Soul Beach

American. Definitely not my type.
    ‘Right. In order of residency, then. This is Triti, usually known as Pretty Triti. She’s been here longer than any of us.’ The Indian girl blinks, then smiles and steps forward.
    ‘You’re Meggie’s double!’ she says, air kissing me. Not that I feel anything at all. ‘I love your skirt.’ I was expecting a soft Indian voice, but instead her accent is upper-class English, with just a hint of Cockney.
    ‘I love your bikini,’ I say. I want to add that it’s a miracle of engineering, but she might take that the wrong way.
    ‘And this is Javier, from Spain.’
    Javier is the flamboyant one. He waves lazily but doesn’t move. ‘I would give you a hug, but, you know how it is.’
    ‘I thought you were Italian,’ I say.
    He scowls moodily, like a bad actor. ‘I hate Italians. All show. No substance.’
    Which seems rich, coming from a dead person . . .
    ‘And last but not least, Danny.’
    ‘Hi, Alice.’ He stands up, like the well-brought-up boy I’m sure he is. Taller than I expected. Eighteen, maybe? Either in his last year at school, or his first year at some elite American university.
    And then it strikes me that he’s not at university any more, because he’s dead. With Meggie, it doesn’t seem so strange, because I’ve had months to get used to her death. But being introduced to people who aren’t actually alive is one of the weirdest things that has ever happened to me . . .
    His all-knowing eyes meet mine. They’re a soupy green, but the colour isn’t what holds my attention. It’s the intensity, the longing. I don’t think it’s because I’m beautiful: I do know what lust looks like, but this is something else.
    I suppose it could be a lust to be alive again.
    I force myself to look away. ‘Hello, there.’ I say to them all.
    Javier doesn’t try to hide his boredom, but Danny smiles. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from your sister. Good to see you here. Hope you’re not too freaked out by . . . well, by the obvious freakiness of the whole set-up.’
    ‘Sit down,’ says Triti, making space for me on the steps. ‘Megan’s so pleased that you’ve shown up, finally. She was starting to think you’d never reply to her messages.’
    ‘Completely understandable, though,’ says Danny. ‘Don’t feel bad, Alice. I tried to contact my little brother the same way but I never heard from him.’
    ‘There was never any point in me trying to contact my brother,’ says Triti. ‘He never liked me when I was alive.’
    I look at Javier. He shrugs. ‘Only child.’
    I nod. It figures. ‘So, is it only sisters and brothers that are allowed to come?’
    ‘Well, there’s no handbook when you arrive, but I asked around,’ says Danny.
    ‘One way of passing the long lazy days,’ says Javier.
    ‘I think it can be anyone you have a strong bond with, who also happens to be young,’ Danny explains, ‘otherwise they wouldn’t be allowed onto the Beach.’
    ‘We do not want to see wrinkles or anything that sags ,’ says Javier.
    ‘Ignore him,’ Danny says. ‘We all do. Seriously, though, the bond seems to be stronger with blood relatives. People have tried to contact friends, but none have shown up so we don’t know whether it ever works.’
    Something else occurs to me. ‘I haven’t seen any laptops here.’
    My sister smiles. ‘It’s a bit more basic than that.’ She nods back towards the beach, where a couple of girls are standing by the water. One is holding a bottle, the other is trying to scribble something onto a piece of paper that flutters in the breeze. She folds up the paper, kisses it once, and then takes the bottle from her friend. The note goes inside, then the cork, and after another kiss, she tosses the bottle into the water. It bobs about for a while, before a wave sweeps it away. The girl stares at the sea long after the bottle disappears.
    ‘Messages in bottles?’ I ask.
    And then I remember how Meggie’s hand-writing looked so odd in that final email. Almost as though the ink had run.
    ‘The Management’s idea of a joke,’ says Javier.
    Danny ignores him. ‘Mostly we never hear anything. Maybe they get lost in the oceanic post. More likely our loved ones can’t believe the messages are real. But occasionally a bottle washes back up with a reply.’
    ‘Like yours did,’ Meggie explains.
    ‘We think it has to do with the depth of the connection between the Guest and the person they’re trying to contact.