Soul Beach

it, as a couple of lads mark a rapid drumbeat on two bongos.
    I think he might be drunk, judging from the way his eyes are rolling as he leans back from the waist, his body making an unnatural right-angle.
    His shirt is undone, sweat darkening the fabric, and the twisted shape of his body emphasises muscles I hadn’t seen before. Not quite a six-pack – I hate those vain boys who can name every single muscle in their over-worked bellies – but definitely rippled in the right places. A shadow of hair marks his skin from the belly button down towards his waistband.
    I look at some of the other girls’ faces and it’s clear that I’m not the only one to notice that there’s more to Danny than a sharp wit and a kind heart. Yes. That’s definitely jealousy I’m feeling. He could be theirs by nightfall.
    Whereas I can’t even hold his hand.
    His face has lost the cynicism and the longing, and he looks more like he does in the video I found. A sweet, funny teenager who happens to be the heir to a fortune, who kisses a girl for the camera just to avoid hurting her feelings. A guy whose life was just about to get even better before he was cheated out of everything in one last, long fall to earth.
    As the beat gets faster and faster, his eyes are half-closed and he seems to twitch. Then I realise I can’t hear the drums any more, but I can hear a whirring and as I watch, his body jolts and twist in impossible ways, like someone trying to right themselves while they’re falling . . . falling . . . falling . . .
    At the last moment, the girl on the right winks at the girl on the left, and they lower the rope so it grazes his skin. He jumps, as though he’s been knifed, and then topples over backwards with a strange, low moan and a slap against the sand that sends grains into the air like curls of smoke.
    Around him, the other Guests laugh and applaud, but no one helps him up as another limbo contestant takes centre-stage.
    He tries to push himself up, and looks around as though he doesn’t quite know where he is any more.
    ‘Danny?’ I call out, walking fast towards him. ‘You OK?’
    The others can’t hear me, of course, but his face breaks into the most enormous smile when he sees me. ‘Alice. Cool!’
    ‘I’d help you up, but, well . . .’ I hold out my hands in a gesture that makes me feel useless.
    ‘No problem. I’ll manage it soon. How hard can it be?’ He tries, and fails again. ‘Dizzy. From the limbo, I guess.’
    ‘And nothing to do with Sam’s mojitos?’
    ‘OK, maybe a little to do with Sam’s mojitos. She makes them too strong.’ The third time, he does manage to stand straight, and then brushes away the sand that’s stippling his golden skin. ‘But I’d love another. Fancy coming with me?’
    ‘I was looking for my sister. And for Triti.’
    His face darkens for the first time. ‘Sure. I know where they are. Have you found a way to help Triti, yet?’
    ‘I’m working on it.’
    ‘I knew you would be. What do you say in England? Not just a pretty face, huh?’ And he looks at me so intently that I have to look away, before I blush, or say something I’ll regret.
    ‘You’re drunk.’
    He’s still staring. ‘You know, I think you could be right.’
    ‘I should find Triti.’
    Danny’s face falls. ‘Not yet,’ he says, his voice panicky. ‘I mean,’ he smiles again, ‘let’s get ourselves a drink, first, huh, Alice? You might need one if you’re gonna try to talk to her.’
    ‘But I can’t . . .’ I tail off. He seems to have forgotten that we’re different: that he’s a Guest and I am a Visitor. And as I walk alongside him, our footsteps falling into the same rhythm against the sand, I wish I could find a way to forget too.

51
    We sit on the steps to the beach bar. Apart from the odd Guest racing in and out to fetch more jugs of drinks, the bar is empty.
    ‘I reckon this is as quiet as it’s gonna get tonight,’ Danny says.
    I look right, towards the wilder edges of the beach where Triti is.
    He shakes his head. ‘Forget her for now. Please. I want to talk about me, me, me!’
    I’m about to argue, when I notice that despite his puppy dog expression, his eyes are as sharp as ever. Is he getting desperate, too? Will Danny be the next one to send me off to resolve his death, like some kind of paranormal Miss Marple?
    Perhaps he knows I’d do anything for him, if he asked me nicely.
    ‘OK. I’m here. You talk. I’m listening.’
    ‘You’re going to