Soul Storm (7 page)

And the more she relaxes, the more likely she is to make a mistake.

‘Maybe I
should
see someone,’ I agree.

Sahara pats my hand. Her nails are bitten and the skin around them cracked. But her fingers are long, thin,
powerful.
Are those the hands inside the gloves that I’ve seen bearing
down on my sister in her last moments?

‘Alice, counselling is nothing to be ashamed of. I only wish Zoe had gone down that route instead of leaving the country and . . .’

I stand up. If we start talking about poor Zoe, I might lose my cool again.

‘I should go. Before the traffic. I drove over here and I’m nervous about getting back.’

‘You
drove
all this way to see me?’

I need to underplay this. ‘For driving practice. And I wanted to catch you alone. Ade’s always around when you come to see me.’

‘He’s very protective. I’m lucky.’ She stands up too. ‘But why were you so desperate to see me on my own?’

‘I thought there might be things you could say that you wouldn’t say in front of him.’

She looks away. ‘We’re completely honest with each other. That’s what relationships are about, Alice. I hope you find that out for yourself one day.’

She’s wrong, though. Lying is the only thing that keeps me safe. I lie to everyone, here in the ‘real’ world and on the Beach. Sahara, my parents, Cara, Danny, my sister . . .
Lewis is the only one who gets anything near the truth and, even then, I keep my craziest secrets hidden.

I walk towards the door, then look back at her room. This will be the last time I see it, I suppose. ‘How do you feel about moving out, Sahara?’

She shrugs. ‘Relieved, mainly. The end of this chapter of the story for Meggie and me. But I won’t forget her any more than you will, Alice. And at least I have you to remind me of
how special she was.’

I manage not to shake until I reach the hallway. Instantly, the tremors overwhelm me and I have to lean on the wall, next to a noticeboard packed with flyers promoting
long-past parties and round-the-world flights.

I’ve failed. What she said was so believable, and yet I
know
I’m missing something. The same person who was stalking Meggie could be stalking me – could my assumption
that it’s Sahara be too lazy?

Her story was perfect. Too perfect? Rehearsed, almost. The words made sense but the way she said them: it was emotionless. I’m groping for answers that won’t come. But I’ve
wasted enough time. There’s one more thing I must do here, while I still have the chance.

The two flights of stairs make me feel dizzy and, in my hand, the metal of the key grows impossibly hot against my skin.

Once, almost a year ago, I stood by the Thames, about to throw Sahara’s stolen key into the murky river. But then I imagined I heard my sister’s voice, telling me to hold on to it,
that the time to use it would come.

Is that time now?

I don’t know what I’m hoping for: a flashback, a moment to connect the stripped room with the glimpses I’ve had on the Beach of Meggie’s last moments? The rational part
of me is arguing against going back to her room but I have nothing to lose.

Except when I push the fire door at the top of the stairs, I realise it was a terrible mistake. Why didn’t I listen to my instinct, turn away before it was too late?

My sister’s floor is a building site. Half a dozen guys in fluorescent jackets are working behind the glass door, drum and bass on the radio not quite drowning out the sound of drills.

I lurch forwards. I can just about see a slice of her room through the pane. Last time I saw it, it was a bare cell, stripped to wall and cement. But now carpet is going down on the floor, into
the hallway. There’s a large shrink-wrapped box leaning against the wall, labelled SANITARYWARE POD.

Will the person who takes this room next term feel my sister’s presence? I don’t. Not now. There are no clues or lessons for me here.

Unless the lesson is that the world is moving on, and so must I.

I drive home in silence, trying to focus on the road.

But it’s impossible. I’m thinking, analysing everything I know about the days before my sister was killed. Tim must have known that Meggie thought she was being stalked – did
he suspect Sahara too? But if he had, wouldn’t he have warned Zoe – and me?

My hands grip the steering wheel. I need to get back online, find a way to get Meggie to tell me about this stalker stuff without getting banned from the Beach.

