Soul Beach

Making stuff up. But I don’t know if I believe them.’
    ‘What do the rumours say?’
    ‘That you’ll only get away if . . .’ he leans in close, ‘if whatever landed you here in the first place is resolved , back in the real world.’
    ‘Right.’ I don’t understand, but I drag myself back to that ‘real’ world and scribble down what he said on a heart-shaped Post-It. Maybe it’ll make sense later. ‘And that’s all?’
    He looks at me evenly. ‘You guys aren’t Catholics, are you?’
    ‘Church of England. And only then to get into the right school.’
    ‘Well, they accept all gods on Soul Beach. Or no god at all. But at church sometimes people talked to me about limbo.’
    ‘Limbo?’ That word again.
    ‘He’s not started on his religion shtick, has he, Florrie?’
    I look around and there’s Meggie, looking slightly flushed. The weather or her ‘lie down’? None of my business, I suppose. ‘He’s just keeping me company.’
    Danny gets up. ‘It’s only a theory.’ He winks at my sister, then leaves. His legs are strong and powerful, and there’s something in his walk that’s different from the surfer swagger of the other men on the beach. He’s more . . . upright, somehow, like a soldier or an athlete.
    Meggie takes his place next to me, hugging her knees to her chest. ‘Whatever he tells you, ignore it, sis.’
    ‘OK,’ I say, not wanting to ask about her appearance – her messy hair, crumpled clothes. I don’t like thinking about what happens when I’m not here.
    ‘So good to see you, Florrie. You’re the only thing that feels real to me these days.’
    I look at her face, to see if she’s messing about, but she’s absolutely sincere. ‘I know. It’s like having you back . . .’
    We don’t feel the need to say anything else. The water slaps against the sun-bleached wood of the jetty, and all the doubts and the questions I had after talking to Danny disappear. We are sisters, hanging out. Like we used to . Meggie and Alice.
    And then I realise that it’s not quite like we used to, because before it was always me doing what she wanted: waiting on Meggie, waiting for Meggie, waiting for Meggie to notice me.
    It wasn’t that my sister was horrible, not at all. She was just the first, and so like every other younger sister, I would always be her first audience.
    But here on the Beach it feels different. She needs me as much as I need her. More, maybe. For the first time in my life, I feel like we’re equals, like we understand each other . . .
    I hear a knock at my door. Shit.
    I push the laptop screen down as far I can without it shutting down, and mute the sound and the mic in case Meggie says something.
    ‘Alice?’ It’s my father.
    ‘I’m doing my homework.’
    ‘Yes. I know. Sorry to disturb you. It’s just that Fran’s here and she’d like to talk to all of us together.’
    ‘I’ll be right down,’ I call back.
    I wait until his footsteps are gone, and then I switch the microphone and sound back on. ‘Meggie?’
    She looks at me, her big blue eyes as trusting as a baby’s.
    ‘Need to go. Sorry. I promise I’ll be back soon.’ I try to sound like it’s no big deal.
    She flinches a little. ‘OK.’ Her voice is small.
    I blow her a kiss, log out and then as I close down the laptop, the dread grows, and I feel like I’ve fallen into an icy lake.
    Fran? This can only mean one thing . . .

24
    Fran the Family Liaison officer is sitting on the edge of the sofa. She looks uncomfortable, but then that’s nothing new. I think someone told her once that she’s not allowed to smile when she’s with ‘her’ bereaved families.
    But my mother’s eyes are bright, the precise same shade of blue as Meggie’s.
    ‘It may not be the news you were hoping for, Mrs Forster.’
    Mum blinks.
    ‘Tim Ashley has been released without charge.’
    I try to keep my face neutral. Dad catches my eye: I can tell he’s trying to look neutral too. But Mum looks broken.
    ‘It’s not the end. Honestly. Try to think of it as just another step closer to finding out who killed your daughter,’ says Fran, wearing that expression of professional concern that makes me want to slap her.
    ‘We all know who killed her,’ my mother hisses. ‘But you lot are too bloody incompetent to make it stick.’
    ‘Bea . . .’ my father says softly.
    ‘I’m going out,’ she says, brushing his arm away.
    ‘Wait,’ says Fran. ‘The reporters are still outside.’
    Mum’s face