Soul Storm (8 page)

But Lewis treats his beloved sports car like a dance partner. He’s confident and calm, with a huge smile as he accelerates. The ride’s so smooth I don’t notice how fast
we’re going – until he brakes rapidly when he sees a police car on the motorway hard shoulder.

He glances at me. ‘Whoops. Sometimes I forget what she’s capable of.’

Instantly, I think of Sahara. What
she’s
capable of. When I saw her on Wednesday, she’d already have known that her little trick with the flowers was about to blow up in my
face. She must have taken Mum’s credit card details when Ade and I left her alone on Sunday.

Her plan to make me look crazy worked a treat.

But does the fact she
needed
a plan mean I’m getting closer to the truth?

‘Lunchtime, I think, Ali?’

Lewis has brought me to Brighton. When Mum used to drive me and Meggie down here, it took two hours. Despite the holiday traffic, Lewis has shaved forty minutes off the journey time, but I
didn’t once feel unsafe.

Or
watched.

‘I’m not that hungry.’

‘You sure? I’ve booked a table at somewhere
very
nice.’

And he steers me away from a crowd of Italian language students and a tangle of pushchairs, into a restaurant built into an arch under the promenade. It’s busy inside, full of people
chatting and laughing and enjoying the view. The waiter checks the booking and takes us upstairs to the best table, right by a floor-to-ceiling window. When we sit down, it’s like we’re
suspended in mid-air. I don’t notice the people outside any more, just the waves and the wispy clouds against the blue sky, and the skeleton of the old pier in the distance. The sun’s
so strong I have to put my shades on. Through them, Lewis looks cooler than ever, a real
dude
in his designer glasses.

Two girls inside the restaurant are giggling. When I look up, I realise they’re pointing at Lewis, and I feel proud to be with him. We’re just friends, but those girls don’t
know that, do they?

‘How come you always know the best places, Professor?’

‘Interweb, obviously. There are nerds everywhere and even though they don’t actually go out in daylight themselves, they know the places they’d go if, say, they lucked out
massively and found a girlfriend.’

When the waiter hands me a menu, I almost faint at the prices. It’s
exactly
the sort of place where you would bring a date to impress them, but the thought makes me embarrassed.
‘So this must be their recommendation for where you bring a girl who needs psychiatric help, as a favour to a mate’s little brother?’

That’s how we met: my ex-boyfriend asked Lewis to keep an eye on me, because he was worried the hoax emails were messing with my head.

But Lewis tuts. ‘I’ll treat that comment with the contempt it deserves.’

‘Even so, there must be times when you wonder why the hell you let yourself in for all this, Lewis.’

He looks at me evenly. ‘There are definitely times when I think it’d be an awful lot easier if you’d tell me what’s really going on.’

‘You know I would if I could.’

‘The thing is, Ali, I used to buy that. But now I’m wondering what else exactly I’ve got to do to get you to trust me. I’ve broken the law for you more times than I can
count. Ferried you on endless wild-goose chases. Lied to your parents, your friends. All because I trusted you. Yet you don’t feel the same . . .’

The waiter approaches the table.

‘The clams and the sea bass,’ Lewis says, even though I didn’t see him look at the menu.

‘Um . . .’ I focus on the food.

‘The gazpacho soup is a very refreshing starter on a day like today. And the chicken’s our bestseller,’ the waiter says.

‘I’ll have those, then, thanks.’

‘Drinks?’

‘White wine OK, Alice?’ But Lewis doesn’t look at me when he asks. He sounds angry.

‘And water please,’ I say. ‘It’s so hot.’

When the waiter’s gone, I speak before Lewis can say something to make me feel even guiltier about not telling him the truth. ‘I know, all right? I know I should trust you. I know
you’ve done amazing things for me. But if I told you, you’d . . .’

The thought is so scary that it makes me stop. He’d hate me. Disbelieve me. Dismiss me as someone way too unhinged to be worth bothering with.

‘What? What would I do, Ali?’

The wine turns up, in a bucket. Beads of condensation decorate the bottle.

It reminds me of the Beach. I
long
to be on the Beach.

