Soul Fire (8 page)

I change carriage each stop. It probably makes me
more
obvious, but it’s the kind of thing they do in the movies. Staying on the move makes me feel less vulnerable.

Even at Waterloo, I assess the passengers on my train with the wariness of a fugitive. I walk right the way through till I settle on a compartment with an old guy with double hearing aids and a
mother with a crease-faced new baby in a sling.

There
was
someone in that car park, I’m sure of it. Someone connected to all that’s happened. So why did they let me get away?

After the running, I’m pale and sweaty enough for everyone at school to believe I’ve been
properly
ill. Even Cara’s fooled.

‘Shit, I hope it’s not catching, Alice.’

‘I’m better than I was yesterday.’

She shakes her head. ‘You must be so shocked about Tim. I know you thought he was innocent all along.’

For once, I don’t stickup for him. Convincing Cara isn’t important, even though it feels like betraying Tim not to argue. ‘It was pretty devastating, yes.’

‘People our age shouldn’t kill themselves, should they? It’s unnatural.’

‘You never know what someone’s going through.’

‘No.’ She gives me a nervous look. ‘Do you want lunch, or . . .’

‘
Or
sounds good to me.’

We leave the common room, and head towards the sports store. Cara has the keys, thanks to the captain of the hockey team renting it out at break. It costs serious money, but Cara says it’s
worth it to be able to have a smoke in the warm. Last week, her mum took away her nicotine patches because she thought she was getting addicted, so Cara’s pretty desperate.

We settle in a corner, on top of a string bag of netballs, which shifts under us like a beanbag. ‘I’m cutting down, Alice. Honest,’ Cara says, when she catches me staring at
her as she makes a roll-up. ‘It’s only a little one. And I’ll have given up by this time next week.’

‘Like I haven’t heard that before, Miss Ashtray Mouth. You know I only nag because I care.’

‘Hey, I got my driving test date through,’ she says, changing the subject. ‘My date with fate is 27 June! After that, I’m taking you on a road trip.’

I laugh. ‘Will you take your piercings out for the test? Examiners are very judgemental.’

Cara went to Brighton on Easter Monday and came back with rings through her nose and upper lip. ‘They don’t affect my ability to drive, do they?’ She opens her eyes again and
lights the roll-up. ‘Actually, I might take them out anyway. They keep catching on stuff.’

‘So they lasted, what, a month?’

‘Longer than most of my boyfriends,’ she says, and we collapse into giggles because it’s true.

When we stop laughing, she gives me a
look
. ‘You didn’t read the job description for being a teenager, did you, Ali?’

‘No. Never got the email.’

‘OK. Let me run you through it. We’re meant to get pointless piercings. Go out with pointless men. Have bad dye jobs.’ She pulls at her split ends, which are showing the
effects of five colours in as many weeks. ‘Wind up our parents. Live dangerously.’

I think of my close encounter in the car park. ‘Maybe my sister had enough danger for both of us.’

Cara blows out smoke in a steady stream and I wonder if she’s going to give me the same lecture Mum gives me, about not letting my life be blighted by Meggie’s death. ‘Perhaps
you were born square, Alice.’

‘Come on. That’s not fair. Just because I don’t smoke—’

‘You also don’t date bad boys, don’t bunk off school, don’t lie to your folks – I could go on for hours.’

Apart from the smoking, she’s wrong on every count
. But I just say, ‘Maybe I’ll be responsible now, and wild when I’m older.’

She shakes her head. ‘No you won’t. It takes practice to be bad, Alice. Or . . .’ she smiles, ‘maybe just a very good teacher.’

‘Uh, oh.’

‘Maybe I should teach you to live a bit.’

‘What do you have in mind? I definitely don’t want a piercing.’

‘Nothing painful, or permanent. Just . . . averagely dangerous stuff. Limited rebellion. Small-scale misbehaviour. Probably quite a lot of drink. What do you say?’

We start to laugh and I realise I’ve really, really missed hanging out with her. The fact that
she
still wants to hang out with
me
after I’ve ignored her for so long
makes me feel so lucky.

‘You’re on.’

