Soul Beach

quite been able to get over what happened to Meggie. It’s a puzzle that I can’t solve. Obviously more than a puzzle. A mystery. Sorry, I’m making it sound like CSI.’
    ‘The police arrested that guy, didn’t they? Her boyfriend?’
    ‘Yeah, but . . .’ I shrug. ‘It seems too obvious.’
    ‘Sometimes things are obvious because they’re true,’ he says. ‘If I’m trying to fix something, usually I have a hunch about what’s wrong from the phone call, even before I remote access their systems. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the hunch is spot on.’
    ‘But then there’s the one in a hundred . . .’
    He smiles. ‘Yes, those are always the bastards to fix, that’s where I earn my money.’
    ‘The thing is,’ I say, taking a breath before the lying part of my story, ‘it’s not just Meggie any more. I keep thinking about other dead people. Dead kids. My age.’ I look at him.
    ‘ Our age, you mean?’ he asks, and I get the sense that he’s taking the piss. ‘I might look like a grizzled old geezer to you, Alice, but I’m only your sister’s age.’
    ‘Right,’ I say, realizing that maybe I have been a bit dismissive, especially when he’s trying to help. ‘It’s become . . . maybe a bit of an obsession for me. If I can’t fix what happened to my sister, then I want to know why other kids died. Kids I read about online. Kids I remember reading about. I know it sounds freaky, but I can’t stop thinking about them.’
    Know when to stop . That was another of Meggie’s Rules of Lying. If you go on too long, you tie yourself up in stupid knots. I stop.
    I wait. Is it even plausible? I struggled for ages to come up with a reason that might get him to help me. And, in terms of being believable, it’s still about a million times more believable than the idea that there’s a social networking site for dead teens.
    He’s mulling it over. Sips his beer. Looks at me. Looks at his iPod screen. Is there a built-in lie detector app in there? ‘That’s a bit odd, Alice, I must say.’
    ‘Yeah, well, my sister always said I was a bit of a freak.’ That’s true, too, but she meant it in an affectionate way.
    He laughs. ‘Join the club. Freaks anonymous . . .’ And I realise in that moment, in a single shared glance, that he’s bought my story and he’s going to help me. ‘OK, Miss Freak, how exactly can I help?’

47
    Lewis leaves with the sketchiest of details about Triti. He seems more intrigued because he’s got nothing to go on, not less. ‘Piece of pi . . . cake,’ he says as he goes.
    I wish I could leave with him. Instead, I’m trying to prepare myself for the next ordeal: the tribute.
    Dad was threatening to go out until he saw me give him a look that said, I need you here too . So we’re sitting in the living room waiting for the big moment, and for the pizzas we’ve ordered (takeaways two nights running! Mum would never have let that happen before).
    There’s something eerily familiar about the whole set up. Then I realise: this is where we were this time last year, right down to the pizza order: Four Cheeses for Mum, American Hot for Dad, Mediterranean for me. The kid on the phone just now offered me the Caprese, based on previous orders.
    But the Caprese was Meggie’s. That night, Tim, wanting to be no trouble, said he’d have a garlic bread, and then a slice from each of ours instead of having his own.
    We’d been at the recording the previous night, of course, so we knew how the show ended. But still, we were on edge waiting to see how she looked on camera. We thought she was wonderful, easily the best of all the contestants, but would everyone else?
    Meggie had an invitation to the transmission party, but she chose to be with us. That was before she got dazzled by première and launch invitations and we saw less of her. Well, who can blame her for enjoying the attention? It was what she’d always dreamed of.
    My dad catches my eye. ‘Feels like she should be here, with us.’
    I reckon Mum is about to bark something at him, but instead she sees this as the olive branch he intended it to be. She nods. ‘Maybe she is. I feel her presence sometimes, as though she can sense when we need her.’
    I say nothing, though the idea of Meggie as a kind of ultra-wet, ultra-sweet guardian angel couldn’t be further from the truth.
    ‘And now on ITV, it’s time for the third season of Sing for Your Supper . Stay tuned for your first glimpse – and your first taste