Soul Beach

arcade.
    ‘Microfiche readers,’ he says, seeing my reaction. ‘Load your microfilm into the tray, switch on the light, and the world’s your oyster.’
    ‘I was expecting newspapers.’
    ‘Newspapers go yellow and crumble to dust. Microfilm lasts. So, what’s the publication and date range?’
    ‘Um . . . well, I’m researching body image, but specifically anorexia. I, er, got the idea from a case somewhere in London about eighteen months ago where an Indian girl starved herself to death.’
    ‘Somewhere in London?’ He scowls. ‘About eighteen months ago? You do know that there are over thirty paid-for local papers in the city, with about the same number of free sheets. You’re looking for a needle in a haystack.’
    ‘Can I still try, though?’
    The archivist sighs. ‘If you must. OK, where shall we start? North, South, East or West?’
    ‘Er.’ I take a guess. ‘North?’
    ‘Right you are. Only thirty-five minutes left now.’
    Half an hour later and I’m no longer writing the archivist off as a gloomy jobsworth.
    I’ve skimmed just two months’ worth of the North London Gazette , and even though there are a depressing number of teenage deaths, there’s nothing unresolved about motorbike crashes or lost battles against leukaemia. Reading about so many deaths upsets me: where do those kids go? Another beach, or is their reward for dying blamelessly a glorious eternal sleep?
    Focus , Alice. At this rate, I’ll be here till Christmas and even then there’s the danger that, actually, Triti’s not there at all.
    ‘That’s your lot, I’m afraid,’ says Mr Happy. ‘Shall I leave a note of where you’ve got to, or are you thinking you might not come back?’
    I look at my feet. ‘It’s harder than I thought.’
    ‘Hmm. Yes. I’ve worked in archives all my life, and I hate to suggest it, but have you thought of trying Google?’
    When I get home, Mum and Dad interrupt their argument for about twenty seconds to say hi and tell me there’s an Indian takeaway for me in the kitchen, then go back to the rights and wrongs of this bloody TV tribute.
    My curry is cold, but I’m not hungry anyway.
    I take the Cinderella jewellery box onto my bed. This is where I keep my favourite things: the fuzzy, ugly Gonk key ring that Mum had herself when she was a little girl, the locket with my first curl of baby hair inside. Meggie’s gold ring. And then a newer treasure: the key to Meggie’s room, lying on the worn pink velvet lining. I take it out and hold it on my palm.
    The questions flood through me: who killed Meggie, why is Triti on the Beach, am I in love with Danny and if so, does that mean I really have lost the plot completely?
    The key was icy cold at first, but now it’s hot. Red hot.
    So hot that I drop it and then have to scrabble around on the carpet. I reach under the bed, grasping for the key, but I can’t find it. Finally my hand closes around something else. Something I was sure I’d thrown away.
    Lewis’s business card, with its expensive and slightly velvety finish, and the message scrawled on the back.
    Call me anytime. I know I can help.
    Oh, you do, do you, Mr Geek? Well, maybe you’re my last resort.

Appetite is such a trivial-sounding word, yet it rules our lives completely.
    Hunger is better. Just because Meggie is not here any more, it doesn’t mean I don’t still hunger for her.
    Perhaps I was too rash in the action I took, but at the time it felt as though I had little alternative.
    Recently it occurred to me that there is a way to be happy again. Perhaps Alice was always the better sister, anyway.
    More intelligent. More loyal. More . . . receptive.
    After a period of famine, my own appetite has returned. If I can tame it this time, control the extremes of my urges, then maybe I can savour the final experience so much more.

46
    The least Lewis could do when I call is sound surprised.
    ‘You came round, then, Alice? Thought you might.’
    ‘I’m that predictable, am I?’
    ‘The way I see it, you don’t have anywhere else to go.’
    ‘Yeah, you’re right that I wouldn’t be in touch if I wasn’t desperate.’
    ‘We’re a match made in heaven, then, because I’ve only agreed to help you as a favour to a mate.’
    ‘Just so long as we’re clear, then, Lewis.’
    ‘Crystal clear, Alice.’
    He comes round in the afternoon, before the TV tribute. I’m guessing his diary isn’t packed with social engagements.
    Mum’s so excited to see me with a boy