Soul Storm (4 page)

I stare at him. I know it’s only a phrase, but it gives me a way in. ‘Yeah, well, I’m not a big believer in justice, Ade.’

He looks down at his coffee cup. ‘I can understand why.’

I take my chance. ‘Do you . . . I mean, have you ever wondered about what happened in Spain?’

His face doesn’t change. ‘What about it?’

‘Zoe’s accident. Plus everything before.’ I shake my head. ‘Sorry, I’m not putting this very well. Do you think what happened to Zoe
and
Tim
and
my sister . . . that there could be a connection?’

Ade’s eyes are fixed on mine. I’ve never noticed their colour before: a kind of violet. ‘I see why you might think that, Alice. Really. It’s no wonder. I’ve spent
endless sleepless nights wondering what we’ve done to deserve coming so close to death three times.’

‘I can tell there’s a
but
coming.’

‘No. I mean, who knows? Perhaps there was more to it,’ he says.

‘Really?’ I lean forward. Apart from Lewis, Ade is the first person not to scoff when I suggest a link between the two deaths, and Zoe.

‘The thing is, Alice, whatever was going on, we’ll never know, will we? Any link died along with your sister, and with Tim, and with Zoe.’

‘Zoe’s not dead.’

He looks away. ‘I haven’t told you because I didn’t want to upset you, but I wrote to them. Her parents. Hoping they’d have good news. But the tests they’ve done
show very little brain activity. The doctors think that Zoe suffered oxygen deprivation in the accident.’

‘Oxygen?’

‘Perhaps in the crush.’

‘So she . . . suffocated?’
Like my sister, and Tim.

‘Technically. But Alice, that doesn’t mean there’s a connection.’

‘No?’

‘Be careful. I’ve seen what becoming obsessed with death has done to poor Sahara. Wanting to contact you all the time. Turning up out of the blue, like she did after school the other
week.’

So he knows about that too? ‘Do you think there’s something . . . the matter with her?’

He scowls. ‘I wouldn’t go that far. But I worry about her when you go off to uni – how she’ll fill the gap in her life.’

I shiver. Will she leave me alone then, or . . . ‘I’m not the same as Sahara.’

He smiles sadly. ‘I never said you were. It’s hard for all of us, in different ways. Remember, I was the one who found Tim’s body. There was a time when everything was dark for
me, too. You know how I pulled myself out? By knowing it’s not what he would have wanted – what any of them would have wanted. You’re wasting your life.’

I’m about to snap back that they would have wanted justice, but I see the impatience in his eyes and I realise there’s no point. I thought Ade was different, but he’s just
pretending to care.

‘Try to focus on the future, Alice. You should get your licence tomorrow. Then a place at uni. There’s a big old world out there to be discovered.’

‘And what does Sahara think—’

‘What do I think about
what
?’

We spin around. I don’t know what to say.

But Ade smiles. ‘About Alice’s chances tomorrow, of course.’ He lies to her effortlessly. Perhaps it’s a skill he’s had to develop to keep her calm.

Sahara laughs. ‘Not
that
again. You’re going to walk it, Alice. Now, Adrian, I think it’s time we get going. We need to buy some flowers for Meggie’s grave. And
then the traffic across to Greenwich on a Sunday is murd— I mean, bad.’

‘I’ll just use the bathroom, first,’ Ade says.

He’s leaving the two of us alone? I begin to form a question in my head: what is the most important thing I could ask Sahara?

‘Must go and say bye to your mum before we head off, Alice,’ Sahara’s saying, and before I can stop her, she’s heading for the garden. But not before I’ve caught a
glimpse of her face.

The fake smile had faded completely. She looked anxious. Does she know I suspect her?

And does that make me her next target?

It’s raining, hard.

The windscreen wipers stay on through my whole test. I remember to indicate earlier, to brake sooner, to give pedestrians extra time to cross the road.

The rear window keeps steaming up so I can’t see through it, but I
know
I’m being watched, and not just by the examiner. Though, however many times I check my mirror, I
never catch a single glimpse of Sahara.

‘Would you pull over, please?’