I look out of the window at
this
beach. There’s a touch of haze blurring the horizon, so it’s hard to tell the difference between sky and sea. Not quite the perfect day I
thought it was, but maybe they only happen online.

In my imagination?

Lewis says nothing. The two girls are glancing over again. We must look like a couple who’ve had a row. God knows why he hangs out with me. I’m moody and demanding and now I’m
officially delusional and attention-seeking too.

‘I didn’t send myself those flowers. Just so you know.’

When I look back across the table, his face is half amused. ‘Not even as a cry for help?’

‘I don’t need help. Not that kind, anyway.’

The starters arrive. My soup is cold, blood-red, with salsa piled up in the middle. One minute I think I’m going to struggle because I’m not hungry, the next the bowl is empty.

‘Just imagine, for a minute, that I
did
understand, Ali. What would that be like?’

I look back out to sea. What
would
that be like? After nearly a year of being alone with this secret, it would be incredible to share it, to have someone believe in me.

For the first time, I consider what might happen if I
don’t
tell Lewis. I’m pushing him further and further away. Most people would have given up on me by now.

When I think it through, I wonder if I have a choice at all.

And as he carries on eating, I begin to plan. How do you explain the inexplicable? I suppose it begins with that first email.

After the waiter takes our plates, I take a sip of the wine – tart, like gooseberries – and take my sunglasses off. I want Lewis to see my eyes, understand that
this isn’t a fairy story.

‘OK. You win.’

‘I win?’

‘Let’s try it your way. I’m taking a risk, Professor. But before you judge me, imagine living with this, doubting yourself every day – as I have since Meggie’s
funeral. If I wanted to invent a story, I wouldn’t dare come up with anything this crazy.’

He nods. I’m glad of the chatter in here. Everyone else is too busy with their own conversations to eavesdrop on ours.

‘It started with those emails. The ones that Robbie asked you to look into. The hoaxes.’
Robbie.
My first proper boyfriend. I haven’t thought about him for months and
months.

Lewis says nothing but his brown eyes are focused on me, as though there is no one else in the restaurant.

‘What if they weren’t hoaxes? What if for the last ten months, I’ve been spending time on a website which has helped me to do the thing I wanted more than anything
else?’

Lewis leans forward. ‘You responded to the emails?’

‘How could I
not,
Lewis? If there was even the tiniest chance that she might have been . . . reachable, well, of course I had to.’

He nods.

‘And . . . she was there. I found Meggie. On the site.’

‘Found her? What do you mean?’ His voice is cautious.

‘I know it’s hard to believe. Impossible. But the site I found . . . It’s like a virtual beach, with
people.
People who died. Including my sister.’

‘A memorial site?’

‘Not exactly. It’s . . . another world, I suppose. At first I saw nothing except the place itself. It’s called Soul Beach. It’s beautiful. A tropical beach, pale sand,
deep turquoise sea. It was so realistic, Lewis. I really felt like I was there, walking by the shore. Feeling the sunshine on my skin.

‘And then I started hearing voices.’ I pull a face. ‘I know how that sounds. Really, it was one voice, actually. My sister’s, calling my name.’

Lewis says nothing. I’d have no idea what to say if I were in his shoes.

‘I wouldn’t have believed me either, if I hadn’t experienced it. I
didn’t
believe it, at first – thought my grief was making me see things that
weren’t there. Or even that someone was playing the cruellest trick I could imagine.

‘But then I saw her, Lewis.
Meggie.
And the others. Other teenagers who’d died before their time, with something left to be done or said or fixed. Like . . . remember the
girl whose brother we visited?’

‘Triti?’

I nod. ‘She was on the Beach. It’s how I knew about her. I was obsessed with her story. Not for the reasons I gave you, but because she was suffering.’

Lewis gulps. ‘I never did believe that you just read about her online. But
this
? You’re saying you met her somehow? That she told you about the bullies who hounded her to
her death?’

‘I knew her, yes. And she told me enough to know something had to be done to make things right.’

‘And your sister? What has
she
said?’ Lewis can’t stop the hardness creeping into his voice. ‘Has she told you who killed her?’

‘She doesn’t know. She never saw the person or, if she did, she doesn’t remember. Lots of them forget, perhaps as a way of protecting themselves.’

