Soul Fire (3 page)

I’d forgotten all about
that
Tim. All the newspaper photos showed a haunted man who looked forty, not twenty.

I realise I’m crying.

I scrub my eyes with my fingers. No time for emotion. I fight to drag my gaze away from his photo, to read what’s below in even bigger, blood-red lettering.

Suddenly it hits me: the news isn’t out there yet. Apart from Ade and the police and us, no one should know what’s happened to Tim.

And yet it’s all here, on the screen.

The language is more aggressive than anything I’ve read on a tribute site. The people – or person – behind Burning Truths sound unbalanced . . . but perhaps it’s anger
that’s changed them. I know what that does to people.

I scroll down past the news update.

I’m not crying anymore. It’s as though someone has read my mind. Does the person behind this site have inside information? The policeman was right: this is obviously written by
someone who knew Tim.

The only person I know who shared my doubts about Tim’s guilt is his flatmate. Yet this doesn’t sound like Ade. He was always calm and logical, helping me to speak to Tim on the
phone about my suspicions, and helping Tim to stay sane.

And Ade was the one who found Tim’s body just a few hours ago. He must be in pieces. I can’t imagine that the first thing he’d do would be to post an announcement on a
website.

At the bottom of the page, there’s a comment button:

I’ve never considered leaving a message on one of these sites, but no one has added a single comment about Tim. It seems like the ultimate insult to his memory. I scroll back up to the
picture. His eyes seem to follow mine.

There’s so much I could say about him: the way he was the only one of Meggie’s boyfriends who ever showed an interest in me as a
real
person, the way he looked after her, the
way he sounded so lost without her when I spoke to him that last time.

I click on
ADD YOUR COMMENT
, but the page takes an age to refresh, and when it does, I gasp.

Someone got there before me.

There’s one comment.

The comment was left just one minute ago. I re-read it three times. Whoever wrote this sounds so certain they’re right. Although the conspiracy theorists who blamed Meggie’s death on
reality TV rivals or government plots also sounded convincing, in their own freakish ways.

I’m shivering, even though the radiator by my feet is blasting out heat. The only light comes from the laptop screen, and the black and red colours make the walls of my room look like a
furnace. Yet I’m colder than I would be in the blizzard outside.

I look back at the screen and notice something new. There are two flashing icons at the top of the screen – I lean closer and realise they’re tiny black skulls. Next to them, a
message says . . .

Which must mean whoever posted the message is still online.

I click on them and a window pops up.

It’s a chat app. Now what? I have no idea what to type.

‘Who
are
you?’ I whisper out loud. My typing is clumsy, my fingers ice cold as I key in
What do you know?

I hit return and wait. My skull icon has turned blood red, and my question is in the same colour. JusticeSeeker#1’s black skull blinks back once.

And then disappears . . .

No! I click wildly, but the chat window closes. I’m alone on the site.

Who is JusticeSeeker#1? Is it the same person who set up the site? But surely that person wouldn’t be leaving comments . . . So that could mean there are
two
other people out there
who don’t think Tim killed my sister.

I’m not alone. After so many months of doubting myself, it feels good. I should leave a comment, too, so we can draw strength from each other.

But then I remember: I should have been on the Beach by now. I no longer believe my sister’s death has been resolved by Tim’s, so she shouldn’t have gone. Yet I still need to
be there, to discover as much as I can about what happened last night before Ade found Tim dead.

In my inbox, I find the email that changed my life. The invitation Meggie sent me after she died is still my only way onto the Soul Beach website. You sure as hell can’t access it via
Google.

‘Alice?’

It’s not the voice I wanted to hear, and I’m not where I want to be, either. I’m in the beach bar. Candles flicker on the tables. A ferocious drumming sound pulses through the
open sides of the bamboo building.

I only ever come to the bar when there’s something wrong, or when Sam – the bartender – has to warn me of danger.

‘Sam. What is it?’

But before she can answer, my door bursts open.

Mum’s rushing towards me, wild-eyed, and Dad’s behind her.

I don’t have a chance to do anything – not even to click away from the Beach – before Mum’s ripping the laptop cable from the wall. She smashes the lid shut so hard that
she’s probably shattered the screen.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Alice?’

I’m about to say
homework
, but then I realise that’s not going to help.

‘It’s two o’clock in the bloody morning. We’ve just found out your sister’s killer is dead. And where are you? Bloody well online, like you always are!’ Her
voice is getting louder. OK, we live in a detached house, but half the close must have heard her by now. ‘It’s an obsession! You’re an
addict
, Alice!’

Dad puts a hand on hers. ‘Bea, do we have to do this now?’

She shakes him off. ‘Yes, we do! Alice, that’s it. Over. You’ve been lying to us for months, haven’t you?’ She spins round. ‘Look, she’s even been
putting pillows by the door so we can’t see she’s still awake.’

Dad frowns.

