Soul Beach

less.’ Dad doesn’t think he’s guilty, either, and no one accuses him of fancying Tim.
    Mum sighs. ‘I went online and my support group all say there must be new forensic evidence. Anyway, never mind our bickering, how do you feel about it, Alice?’
    I want to scream, He didn’t do it . But even if I could trust myself to speak, Mum wouldn’t listen. So I say nothing.
    She looks mildly irritated. ‘Well, you know where I am when you want to talk.’
    ‘Thanks.’ All I want is to be out of this room, to be back online, with Meggie, because these days that’s about as close to normal as I get.
    Dad starts to pack up his papers. ‘I’d better go. Partners’ meeting.’
    Mum turns on him, her face twisted with rage. ‘I can’t believe you’re even considering working while the police have Megan’s killer in custody.’
    ‘Bea, you know as well as I do that if they had the evidence, they’d have charged him on day one.’
    ‘Unbelievable! You really don’t care . . .’
    And I feel that drifting again, the sense of floating above the room, watching my parents argue bitterly, as they never, ever did when Meggie was alive. But their shouts are fading, and instead I hear the sea whispering, and I swear I can almost feel a breeze on my face.
    I push myself up from the stool, my legs still weak, and slip past my parents. They barely notice me go.

19
    As I switch on my laptop, my craving for the peace and beauty of the shore is stronger than ever.
    It’s only been ten days since I first walked at the water’s edge, but already I don’t know how I could survive reality without my refuge on Soul Beach, and the miracle of hearing my sister’s voice again.
    As the page loads, I realise I don’t know how I’m going to tell Meggie about Tim. Should I even try? Does she deserve to know – or will it hurt her even more?
    And yet, there’s nothing to tell yet. This is Tim we’re talking about. The first of her boyfriends to treat me like a human being, instead of Meggie’s dumb kid sister. He talked to me about the big things: my plans, my ambitions, my ideas.
    That’s not how a killer behaves, is it?
    I’m trying to work out how to play it with her as the beach appears at last, and I gasp . . .
    I can see people.
    Hundreds of beautiful people.
    It’s like a beach party on a music video: sun worshippers clustered round the bamboo beach huts and splashing about in the turquoise water. So much for my refuge . . .
    I don’t move forward. I’m too busy staring. Everyone here is young, exactly like Sam said: teens and early twenties. And not just young: gorgeous, too. There’s a rainbow of hair and skin colours, and they’re all wearing slightly preppy clothes. The boys are in cut-off jeans or baggy surfing shorts – no skin-tight Speedos in sight – with either bare chests, laundry-white tees or linen checked shirts.
    The girls are more colourful, wearing bikinis in bright primary colours, or patterned spaghetti-strap sundresses. They’re swimming, or surfing, or lolling around on beach towels. I see one guy with a Spanish guitar, singing an indie hit from last summer. He has a sexy voice, with a slight accent. Russian? Czech? A Japanese girl sits next to him, tapping an improvised beat on a tiny set of drums, and the others hum a soft accompaniment.
    I think I preferred the beach empty. There’s something disturbing about perfection. And the creepiest thing is that they all look so familiar. I suppose it’s because of the model looks – and yet I’m sure there’s something more than that. I recognise them at a deeper level: a flutter of the eyelids, a pout, a flick of the hair.
    There’s a kid over there who reminds me of the drum and bass star who was found dead in his hotel room after some serious partying. And that German girl who was all over the headlines last year when she was kidnapped because a gang was after her dad’s scientific formula or invention or something.
    Did she ever turn up? I have a feeling her ear was couriered, on ice, to his lab.
    She looks around and looks right through me. No, that girl was ordinary, even in the picture her family gave to the papers. This girl here is a supermodel. And she has both her ears . . .
    As I move, I notice that they all look straight through me. But then perhaps I am not worth paying attention to, with my normal face and my normal body. Their bodies are perfect: no sunburn, no cellulite, no sign of how they might have died.
    No