Soul Beach

chose to face the world with. Because, I guess, in her distorted state of mind, that was the one she thought made her look the best.
    ‘Start with the wall, from the bottom up,’ says Lewis. ‘I’ve highlighted the relevant bits.’
    I click back to the profile and scroll down. And down, and down. He’s made all her entries for the year before her death show up on the same page. I see the usual messages about parties and personality quiz results and movie star crushes. Then the first comment Lewis has highlighted shines out in acid yellow.
TRITI IS SO FAT SHE NEEDS HER OWN POSTCODE!
    It’s been written by a girl called Salli Patterson, and underneath it there are comments from half a dozen other girls, all agreeing it’s the funniest joke ever.
    Salli strikes again three days later.
TRITI’S SO FAT SHE’S GOT MORE ROLLS THAN GREGG’S BAKERY!
    Again, the stupid comment gets plenty of thumbs ups, and so it goes on: the yellow highlighter begins to take over the page. Triti is compared to a whale, a mountain, a bus. None of it is funny, or clever, and sitting here reading the so-called jokes it’s easy to dismiss them as pathetic.
    But to see them one after another, whenever you log in?
    ‘I can see they’re upsetting, but are you saying this is really why she might have died?’ I ask Lewis.
    ‘Now look at the private messages,’ he tells me, and leans over to load a different page.
    Oh, Salli has been a busy girl. The entire inbox is full of messages with single word headings: Pig and Bitch and Thicko.
    ‘There’s one every day. Sometimes more than one,’ Lewis says. ‘They’re all like this.’ He opens one.
Dear Triti,
Why don’t you just give up?
I saw you in class today with your hair in that stupid plait. That’s how they do pigs’ tails, when they’re taking them to market for slaughter. It doesn’t cover up the fact you’re minging. The only thing that would do that would be a big sack and even then you’d stink.
We don’t want you in school. You’re so thick you haven’t got the message yet. But this won’t stop until you do, OK?
Catch you later, dumbo.
Salli!
    ‘What a cow,’ I say. Salli’s profile picture shows a pink fluffy teddy bear, so it’s impossible to know whether she’s fat or thin.
    I click at random on some of the other messages. Some are less obviously cruel, suggesting that she can stop feeling hungry by eating cotton wool, or posting a photograph of an anorexic girl taken from the web. That one has ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ as its subject line.
    Then there are a couple that almost read as though they could come from a genuine friend. Oh, how poor Triti must have longed for a real friend. But not one like Salli, who writes,
Almost there, now, Triti. You’re going to look so gorgeous in your bikini on the beach this summer, aren’t you? And then those bitches will know, the ones who called you fat. Then you’ll be able to look them in the eye and feel proud of what you’ve done.
    That last message was sent in the summer holidays, less than a month before she died.
    ‘This Salli is evil.’
    Lewis nods.
    ‘And she must have been doing this pretty much full-time. I mean, we’ve all had the odd bitchy comment online but this? To drive someone . . . well, to their death.’
    ‘It’s one of the most extreme campaigns I’ve seen,’ he says.
    ‘So now we go get her, right?’ And I think, perhaps then Triti will find peace. Perhaps she might even find the way off the Beach. Which in turn, will give me more clues about how I might, eventually, help my sister . . .
    I gulp, remembering that if Meggie leaves the Beach, I will never see her again. Knowing it’s what she wants should be enough, yet am I unselfish enough to deal with that?
    ‘I don’t think it’s going to be that simple, unfortunately.’
    ‘Come on, Lewis. If you can get into her Facebook account, then you can find out the address of the school. They’d still be there, wouldn’t they? In sixth form. We’ll confront Salli and her bloody cronies. Make them realise what they’ve done.’
    ‘Sure, I know the school,’ Lewis says, sounding irritated. ‘It’s on the south coast, and I’m happy to go down with you. But there’s a bigger obstacle.’
    ‘What?’ I say, irritated and impatient myself now.
    ‘Salli Patterson doesn’t actually exist.’
    After Lewis leaves, I fit in a super-fast visit to the Beach. Tonight Mum is press-ganging me into a trip to the cinema to see some