She leans forward and gives me a big sloppy kiss on the cheek. ‘Welcome back to wonderland, Alice. Fasten your seatbelt; it’s going to be a bumpy ride!’

A bumpier ride than today?

Yet despite my terror, nothing actually
happened
at the car park. Except I waited for a lift that was empty. I ran through the streets even though there might have been nothing behind me
but shadows.

Perhaps a crash course in normality from my best friend is exactly what I need to cure my paranoia.

Alice is the very prettiest prey.

But she needs to exercise more care to avoid her predators. Anyone might have seen her today, despite that dowdy coat and the horrible hair. There are people out there who are
less concerned for her welfare than me.

I don’t think she realises how closely she is coming to resemble Meggie. Her face has lost some of that chubbiness – from the grief, I suppose – and as her
eyes darken, her hair seems to lighten. It is almost as blonde now as her sister’s was, spread out on that pillow.

Though Alice’s hair still tangles. She should brush it more.

Is it also in the Forster DNA to be a heartbreaker? Meggie liked to play with people’s emotions.

I don’t believe Alice does it on purpose. It is just a fact that, sometimes, we cannot help ourselves.

It’s amazing how little sleep you need when you’re living a double life.

I grab an hour after school. Then another five between eleven p.m. and four a.m. OK, the first couple of days, I really struggled to get up, but now I wake up before the alarm even goes off. I
can’t wait to get onto the Beach.

I love it here at night. The rise and fall of Danny’s chest as I lie next to him. The secrets and confessions that darkness teases out. The silly things – first pets, first crushes
– and the important stuff about happiness and love and even whether God exists.

You’d have thought that dead people would have some pretty strong opinions on that last topic, yet the Guests have no idea if they’re in heaven, in hell . . . or even just in my
imagination.

‘So this friend of yours, Cara?’ Danny says. He pronounces it
Kerr-uh
, but that’s not what’s strange. What’s strange – and wonderful – is talking
to him about everyday stuff. It makes us seem like . . . well, like an ordinary boyfriend and girlfriend.

‘Hmm?’

‘These plans she has to make you go wild? They don’t include introducing you to guys, do they?’

‘They might.’

‘But I get so jealous, Alice.’ Those big green eyes are completely focused on me. He’s doing a very convincing impersonation of total adoration.

‘I don’t get jealous of all the gorgeous girls you hang out with here.’ It’s a lie. I do, a bit.

‘That’s different.’ He reaches over to take my hand. ‘I have to face it. Other guys have what I don’t have.’

‘Body odour?’

Danny smiles sadly. ‘A future.’

I don’t know how to answer that, so I kiss him instead. But afterwards, reality still lingers like a nasty smell. ‘Let’s go and see the others.’

There’s a group sitting on the end of the rickety wooden pier. Meggie and Tim are there.

‘Hello, gorgeous little sister,’ Meggie says, hugging me tight.

‘Hi, Alice.’ Tim gives me a little wave but he reaches for my sister’s hand again, as though he can’t bear not to be touching her for more than a few seconds.

Next to them, Javier and Gretchen are dangling their feet in the moonlit water.

‘Hey, guys. How’s life?’ I ask them.

‘Life after death is excellent,’ says Javier. ‘So good I think I might just stay here forever.’

I’m about to say something sarcastic back, until I realise they’re both giggling.

Gretchen shakes her head at him, then smiles at me. ‘Alice, he can’t help himself. Do you have this phrase in English? So sharp he will cut himself.’

‘That’s the perfect description of Javier,’ I laugh.

But then I stop laughing. Gretchen’s face is changing before my eyes. Her skin is livid red, and so swollen you can barely make out where her eyes are. As I watch, she begins to shake, as
though she’s fitting, and I hear an awful noise from her throat, as though she’s so puffed up that she can’t breathe anymore.

I blink, and when I open my eyes again, she’s back to normal. And no one else seems to have noticed.

‘I am sharp no longer,’ Javier insists. ‘Instead, I am a big fluffy ball of softness. Now that Miss Gretchen keeps reminding me of how lucky we are to be here, I would not dare
complain about my existence.’

I sit down next to him. ‘You
are
feeling better, then? I was so worried about you. After Triti went . . .’

