong and powerful, and there’s something in his walk that’s different from
the surfer swagger of the other men on the beach. He’s more . . . upright, somehow, like a soldier or an athlete.

Meggie takes his place next to me, hugging her knees to her chest. ‘Whatever he tells you, ignore it, sis.’

‘OK,’ I say, not wanting to ask about her appearance – her messy hair, crumpled clothes. I don’t like thinking about what happens when I’m not here.

‘So good to see you, Florrie. You’re the only thing that feels real to me these days.’

I look at her face, to see if she’s messing about, but she’s absolutely sincere. ‘I know. It’s like having you back . . .’

We don’t feel the need to say anything else. The water slaps against the sun-bleached wood of the jetty, and all the doubts and the questions I had after talking to Danny disappear. We are
sisters, hanging out.
Like we used to
. Meggie and Alice.

And then I realise that it’s not quite like we used to, because before it was always me doing what she wanted: waiting on Meggie, waiting for Meggie, waiting for Meggie to notice me.

It wasn’t that my sister was horrible, not at all. She was just the first, and so like every other younger sister, I would always be
her
first audience.

But here on the Beach it feels different. She needs me as much as I need her. More, maybe. For the first time in my life, I feel like we’re equals, like we understand each other . . .

I hear a knock at my door.
Shit.

I push the laptop screen down as far I can without it shutting down, and mute the sound and the mic in case Meggie says something.

‘Alice?’ It’s my father.

‘I’m doing my homework.’

‘Yes. I know. Sorry to disturb you. It’s just that Fran’s here and she’d like to talk to all of us together.’

‘I’ll be right down,’ I call back.

I wait until his footsteps are gone, and then I switch the microphone and sound back on. ‘Meggie?’

She looks at me, her big blue eyes as trusting as a baby’s.

‘Need to go. Sorry. I promise I’ll be back soon.’ I try to sound like it’s no big deal.

She flinches a little. ‘OK.’ Her voice is small.

I blow her a kiss, log out and then as I close down the laptop, the dread grows, and I feel like I’ve fallen into an icy lake.

Fran? This can only mean one thing . . .

Fran the Family Liaison officer is sitting on the edge of the sofa. She looks uncomfortable, but then that’s nothing new. I think someone told her once that she’s
not allowed to smile when she’s with ‘her’ bereaved families.

But my mother’s eyes are bright, the precise same shade of blue as Meggie’s.

‘It may not be the news you were hoping for, Mrs Forster.’

Mum blinks.

‘Tim Ashley has been released without charge.’

I try to keep my face neutral. Dad catches my eye: I can tell he’s trying to look neutral too. But Mum looks broken.

‘It’s not the end. Honestly. Try to think of it as just another step closer to finding out who killed your daughter,’ says Fran, wearing that expression of professional concern
that makes me want to slap her.

‘We all know who killed her,’ my mother hisses. ‘But you lot are too bloody incompetent to make it stick.’

‘Bea . . .’ my father says softly.

‘I’m going out,’ she says, brushing his arm away.

‘Wait,’ says Fran. ‘The reporters are still outside.’

Mum’s face is furious.
Scary
even. ‘I’m not going to be trapped in my own house by those scum. It’s not like I’m the guilty one, is it?’

We follow her into the hallway, Dad trying to change her mind. But when she opens the front door, the driveway and the street are completely empty.

‘How did they know?’ Mum asks.

Fran shrugs. ‘We try to keep things under wraps, but I guess the news got out.’ I realise she’s carrying her bag and coat. Planning a fast exit, I think. I wish I could leave
too.

My mother hesitates on the doorstep. Her anger’s gone, now, and her shoulders slump. Fran opens the door, slips through. ‘I’ll be in touch, hopefully with more positive
news.’

Dad takes my mother’s arm and this time she doesn’t swat him away.

‘Brandy,’ he says, and she lets herself be led back inside.

We all have a brandy, and my mother doesn’t even given my father a dirty look for pouring me one. She can’t sit down. Instead she paces like a zoo animal, mumbling
under her breath.

‘If you’ve got something to say, then say it, Bea,.’ Dad tells her.

She tuts. ‘I can’t talk to you about this, can I? You’d rather go on a
Tim Ashley is Innocent
march than admit he might have killed her.’

I want to leave but I can’t. I don’t trust my legs to hold me up. The brandy has left an evil, woody taste in my mouth and I want to be sick.

‘Maybe I was wrong,’ Dad says.

Maybe I was wrong, too. Perhaps I was fooled by Tim’s shyness. Wasn’t Hitler meant to be a mild-mannered vegetarian, when he wasn’t committing genocide? Perhaps Tim only
pretended
to be interested in me as some kind of sick smokescreen.

My mother sits down next to me. Then she opens her arms and, let’s face it, it would be heartless of me to turn away. When she hugs me I smell Meggie’s perfume, Coco Mademoiselle,
which Mum wears when she’s missing my sister so much that she can’t bear it, and wants to remind herself that she was real, once. And then she whispers,

‘They’ll get him in the end, Alice, I know they will.’

I let her hold me, but all the time I’m thinking, well,
how
, if they’ve held him and questioned him and threatened him and he still hasn’t admitted it?

And that’s when it occurs to me.

Tim might just tell
me
the truth . . .

I count to three. Then I pull away from my mother’s arms.

‘I’m really tired, Mum.’

‘Of course you are,’ she says, and then she finally notices the brandy Dad poured for me earlier, and gives him a dirty look. ‘Sleep tight, sweetheart. Tomorrow it will all
seem better.’