‘No wonder you look like a ghost. You probably spend half the bloody night online. You’re making yourself ill.’

I wish I could tell her I’m not ill, but happy. That being with Meggie is better than anything real life can offer.

‘Alice? Is your mum right?’ Dad asks.

He’s the only one who ever listens to me. I can’t lie to him. I say nothing.

‘See, Glen? Well, that’s enough, Alice. No more warnings. As of now, you’re offline. No more living on the bloody internet. We should have done this
months
ago.’

I stare at her. She’s joking. Or
drunk
. But then I see her eyes, which are scarily sober. ‘But . . . my schoolwork. I need to be online for my schoolwork,’ I plead.

Mum laughs, but not in a nice way. ‘Your dad and I managed to get through school before they even invented computers, so you’ll survive. There’s more to life than schoolwork,
Alice. Like friends. You’ve broken Cara’s heart the way you’ve treated her.’

I close my eyes. I’ve tried to stay friends with Cara, but if it’s a choice between her and Meggie, well, my sister needs me more. There aren’t enough hours in the day to look
after both of them.

Dad looks shifty. ‘Alice might have a point about school, though, Bea. It’s not like it was for us. They even send their coursework online these days, don’t they?’

I say nothing, hoping Mum will listen to him.

She scowls. ‘We can’t let her carry on like this. We’ve cut her too much slack because of Meggie, but it’s almost a year now and . . .’ Mum stops, as though she
can’t believe it’s been that long.

I seize my chance. ‘Which also means I’m almost seventeen. You can’t do this.’

We glare at each other.

Dad sighs. ‘How about we move the laptop downstairs? That way, we can control her access to the web. Keep an eye on what she’s doing.’

‘Don’t talk about me like I’m not here!’ I scream. ‘I’m not some little kid who needs monitoring to make sure she’s not being stalked by the Big Bad
Wolf.’

‘That’s exactly what you are. A little kid. We’re still your parents, Alice, and until you can learn to exercise some self-control, we’ll have to exercise it for
you.’

‘But, Mum—’

She turns her back on me, grabs my laptop and almost trips over the cable trailing behind her. Dad won’t look at me. I’ve hurt him. I wish I could explain that I wouldn’t have
lied if it wasn’t necessary. But I reckon they’d throw the laptop out of the window and send me to live with the Amish if I even mentioned Soul Beach.

Mum sticks her head back round the door. ‘Oh, and before you get any ideas, I’m sleeping with the laptop under my pillow. So I suggest you get some sleep and prepare for tomorrow
– when we help you get your life back. It’s for your own good, Alice. We’re not losing another daughter.’

I don’t sleep at all, of course.

My head’s too full of evil: of a shadowy killer overpowering Tim and watching the life drain from him. That same faceless figure combing my dead sister’s hair to remove knots. She
was immaculate when she was found by another student from her corridor. It’s one of the many things the press feasted on: the description of my sister as a Sleeping Beauty.

Is Meggie wondering where I am tonight? And what did Sam need to warn me about? The rules of the Beach are murky and ever-changing. Perhaps Tim will take my sister’s place on the shore.
Perhaps she
has
left at dawn, as Triti did before her.

It might have been my last chance to see my sister.

I turn over in bed for the millionth time, trying to force myself to think rationally. Tim’s death can’t be the end. If he’d chosen to die, he would never have left us in the
dark. There would have been a note, a message . . .

I sit bolt upright. What if he tried to leave a message for
me
? It would make sense. I’m the only one in my family who believed in him. Surely he owed me that.

I scrabble round for my mobile in my rucksack. My crappy phone doesn’t even have the internet. I hardly use it anymore. It’s not like Danny and Meggie can text me from where they are
. . .

But
Tim
could have done, in his last hours. Battery’s dead.

I put the phone on charge and wait for the prehistoric thing to respond.

Finally it comes to life with the loudest beep. I hold my breath in case it’s woken my parents. But the rest of the house is quieter than a mortuary.

In the corner of the screen there’s an unopened envelope.

Click.

Sahara. Was she there with Ade when he found Tim’s body? She hardly ever went to Ade’s place, disgusted by the thought that her boyfriend lived with a suspected killer. News like
this could knock her sideways. Yet occasionally I wonder if Sahara gets a kick out of all the drama. She’s always telling people she was Meggie’s best friend, even though I know Meggie
fell out with her about something before she died.

And now this . . . It was sent at nine thirty, well before the police arrived, and even before I saw Tim struggle ashore.

If my phone had been switched on, it would have been Sahara who broke the news. Why doesn’t that surprise me?

There’s nothing from Tim. But that’s good news, because it’s the last bit of proof that I’m right. I’m not crazy. And he’s not a killer.

Which also confirms, of course, that someone else out there has murdered two people I was close to.

I put the phone on my bed, wondering how my life has become so warped. Because the truth is, knowing there might be a serial murderer out there actually makes me feel better.