‘You’re sure she’s not just protecting you?’

‘Hmm. She genuinely doesn’t know. But now Tim’s there too, and he wouldn’t be if he’d been guilty because then the murder would have been resolved
and—’

‘Hang on? You’re saying Tim’s
beach-combing
too?’

I stare at the table, wanting to scream with frustration. ‘Lewis, don’t mock me. Why do you think I haven’t told you before? Because I wouldn’t believe me, either. But
there is evidence there, if you listen.’

‘Like Triti?’

‘Triti, yes. And I made a difference in Barcelona, too. You can look it up. There was a boy called Javier. He fell off a roof to his death. I can give you dates, details, his address. I
couldn’t have known any of that without the Beach.’

‘Made a difference, how?’

‘I helped him get away. The Beach is kind of an online limbo, I suppose. When something changes here, in real life, then the Guests are finally set free. It happened with Gretchen, too.
The German girl with the hacker dad? She disappeared from the Beach.’

‘Where to?’

I shake my head. ‘No one knows, any more than the living know where they go after death. But—’

‘Summer chicken, and sea bass fillet.’

I’m almost relieved when the waiter brings our main courses, because it forces me to stop for a moment, to let my words sink in with Lewis. My dish is beautiful to look at: the chicken in
a white porcelain pot, with fresh green herbs floating in a garlicky broth. It smells amazing but I won’t be able to eat any of it. I can hardly even swallow as I wait for Lewis to speak.

He barely glances at his own plate. ‘I honestly don’t know what to say.’

Which is his way of saying he thinks I’ve lost it.

‘I could have made up something, you know. Something credible. But I couldn’t bear to lie to you. Was that a mistake?’

Lewis picks up his knife and fork, but then puts them down again. I’ve silenced him.

‘I can’t take much more of this,’ I say, and I push my plate away. More people are watching us now.
Look at that girl, doesn’t know how to behave in a good
restaurant. Is he dumping her or is she dumping him?

‘Ali . . .’

‘Don’t “Ali” me. You asked me for the truth, you’ve got it. Now I need the truth from you: do you believe anything I’ve just told you? Because if you
don’t, I think I should leave. Now. And I’ll never bother you again.’

I regret the ultimatum the moment it’s out of my mouth.

Why alienate the last person on this earth who still takes me seriously?

I try to think of something to say to make it better.

Lewis holds his hand up. ‘Wait, Ali. I’m thinking.’ He smiles. Is that a sad smile – because he’s finding the words to tell me our friendship is over – or a
smile that says, ‘I get it now’?

‘I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t
that
,’ he says eventually. ‘It’s the perfect storm for me. I’m a scientist. A rational
person. I believe in matter and gravity and what’s observable. Evidence.’

‘I know, Professor.’

He smiles again. ‘I’m not convinced there’s an afterlife. I’ve always thought we invented it to make us feel better about the big unknown. Wouldn’t bet my life on
it, but, you know, odds on we die and, well, that’s it. Except for the memories of us that the living hold on to.
That’s
how we stay alive.’

I nod. I’m not noticing the restaurant any more. Just him.

‘If I’d heard what you just told me from anyone else, Ali, I’d be raising my eyes to the heavens I don’t even think exist, and asking for the bill. But you’re not a
flake. Eccentric, yeah, but not a flake.’

Is there a chance he could believe me?

‘Plus, I don’t see why you’d lie to me. Like you said, you’ve had the best part of a year to come up with something more plausible. So, there are two possibilities. One,
this beach of yours does exist. Two,
you
sincerely
believe
it exists, even though it doesn’t.’

A wave of disappointment smashes into me. ‘So you
do
think I’m crazy—’

‘Ali, you had
your
time to talk, now let me, will you? It’s not a case of
crazy.
More that the brain can be . . . ingenious in finding ways to adapt to horrible
events and, God knows, you’ve had enough of those in the last year.’

‘I am afraid I might have lost it,’ I say.

‘Oh, Ali.’ He rests his hand gently over mine. ‘What makes me so sure you haven’t is the fact that you’ve still got insight. You know it defies belief, yet you
still trusted me. I’m honoured you told me, despite the risks.’