Soul Fire

never complained about ending up here, never even hinted that he wishes things could be different. What happened to you, Javier? I can’t ask outright, but
I try to tell him with my eyes that it’s OK to tell me his troubles, if it would help.
    But the moment passes. ‘Enough self-pity. Gretchen has cured me. She is like medicine. No. Not like medicine. Like cava, you know, the sparkling wine of Cataluña, where I am from.
Full of happy bubbles. With her, I am a reformed pessimist. In fact, an optimist!’ And he reaches out to take her hand.
    ‘Optimistic is the only way to be.’ Gretchen’s feet splash in the sea. ‘The water is wonderful tonight, Alice. Like a Jacuzzi.’
    I stretch my legs down, and the warm water does seem to fizz and foam around my skin. Meggie is humming a melody I don’t recognise.
    If cameras existed on the Beach, this would make the perfect photo. Six friends in a line late on a balmy summer’s night. No need for words. It feels even more precious, now that my time
on the Beach has to be snatched and secretive.
    I try to fix the moment in my mind, every detail from the warmth of the water against the soles of my feet, to the jokes Javier is whispering to Gretchen, the touch of Danny’s hand as he
strokes my hair, and the faraway smile on my sister’s face as she gazes at the dark horizon.
    Memories are made of this.

18
    The weekend. Usually it’s when I spend both days hanging out on the Beach with Danny and my sister. But now that’s impossible, and I realise how little else there
is in my life.
    Today Cara’s seeing her father, Lewis is at a geeks’ conference in Edinburgh, my mum is at her therapy group’s ‘Saturday social’ and Dad’s watching golf on
TV. I’m lying low in my bedroom with a plate of beans on toast, counting down the hours till my parents are in bed, and trying to motivate myself to make a start on the History essay that was
due in last week.
    I tried to persuade Dad to let me bring my laptop upstairs but since he got back into Mum’s good books, he won’t risk annoying her by breaking the rules.
    To what extent were totalitarian states influenced by ideology?
    I’ve read and re-read the question so many times now that the words don’t even look right. My textbook lists all the usual suspects: Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini.
    The usual suspects . . .
    I stare at the blank page in my notebook. I’ve never written out a list of people who might have murdered my sister. It seemed too much like playing detective.
    But when the detectives can’t be bothered to do it themselves . . .
    I write:
    SAHARA
    The block capitals look more certain than I feel.
    Sahara? Really? She is the most intense person I have ever met. But there’s a huge difference between clingy and homicidal.
    TIM
    OK, so I don’t believe it, but it feels like cheating to rule out the police’s number one suspect.
    ADE
    Because . . . well, he was part of the circle, wasn’t he? He spent time with Sahara, which meant he must have been friendly with Meggie too, even though she never mentioned him.
    So he had the opportunity, but what could have been his motive ? Or Sahara’s for that matter? I know my sister and Sahara argued before she died, but I argue with Cara and next day
we’re best mates again.
    I rattle the pen between my teeth, trying to focus. Then I add:
    PERIPHERAL FRIEND
    MYSTERY FAN
    RANDOM STALKER
    SING FOR YOUR SUPPER COMPETITOR
    The motives would be so much clearer for a stranger: an insane fan, a deadly rival who she beat on Sing for Your Supper . And stalkers don’t even need a proper motive. They latch
onto people without any reason at all.
    Perhaps if I was the police, I might have settled for Tim as the least improbable option, too.
    Her death – and Tim’s – make about as much sense as my essay question.
    I hear the doorbell ring. For a while after Meggie died, no one bothered us. The charity collectors, religious converts, brush salesmen seemed to know to keep away, as though a dark cloud hung
directly over our house. But now they’re back. Another sign we’re returning to ‘normal’.
    ‘ALICE? You’ve got visitors,’ Dad calls from the hallway. I’m not expecting anyone, unless . . .
    ‘Is it Lewis?’ I call back, surprised at how needy I sound. He does seem to have this knack of being there when it counts. Maybe he’s had a breakthrough with Burning
Truths.
    I hear Dad’s footsteps on the stairs, then he pushes open the door.