Soul Fire

Lewis doesn’t have a girlfriend because then I’d have to try to get to the bottom of this on my own.
    The thought of being without my only real-world ally makes me feel cold.
    ‘What?’ he says, catching me staring.
    ‘Just wondering how you can make sense of that stuff.’
    ‘By looking for patterns. People mystify me, but, with patterns, I can make some sense of the world. Isn’t that what we’re here for?’
    ‘Is it?’ I whisper. ‘After Meggie died, any ideas I had about life making sense kind of went out of the window. I’ve given up trying to make sense of anything.’
    Lewis’s eyebrows go up.
    ‘What?’
    He shakes his head. ‘Nothing.’
    ‘Come on, Professor. If there’s something you want to say, come out with it.’
    ‘Just that if you’ve really given up trying to make sense of stuff, Ali, why are you asking me to do all this ?’
    I don’t have an answer to that one: not one that I can tell Lewis, anyhow.

11
    Almost an hour goes by. Lewis types away and makes the odd growling noise while I read yesterday’s paper. Finally I get up and walk over to him. On the screen,
there’s a map of the world, with dozens, no, hundreds of orange dots on the screen.
    He growls again.
    ‘Is everything OK, Lewis? You sound a bit . . . like a wild bear.’
    ‘I might have been slightly . . . overconfident about how easy it would be. Look at this.’
    ‘Are these where the site visitors come from?’
    Lewis looks at me. ‘Decent guess. But, no. These are the locations of the person who made this site. According to the IP addresses.’
    ‘Wow! They must have collected a few Air Miles.’
    ‘Their locations for the last twenty-four hours.’
    ‘But . . .’ The locations range from the west coast of the States to southern Africa, to New Zealand. Even the North Pole. ‘That’s impossible.’
    ‘Yes. Even with a private jet, you’d never do it. And I suspect the person behind this hasn’t actually shifted a millimetre from their beanbag. They’ve been masking their
true location. He or she is smarter than I thought.’
    ‘He or she? I thought you were convinced it was a man.’
    ‘It’s very, very painstaking work, this coding. The kind of stuff females are good at, like embroidery or crochet or ironing.’
    ‘You’re winding me up, right?’
    He grins. ‘Me? I wouldn’t dare.’
    ‘But a woman?’ It makes the site feel even more unsettling somehow. Tim was never a ladies’ man, he only ever had eyes for Meggie. And the only other girl I know he hung out
with was Sahara, who thought he was guilty.
    ‘Just a hunch. It’s definitely one person, though. The design, the infrastructure, it’s the work of a single brain. I almost admire it. Apart from the hideous colours and
warped obsession with death, this could be my kinda gal.’
    He’s trying to lighten the mood, but it’s not working.
    ‘Are you saying it’s a dead end, Professor?’
    ‘No. Definitely not. I love a challenge. But I need to run a longer diagnostic. Plus there’s a virus infecting half of south London’s dental practices that I promised I’d
sort out today. I can run you home, on my way out – or to wherever you want to go.’
    He begins to pack a briefcase, coiling cables and putting one laptop into a case lined with foam that’s cut to exactly the right size.
    ‘Um . . . I know I might be pushing my luck, Lewis, but could I ask another favour?’
    ‘You know I’m putty in your hands, Ali.’
    He’s taking the piss, but I blush anyway. ‘I wondered if you’d let me stay here on my own for a bit? It’s so intense at home; Mum’s watching me the whole
time.’ That bit’s true, of course, but it’s not just the peace I want here. It’s the broadband.
    He frowns. ‘I’m not sure . . .’
    ‘I won’t steal the family silver.’ The joke seems to fall flat. I hate lying. ‘Look, Mum’s banned me from the net.’
    ‘Woah.’ Only Lewis would understand how painful that is.
    ‘She thinks I’m obsessed. Which might be true but going cold turkey right now, with everything else going on, it’s too much. I’ll only stay an hour . . . Please ?’
    He looks torn. Then he smiles. ‘I am putty in your hands, Miss Forster. Putty.’ He takes a spare key out of his desk drawer and waves at his chair. ‘Double lock when you leave,
right?’
    ‘Thanks. You’re a mate,’ I say, and sit myself down in front of the three screens. I’ve never logged in away from home before. It might not