The traffic crawls along and I switch on the radio. It’s tuned to a rock channel. Not my thing, but I turn it up full volume, trying to block out my thoughts with the drum beat.

When I can finally turn off into my close, I realise my jaw has been clenched for the whole journey and my shoulders are locked, hunched up near my ears.

Home.
I’m looking forward to my bed, a chance to recover so I’m completely alert for the next stage of my investigations.

But as I turn the corner towards our house, ready to park
my
car in
my
space, I see there’s another car there already. A flash black convertible. One of Dad’s
partners at the solicitor’s, maybe? None of my parents’ friends drive a car like that.

And then the front door opens and I wish I hadn’t come home at all.

There are three people in the reception committee. Mum is trying to be brave, with a smile that doesn’t reach her crumpled brow. Dad has his arms folded across his
chest.

But the sight of the third person is the nail in my coffin.

Olav.

For a moment, I consider driving off again. But where? Cara’s away. To Lewis’s, then.

Yeah, like that wouldn’t be the first place they’d try.

Did Sahara call them about my visit, tell them I need
help
? Because that’s what creepy Olav offers: group therapy, one-to-one counselling, online forums. Mum’s been through
the lot and is a total convert, though so far she’s let me make up my own mind about whether I want to get involved.

My own smile is as fake as my mother’s as I lock the car and walk up the drive. ‘Wow. A surprise party!’ I say.

Olav nods to himself, as though my joke is a Bad Sign. He reminds me of a mannequin, with a face so smooth it looks airbrushed, and sandy hair that could be made of moulded plastic.

‘Come in, Alice, darling,’ Mum says, ‘we need to chat to you about something.’

You don’t say.

They’re ready for me in the dining room, but this is no tea party. A sheet of paper lies face down on the table.

‘Alice, we want to help,’ Olav says once we’re all sitting down. ‘There’s nothing to be worried about.’

Aren’t those the most worrying words I’ve ever heard?

‘What’s this about, Dad?’ I figure he’s the only one who’ll give me a straight answer.

‘It’s . . . the flowers, Alice.’

I look behind me, towards the living room. The bouquet is in a vase, overwhelming it. Some of the buds have opened and others are drooping already. The smell is intense, more like rotting than
blooming.

‘We
know
, sweetheart,’ Mum says.

‘Know what?’

‘I was checking my online balance and—’

‘Did
you
send them after all, Mum?’

A flicker of irritation crosses her face. Olav’s still smiling.

‘Alice, please don’t pretend any more,’ Dad says. ‘We know you sent them to yourself. What’s most important now is to find out why you’d do such a
thing.’

‘Sent them to
myself
?’

Olav picks up the paper, turns it over and hands it to me. It’s a list of credit card transactions, printed from the web. Mum’s name’s at the top, and it’s all the usual
– supermarkets, mobile phone bill, a restaurant meal.

Until the bottom entry. £47.
The Flower Faeries Florist, Richmond-upon-Thames.

Dated yesterday.

‘I rang them, Alice,’ Mum says. ‘They confirmed that order was for your flowers – rung in just after you passed your test. There was a mobile number given but it
doesn’t work.’

‘Well, that obviously wasn’t me. This is crazy. Why would I send flowers to myself?’

Olav tries to take the paper from my hands. ‘Recovery begins when denial ends, Alice.’

I hold on to the page. ‘Denial. Of
course
I’m denying what I didn’t do!’

Dad won’t look at me, but Olav’s smoothed-out gaze doesn’t falter. ‘Your parents are worried about you. I think that, deep down,
you’re
worried about you,
too. Otherwise why use your mother’s credit card when you must have known she’d see the payment sooner or later? It’s a cry for help, Alice. We’re here to answer
it.’

I drop the sheet, close my eyes. Could I have done this and forgotten? Maybe the Beach stuff, my one-woman murder hunt, are more signs that I’ve lost touch with reality.

Except that, even if I was deranged, I didn’t have the
time
to order the flowers. I went straight from passing my test to being driven home by my instructor.

I tell them that.

