Seriously? Where is it?
The reply takes less than three seconds:
Better to wait till I see you.
My thumb keeps slipping as I type:
Will text Cara as soon as it’s morning. She’ll help cover for us meeting. She promised.
And then he sends another message:
Damn. Sorry. Hadn’t realised what time it was.
I smile.
Wouldn’t have wanted to wait a second longer. This could change everything. Thank you.
He sends back a smiley face, even though Lewis doesn’t strike me as a smiley-face kind of guy.
I’ve never been so desperate for dawn to break. Every minute seems to last an hour and I nearly call Cara straight away but, if she is up, she’ll be drunk, and, if I wake her up, she
won’t remember a thing in the morning.
So I stare out of my bedroom window. This is where we grew up, Meggie and me. Where we learned to ride our bikes, where we turned cartwheels, where she had her first-ever standing ovation after
singing at the Golden Jubilee street party.
How did it come to this? My big sister murdered, me labelled unstable or worse. It’s so hard to imagine where I go from here.
And then I realise I know
exactly
where I must go from here.
If Lewis has found a place, a real place, that might be Soul Beach, then there is nothing else for it.
I have to go there.
Five a.m. It’s almost light now.
It’s rubbish-collection day tomorrow – well, later today, really – and as I blink, a skinny fox comes into focus through the window. He’s making his way from one bin to
the next, tearing open the bags with a lazy arrogance, like a customer at a self-service buffet. Chicken bones from number six. A drink of spilled milk from number eight. A pot of what looks like
rice pudding from number ten.
I tap the glass and he looks up at me. He doesn’t run.
In his eyes, defiance. I never believed in reincarnation before but after the Beach, anything seems possible. Perhaps the fox was a person, once.
It’s almost light, now, but I can’t call yet. My brain keeps replaying my last trip to the Beach and what Danny said – how it felt when he held me, kissed me.
Said
goodbye.
I picture him on the oil-blackened sand, alone. Is he condemned to walk that same shoreline forever, never seeing another soul? Yes, I suppose I might find him once more if Lewis is right about
uncovering the site of the real Beach, but will that be enough to set Danny free?
No. There has to be a resolution to his death.
And then I realise. I’ve been so focused on returning to the Beach that I’ve missed the obvious: I don’t have to wait to go online to look for the pilot’s family so I can
send them some lame email begging for forgiveness.
No, I can do something much more old-fashioned, which could at least ensure the pilot’s daughters don’t go hungry. I can write to Danny’s father, explain what Danny did, ask
him to take care of the orphans.
Then put the letter in the
post.
Doubts crowd my mind even as I reach for a pen and paper. Why would a billionaire take any notice of an unknown English schoolgirl? Does a letter ever stand a chance of reaching him? But I focus
on the task. This is the best hope of releasing Danny from his torment. The least I can do is try.
I rub my eyes until the blurring lessens and I can see the paper. I lower my pen. I don’t remember the last time I hand-wrote a letter to anyone. But this has to be good.
Dear Mr Cross,
It’s a start.
You don’t know me, but I know your son. Danny is
I cross out
is.
was a credit to you. A fine, funny, smart guy who could have changed so many people’s lives for the better. But he made a mistake, and I think
I might be the only person who can explain, and give you the chance to put it right.
Is that going too far?
I’m not a crank, even though I know I probably sound like one. Please keep reading, then make up your mind. I’m not writing for my sake
but for Danny’s. I genuinely believe things must be resolved if his soul is ever to rest in peace . . .
When Cara picks me up at seven-thirty, she’s still in her pyjamas. I’m not even sure she’s a hundred per cent awake, though her eyes are open and she waves at
my mother through the windscreen.
She doesn’t ask me why I phoned her at six forty-five, or why Lewis turned up at her place at seven. Partly because she’s a great mate, but I also have a feeling she had a late
night. I should know who she was out with, if I were as good a mate to her as she is to me but, right now, all I can do is think about that tsunami. I tell myself everything will change soon.
‘Thanks so much for this, Cara. You’re a legend.’
She nods. ‘I am, aren’t I?’
