Soul Fire

easy. But I got as far as the admin page and found their avatar. It’s la Fée Verte .’
    ‘Spanish?’
    ‘French. It means the Green Fairy.’
    I try to make a connection between the name, and Tim or my sister. ‘Means nothing to me.’
    ‘Don’t worry, Ali. We’re getting closer. But try to enjoy being here, too. It’s not all about playing detective, is it?’
    Playing detective? I want to scream.
    He points towards a bar in the distance. ‘Let’s grab something to eat with the others. A glass of sangria and a plate of Spanish sausage will set me up perfectly for an afternoon of
geeky lectures and anti-social networking. Coming?’
    No. It’s not possible.
    I stumble towards the bar, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. Am I imagining it, because of tiredness, or stress . . . or total insanity?
    Or is this beachfront bar in Barcelona really identical to the one on Soul Beach?
    ‘Over here, guys!’ Cara calls out. She, Sahara and Ade are sitting at a bamboo table which is laid with a glass jar of fresh lilies and a giant cocktail list.
They’re acting like everything is completely normal.
    But it’s not. This shouldn’t be here. It’s as out of place as a red double-decker bus on the Moon.
    ‘Looks a bit kitsch, don’t you think?’ Lewis says to me as he helps me up onto the raised wooden platform.
    I weave between the tables, trying not to stare, even though it’s doing something very odd to my brain to see plump middle-aged tourists spilling out of the same chairs that usually hold
the brightest of bright young things on Soul Beach.
    As I sit down, Cara hands me a menu. On the front, there’s a silhouette of a palm and the words Bienvenido al Chiringuito Tropicano .
    ‘Chiringuito?’
    ‘The waiter says it’s a local word for beach bar,’ Cara says, and then I remember Javier using that word.
    Maybe this is where he used to come? I rack my brains for other connections between the Guests and their former lives. Didn’t Gretchen talk about song thrushes, even though they’re
not tropical? And Triti’s descent into madness was triggered by a firework display like the ones she remembered from home . . .
    But there’s nothing on the Beach to remind Meggie of her old suburban life, or her star performance on Sing for Your Supper .
    ‘We’ve ordered a pitcher of sangria and some tapas ,’ Cara pronounces the two Spanish words with the moody flourish of a flamenco dancer. A couple of young guys at
the next table turn round and wave at her. She winks back and then whispers, ‘I’m loving Barcelona so far, aren’t you?’
    I’m not really listening. Like Sam’s bar, this one is open to the elements, but while this beach seems to go on forever, Soul Beach is a bay that goes nowhere: prison disguised as
paradise.
    The water here is dark blue, and choppier than it looked from the hostel window, with dozens of surfers scudding across the horizon. Right in front of us, a large shaggy dog races into
the sea, and straight back out again, joyously shaking seawater off his coat. It splashes onto my leg and makes me smile for the first time since I got to Barcelona.
    ‘ Sangria, aceitunas, pan con tomate. ’ A male voice, with an all too familiar accent. I turn slowly. If this waiter looks like Javier, then I am officially losing my grip on
reality.
    But this guy is short, with a bushy beard and beady eyes that are already sizing us up for tips as he puts down a glass jug.
    ‘It’s not red,’ Cara cries out, not bothering to hide her disappointment. ‘We didn’t want orange juice, we wanted sangria.’
    ‘Maybe the man thought some of us should lay off the alcohol,’ Sahara mumbles.
    ‘This is sangria de cava ,’ the man says. ‘Orange juice and local champagne.’
    As he pours the drink, it fizzes and bubbles, and splashes when the ice cubes and orange segments and sliced strawberries fall into the glasses.
    When the waiter’s gone, we hold up our drinks.
    ‘Cheers,’ says Ade.
    ‘ Salud! ’ Cara corrects him. ‘It’s the Spanish toast. Means good health. And I know a great weekend in the sun with my friends is going to do my health the world of good.’
    Apart from a single glass on my birthday, I’ve never really drunk fizzy wine. But I could get used to it. There’s a picture of Meggie the press always use, where
she’s holding up a glass of champagne at some premiere. No wonder she was smiling.
    We’ve been here a couple of hours, and the sun is