It takes me a second or two to realise that I’ve arrived back at the test centre. The examiner – a woman, perhaps the one who ‘fancied’ Lewis – is smiling. I can
tell before she speaks that it’s going to be good news.

My instructor drives me home – ‘I’ve had more than a few of my candidates crash immediately after passing; it puts you in a funny state of mind.’

Mum opens the front door as soon as she spots the driving-school car turning into the close. When she notices I’m in the passenger seat, her face falls, but by the time I get out,
she’s wearing a sympathetic smile. ‘Never mind, Alice, all the best drivers pass second time.’

I can’t keep up the pretence. A grin is spreading across my face.

‘Must make me a
terrible
driver, then, Mum, because I PASSED!’

‘Oh, Alice, you’re a star! Come here!’

She hugs me and I hug her harder, and Mr Gregory gives me a brief pat on the back.

‘Come back to me for your free motorway-driving class, Alice. And happy driving. Safety first, safety always, right?’

I’ve rung Dad at work, and am about to text Cara and Lewis, when the doorbell goes.

Mum calls up from the hallway. ‘Alice, I think this is for you.’

I feel dread, like ice down my spine. Visitors freak me out. Probably because most of our unscheduled visitors in the past year have been police officers bearing bad news.

Halfway down the flight of stairs, I realise who it is, or at least, what they’re here for. I can’t see the person, because of the big bouquet of flowers in the way.

It is
seriously
huge. Someone’s entire back garden must have been chopped down to make it, and Mum’s already sniffing from the pollen.

No one’s ever bought me flowers before. These are worth the wait. Red roses, white lilies, lush tropical leaves in deep green.

The florist has to lower the bouquet to see over it. ‘Alice Forster?’

It weighs so much I almost drop it. Meggie would have done this more elegantly; she was
always
being sent flowers.

‘Well done on passing your test,’ the florist says, and then turns to go. ‘Oh, the card’s buried in there somewhere.’

Mum closes the door, and takes the bouquet from me, heading into the kitchen. She sneezes. ‘Wow. A five-hanky job, at least.
Someone
thinks a lot of you.’

I laugh. ‘Someone, eh? Thanks, Mum. They’re beautiful.’

She puts them down on the counter: there’s a bag of water tied underneath which keeps them upright. ‘No, they’re not from us.’

‘You sure Dad hasn’t . . .’

Mum pulls a face. ‘Come on, Alice. Your dad’s a prince among men in many ways, but he’s never seen the point of flowers, except for the supermarket variety, and these must have
cost at least as much as my entire monthly supermarket shop.’

I stare at them. ‘But . . .’

The smell of the lilies is more powerful now. Almost cloying.

‘Look at the card, silly,’ Mum says, grinning. ‘Though I can think of one person who might think you’re worth it.’

‘No one else knows yet,’ I whisper, more to myself than to Mum.

I push my hand into the bouquet. The stems are bound together tightly and I can’t find the card.

‘Ouch.’

I pull my hand out of the foliage. There’s a spot of blood on my finger, growing as I watch.

‘That’s the trouble with roses,’ Mum says, still smiling. She passes me some kitchen roll. The blood spreads through the white tissue, like an ink stain. ‘Here, let me
try to fish out the card.’

She rummages around. ‘Bingo.’

The little envelope has
Alice
on the front, in curly handwriting. As I rush to tear it open, I leave smudged red fingerprints on the white paper. Mum leans in
to look.

The card shows a tiny retro car driving along a country lane. The driver is throwing a torn L-plate up in the air. It’s sweet.

Inside, the message is written in the same italics:

Congratulations, Alice! Stay safe!

But no name.

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Stop joking around, Mum. Only you two would send this.
Could
have sent this.’

Her smile is a little more strained. ‘No. My money’s still on Lewis. If only because . . . well, they’re not the kind of flowers you’d buy for your daughter. I’d
have chosen gerberas or freesias, something bright and young. These are . . .’

She stops herself.

I stare at the flowers. The scent is making me feel sick, and my finger hasn’t stopped bleeding. For a tiny cut, it stings like hell. ‘What were you going to say, Mum?’

She laughs. ‘Oh, nothing, really. Just that when we were growing up, your grandma was superstitious about the meanings of flowers. You know, tulips mean love and carnations mean . . . I
don’t remember exactly. But she was very odd about red and white together.’