‘Do you think we could just stop here? By the postbox.’
I’ve stuck on all the stamps I could find in Mum’s stationery drawer, and written AIR MAIL in big letters all over the envelope. As I hear it drop onto the other post below, I make a
silent wish: that this will set Danny free.
Even though the thought makes my eyes burn with pent-up tears.
When we get to Cara’s place, she goes straight back to bed, pushing me towards her den where the TV and sofas are, and closing the door behind her.
I step out of the patio doors, shielding my eyes from the morning sun. Lewis is on the balcony, leaning over the edge of the metal rail, staring at the river below. He turns slowly.
‘Hello, Professor.’
‘Ali.’ His designer glasses have darkened in response to the sun, but when he faces me, he takes them off. His skin’s sallow with tiredness but his eyes are bright. In this
light, they glow like amber.
There’s a wooden table with a parasol – underneath the shade, Lewis has set up one of his laptops. He pulls out a chair for me and I sit down. The screen comes to life as soon as my
finger hovers above the touchpad.
‘Here.’ Lewis reaches across me and his hand brushes against my shoulder. It gives me goosebumps. Must be the anticipation.
All I can see is his desktop wallpaper. The bay, the sea, the sky. It’s the same as the one on my laptop and it makes me impatient; I don’t want to see some standard image.
‘Please don’t play games, Lewis, I—’
And then I remember. No one except me has
that
wallpaper. Because it only appeared after I was invited to Soul Beach: it infected my desktop like a virus.
‘Where is it?’ I whisper.
‘That’s Thailand,’ he says. ‘The Andaman coast.’
He leans in again, and brings up another photo, and another, and another. Huts with the same six supporting struts buried in the same dazzling sand.
A close-up of an orange and green bird with a long curved beak and an aquamarine tail.
A jetty built from wood that’s been weathered and bleached to palest silver. I run my finger along the screen, imagining the soft warmth of the planks as I touch them.
‘What do you think?’ Lewis asks.
‘It . . . feels right, Lewis.’ Though even as I say it, I’m not certain. Something about the image doesn’t fit.
He changes the view, zooms out to show the shape of the bay, like a crescent moon of sand with a sapphire sea beyond. ‘And that?’ his finger traces the curve along the screen.
‘Do you recognise the shoreline?’
I peer at it. ‘I can’t be sure. The sand is darker, and I’ve never seen it from this angle, so . . .’
‘Ah.’
‘It doesn’t mean you’re wrong, Lewis.’ But the geography doesn’t feel right either. Disappointment hits like a hard punch to the belly. ‘How did you find
it?’
‘Combination of factors. Mineral analysis of the rocks I thought I saw. Research into the flora and fauna. Plus I eliminated anywhere that
didn’t
get hit by the Boxing Day
tsunami. Though, sadly, that left whole swathes of this part of the world that were devastated. Sri Lanka. Indonesia. The Maldives.’
We stare at the satellite image of the bay. Is this my Beach, or are we chasing shadows? ‘It’s
very
close to the place I know, Professor,’ I say, trying to make him
feel better.
He’s frowning. ‘Crap. I was
so
sure. I know I only caught a glimpse but to me, it looked so similar.’
‘I can’t explain what’s wrong about it. The shape seems right, except maybe the shoreline is too wide. Not quite uneven enough.’
‘Unless—’ Lewis grabs the laptop and begins to type so hard that it sounds like he’s punching holes in the keyboard. Finally he turns the screen back to me.
The curve is basically the same, but this time there are little notches and spikes in the pattern where sea meets sand.
And, this time, it feels so right it makes me dizzy.
‘Oh, my God. That’s it. It’s the Beach.
My
Beach. But . . . how? What did you do?’
‘This one is the archive image,’ Lewis tells me. ‘From
before
the tsunami.’
He presses another button and the images dissolve into each other. Before and after – the after image smoothing away all the character and the sharp edges I know so well. Just as the Beach
smoothes away the physical flaws that the Guests had before their deaths and leaves them . . . too perfect.
‘I’m as sure as I can be that this is
my
Beach, Lewis.’