Dad just sighs. ‘Darling, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. What happened with Meggie isn’t the kind of thing that stops affecting us simply because it’s been more than a
year. It can hit us at any moment.’

‘Especially if you haven’t
really
talked about it,’ Mum adds, and Olav beams.

I realise with absolute clarity that there’s no way to persuade them they’re wrong. The evidence seems overwhelming. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

‘The therapeutic options are very wide,’ Olav says. ‘They can be tailored to what works for you. We’ll begin with a session to discuss those, see where it takes us. It
may seem strange at first, but so many of the people I work with end up looking forward to their time to be open about whatever they’re thinking or feeling.’

That’s never going to be me.

‘It’s not just about treatment, Alice,’ Dad says. ‘We want you to have fun. Get out and about.’

‘And off the bloody internet,’ Mum mumbles.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s off limits, Alice, and completely this time. Like I wanted it to be after the last time,’ Mum says. ‘We’re disconnecting the broadband.’

Thank God for Lewis.

‘And before you go running off to your friends’ places,’ Mum continues, ‘we’ve told them to do the same. Including Lewis. You can still see him, of course, but only
offline. Hey, maybe you could even go outside. In the fresh air. It is summer, after all.’

‘Bea,’ Dad says.

‘Sorry, sorry. I don’t mean to be sarcastic. I’m just so very worried about you, Alice. We all are.’

‘Oh, Mum.’ I get up, put my arms around her. It’s unbearable to think that I’m causing them so much pain, on top of all they’ve suffered already. If only I could
explain why Olav is not going to solve the problem.

Why I have to solve it myself.

Dad sits on his hands and it’s Olav who gets up and places a hand on my mother’s shoulder, so he’s close to both of us. I can smell his aftershave, as cloying as the
flowers.

‘Beatrice, please don’t worry. Accepting help is a brilliant sign, and at least now you know your daughter is in good hands.’

And he rubs his good hands together, relishing the challenge.

I wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been absolutely necessary. I am primarily concerned with protecting her. It is in her interests that the rest of the
world does not take her seriously.

Of course, I would love to have seen her face light up when she received the flowers. The first bouquet from a secret admirer is something all girls
remember.

But I admit, my motives are more complex. I cannot know for sure what’s going on in her head, but I have my suspicions. The strange things she does point in one
direction: mine.

The less seriously she is taken, the safer she will be.

There is something delicious about being the only one who knows the truth about Alice. That she is sharper, smarter, brighter than the tedious people who surround
her.

We have so much in common.

‘So how is my favourite crazy chick today?’

For once, I don’t laugh when Lewis makes a joke. ‘Really,
really
crazy. Plus I’ve had a bit of a sense of humour bypass,’ I tell him.

‘I’ve got the straitjacket in the boot, just in case.’

He puts his foot down and we leave the close of houses behind. After two awful days, I can be myself again; I don’t feel like everything I say or do is being analysed by my parents for
evidence of mental instability.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Surprise.’

‘Lewis, I’ve had enough surprises to last me a lifetime.’

‘It’s hot out, right? So I thought we’d go to the seaside.’

Almost like he knows how much I’m missing the Beach
. . . except he knows nothing about the place that matters most to me. No one does. Sure, he knows I was sent
‘hoax’ emails after Meggie’s funeral, but as far as the world is concerned, they stopped almost a year ago.

Two days without going online has made me desperate. I miss my sister, Danny, the ocean and the soft sand. But my parents are taking no chances. Lewis has had to promise to keep me away from any
internet connections.

‘Good idea? Not a good idea?’ he asks.

‘What? Oh. The seaside will be OK,’ I say, then realise how ungrateful I sound. ‘Sorry. I’ll perk up by the time we get there.’

He nods. ‘Music?’

‘No thanks.’

So there’s silence, except for the purr of the engine. Only now that I’ve passed my test myself do I notice how well Lewis drives. When I went out with Cara after she got her
licence, it felt like she was trying to tame a bucking bronco.