‘Because?’

‘I think it was from when she was a nurse. They didn’t like that combination because,’ she giggles, ‘well, they called red and white flowers together “blood and
bandages”.’

It’s supposed to be a joke. I know that. But my head throbs in time to the pulse of blood in my finger.

Only Mum and Dad know I’ve passed. Oh, and my instructor and my examiner, I suppose, but neither of those would send me flowers.

Unless I
was
being followed by the only person who might think anonymous flowers would be a good surprise, instead of something creepy. The only person who might ignore a
florist’s advice not to send
blood and bandages.
Sahara.

I don’t want it to be true, but I’m struggling to find an alternative.

Could Lewis have sent them? I begin to make up a story in my head, about him hacking into the test centre’s database to find out the second my pass was recorded, and then despatching those
grown-up flowers to me.

But Lewis hates cut flowers. He likes huge parlour palms, or tropical blooms that thrive in the little hothouse conservatory in his garden flat.

Outside, I hear a car rattling as it pulls up.

‘Never mind your secret admirer. Shall we find out who’s here?’ Mum says, her voice oddly excited.

I follow her out, glad to leave the flowers behind. She opens the front door, and there’s a silver car in the drive. One of those jelly-mould-shaped ones. A Ka.

I don’t know anyone who drives a Ka.

Dad gets out of the driver’s seat. He walks up the path, and hands me an ignition key.

‘All yours, darling Alice.’

I take the key, not quite understanding. Dad hasn’t noticed the bloody kitchen roll wrapped around my finger.

When I don’t say anything, Mum puts her arm around me. ‘I know it’s not the flashiest car around, but it’s in really good condition. And the airbags are fully tested,
and
the brakes. Your dad was waiting at the dealer’s when you got home. Obviously we had to make sure you passed before we signed on the dotted line.’

‘It’s
mine
?’ I whisper, unable to believe it.

‘One hundred per cent yours.’ Dad grins, and puts his arm around me too.

‘Oh my God. I don’t know what to say.’

‘Don’t say anything. Go and sit in the driver’s seat,’ Mum says. There are tears in her eyes.

‘Sorry. Thank you. I should have said that straight away. Just . . . I really wasn’t expecting it.’ I hug and kiss Mum, then Dad. ‘But how much . . . I mean, how did you
afford . . .’

And then I realise. There’s no way they could have afforded it if they still had a daughter in university. Meggie never got a car as a present when she passed
her
driving
test.

But with my sister gone, they have a little cash to spare.

I know she’d be pleased for me. I try to focus on that as I walk towards the car, climb inside, work out where the ignition is and then rummage around under the seat to find the lever so
my feet reach the pedals.

My
pedals.
My
steering wheel.
My
gear stick.
My
seats.

Mum’s walking to the end of the bonnet. She’s got her phone out, ready to take a picture.

I put on the seatbelt –
my
seatbelt – for the picture. But I’m not planning to go anywhere right now. I feel too dizzy and shaky.

This isn’t just a car. This is my independence. The first step in growing up, moving away, getting on with my life. That’s why they’ve bought it for me. Why they’re
both
trying hard not to cry.

‘Thank you,’ I call out. Only they can’t hear me because I don’t know how to open the electric windows. ‘Thank you so much.’

The rear-view mirror’s all wrong, I can’t see anything but the back seats. So I reach up and tilt it, until the whole of the road behind me comes into view.

It’s empty. My finger throbs, reminding me of the flowers. Sahara’s making her presence felt. The iciness travels down my back again, even though it’s warm in the car.

What gives her the right to invade every part of my life, even a moment like this, which should be all about celebration? The flowers are the final straw.

And that’s when I decide.

We’ve been playing the game your way for too long, Sahara. This is where I start to fight back.

I log on to Soul Beach to forget Sahara for a while. But Sam’s sitting alone in the bar, which is not a good sign. To the Guests, she dishes out nachos and delicious
cocktails. I get lectures and tellings off.

She waves me over. As usual, there’s a cigarette between her stained fingers, but the shadows under her eyes are darker, the same faded blue-black as her tattoos.