He nods, his face serious. ‘Finally.’
I want to reach over, hug him to say thank you. But I stop myself. Instead, I focus on the laptop again, and begin to type. When I find what I’m looking for, I turn the screen back round
to him.
‘What’s this?’
‘Flight times between here and Thailand.’
Lewis says nothing.
‘I’ll understand if you don’t want to get involved with this part, Lewis. You’ve done enough already.’
‘You’d go on your own?’ he asks.
‘What other choice do I have? I’ve spent long enough trying to get closer to my sister on a laptop. The only chance of finding out the truth is to see it for real.’
He sighs, then reaches into his pocket for his car keys. ‘I’d better get going, Ali.’
I’ve pushed him too far this time. But it’s OK. I’ll do it alone. ‘Right. Well, I’ll let you know when I’m going.’
Lewis shakes his head. ‘I should hope so. Because, obviously, I
am
coming with you. I just need to get home and make sure my passport isn’t about to expire.’
Despite everything – all the times I’ve let her down, the secrets, the lies – Cara agrees to our plan without a second’s hesitation.
‘Whatever you need. I’ll cover for you. You’ve done it for me often enough,’ she says, and we hug so hard that it triggers the worst coughing fit I’ve had in
days.
When I’ve got my breath back, she frowns. ‘So long as you’re well enough. It’s only a week since you were pulled from a bloody burning building.’
‘I promise, Cara, if this works, it’ll do more for me than any drugs or therapy.’
‘I suppose it would be quite therapeutic to go on a forbidden holiday with a gorgeous man.’ She shakes her head. ‘Not that I think Lewis is gorgeous. I mean, he’s
attractive in his own geeky way but, you know, not my type.’
I smile. In the face of all this weirdness, it’s funny and, well, nice, to be chatting like normal friends about the men we fancy. Not that I fancy Lewis, of course, but . . .
‘Good.’
She touches my hand. ‘Though it’s a long way when you’ve been so sick. Wouldn’t, I dunno, Paris, do the job just as well?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s complicated. But it has to be there. And it has to be him. He’s the only person I can imagine going there with.’
I regret it as soon as I see her face.
But she brushes off the hurt. ‘See, Alice, told you it’d be a man who would take your mind off your problems in the end. Sun, sea and—’
‘Yes, all right, Cara. I get the picture.’ My cheeks redden but I don’t argue because it’s easier to pretend that this
is
a mad, romantic escape. Well, the mad
part is true. What we’re really doing only makes sense to Lewis and me. And, even then, the doubts make me wonder if I’ve lost the plot, finally. But what is there left to try?
‘I know there’s more to it,’ she says, suddenly serious. ‘But you won’t tell me even if I ask. So, if it helps bring the old Alice back, that’s all I
need.’
I hold her hand. ‘Thank you. Not just for this – but for sticking by me for all of this time. I’ve been such a rubbish friend. And this could get all three of us into big
trouble, but I promise I’ll make it up to you as soon as it’s over.’
Cara nods. ‘Yeah, yeah. Just . . . enjoy yourself. Don’t carry anything in your suitcase you haven’t packed yourself, and please try not to turn into some kind of henna
tattooed dropout who ends up staying on the beach forever.’
Olav is totally confused when I show up for my first therapy session since the fire. I suppose he must have been bracing himself for an hour of me being surly and evasive.
Instead I am obedient as a sheepdog, smiling as he outlines my treatment plan.
We’re going to be focusing on what my sister gave me, and what I gave her, apparently. The bond that continues even now she’s gone.
Oh, and anger will be very important, too, Olav reckons.
‘I sense a rage in you, Alice. But a need to keep secrets, as well. By the end of our time together, I know you’re going to understand that anger and frustration are much better out
than in.’
I keep smiling, even though there’s something creepy about the way he’s relishing the prospect of stripping down my defences before building me back up again.
Thank goodness I’ll be thousands of miles away when my next appointment is due. If weeks and weeks of Olav was all my future had in store, I’d be begging Mum to send me to the
doctors for knock-out drugs instead.