He looks down. ‘It was a dark time. So many times I wished I could have gone with her. But now . . .’ he looks up again, smiling at Gretchen, ‘I forget all the many bad things
I can do nothing about. Triti, of course, but also the past.’

I say nothing. He’s never complained about ending up here, never even hinted that he wishes things could be different.
What happened to you, Javier?
I can’t ask outright, but
I try to tell him with my eyes that it’s OK to tell me his troubles, if it would help.

But the moment passes. ‘Enough self-pity. Gretchen has cured me. She is like medicine. No. Not like medicine. Like cava, you know, the sparkling wine of Cataluña, where I am from.
Full of happy bubbles. With her, I am a reformed pessimist. In fact, an optimist!’ And he reaches out to take her hand.

‘Optimistic is the only way to be.’ Gretchen’s feet splash in the sea. ‘The water is wonderful tonight, Alice. Like a Jacuzzi.’

I stretch my legs down, and the warm water does seem to fizz and foam around my skin. Meggie is humming a melody I don’t recognise.

If cameras existed on the Beach, this would make the perfect photo. Six friends in a line late on a balmy summer’s night. No need for words. It feels even more precious, now that my time
on the Beach has to be snatched and secretive.

I try to fix the moment in my mind, every detail from the warmth of the water against the soles of my feet, to the jokes Javier is whispering to Gretchen, the touch of Danny’s hand as he
strokes my hair, and the faraway smile on my sister’s face as she gazes at the dark horizon.

Memories are made of this.

The weekend. Usually it’s when I spend both days hanging out on the Beach with Danny and my sister. But now that’s impossible, and I realise how little else there
is in my life.

Today Cara’s seeing her father, Lewis is at a geeks’ conference in Edinburgh, my mum is at her therapy group’s ‘Saturday social’ and Dad’s watching golf on
TV. I’m lying low in my bedroom with a plate of beans on toast, counting down the hours till my parents are in bed, and trying to motivate myself to make a start on the History essay that was
due in last week.

I tried to persuade Dad to let me bring my laptop upstairs but since he got back into Mum’s good books, he won’t risk annoying her by breaking the rules.

To what extent were totalitarian states influenced by ideology?

I’ve read and re-read the question so many times now that the words don’t even look right. My textbook lists all the usual suspects: Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini.

The usual suspects . . .

I stare at the blank page in my notebook. I’ve never written out a list of people who might have murdered my sister. It seemed too much like playing detective.

But when the detectives can’t be bothered to do it themselves . . .

I write:

SAHARA

The block capitals look more certain than I feel.

Sahara?
Really?
She is the most intense person I have ever met. But there’s a huge difference between clingy and homicidal.

TIM

OK, so I don’t believe it, but it feels like cheating to rule out the police’s number one suspect.

ADE

Because . . . well, he was part of the circle, wasn’t he? He spent time with Sahara, which meant he must have been friendly with Meggie too, even though she never mentioned him.

So he had the opportunity, but what could have been his
motive
? Or Sahara’s for that matter? I know my sister and Sahara argued before she died, but I argue with Cara and next day
we’re best mates again.

I rattle the pen between my teeth, trying to focus. Then I add:

The motives would be so much clearer for a stranger: an insane fan, a deadly rival who she beat on
Sing for Your Supper
. And stalkers don’t even need a proper motive. They latch
onto people without any reason at all.

Perhaps if I was the police, I might have settled for Tim as the least improbable option, too.

Her death – and Tim’s – make about as much sense as my essay question.

I hear the doorbell ring. For a while after Meggie died, no one bothered us. The charity collectors, religious converts, brush salesmen seemed to know to keep away, as though a dark cloud hung
directly over our house. But now they’re back. Another sign we’re returning to ‘normal’.

‘ALICE? You’ve got visitors,’ Dad calls from the hallway. I’m not expecting anyone, unless . . .

‘Is it Lewis?’ I call back, surprised at how needy I sound. He does seem to have this knack of being there when it counts. Maybe he’s had a breakthrough with Burning
Truths.

I hear Dad’s footsteps on the stairs, then he pushes open the door. ‘No. It’s not Lewis. Um, it’s . . . Maybe you’d prefer to meet them downstairs?’

‘
Them?’