Soul Storm Read Online Free PDF

in many ways, but he’s never seen the point of flowers, except for the supermarket variety, and these must have
cost at least as much as my entire monthly supermarket shop.’
    I stare at them. ‘But . . .’
    The smell of the lilies is more powerful now. Almost cloying.
    ‘Look at the card, silly,’ Mum says, grinning. ‘Though I can think of one person who might think you’re worth it.’
    ‘No one else knows yet,’ I whisper, more to myself than to Mum.
    I push my hand into the bouquet. The stems are bound together tightly and I can’t find the card.
    ‘Ouch.’
    I pull my hand out of the foliage. There’s a spot of blood on my finger, growing as I watch.
    ‘That’s the trouble with roses,’ Mum says, still smiling. She passes me some kitchen roll. The blood spreads through the white tissue, like an ink stain. ‘Here, let me
try to fish out the card.’
    She rummages around. ‘Bingo.’
    The little envelope has Alice on the front, in curly handwriting. As I rush to tear it open, I leave smudged red fingerprints on the white paper. Mum leans in
to look.
    The card shows a tiny retro car driving along a country lane. The driver is throwing a torn L-plate up in the air. It’s sweet.
    Inside, the message is written in the same italics:
    Congratulations, Alice! Stay safe!
    But no name.
    ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Stop joking around, Mum. Only you two would send this.
Could
have sent this.’
    Her smile is a little more strained. ‘No. My money’s still on Lewis. If only because . . . well, they’re not the kind of flowers you’d buy for your daughter. I’d
have chosen gerberas or freesias, something bright and young. These are . . .’
    She stops herself.
    I stare at the flowers. The scent is making me feel sick, and my finger hasn’t stopped bleeding. For a tiny cut, it stings like hell. ‘What were you going to say, Mum?’
    She laughs. ‘Oh, nothing, really. Just that when we were growing up, your grandma was superstitious about the meanings of flowers. You know, tulips mean love and carnations mean . . . I
don’t remember exactly. But she was very odd about red and white together.’
    ‘Because?’
    ‘I think it was from when she was a nurse. They didn’t like that combination because,’ she giggles, ‘well, they called red and white flowers together “blood and
bandages”.’
    It’s supposed to be a joke. I know that. But my head throbs in time to the pulse of blood in my finger.
    Only Mum and Dad know I’ve passed. Oh, and my instructor and my examiner, I suppose, but neither of those would send me flowers.
    Unless I
was
being followed by the only person who might think anonymous flowers would be a good surprise, instead of something creepy. The only person who might ignore a
florist’s advice not to send
blood and bandages.
Sahara.
    I don’t want it to be true, but I’m struggling to find an alternative.
    Could Lewis have sent them? I begin to make up a story in my head, about him hacking into the test centre’s database to find out the second my pass was recorded, and then despatching those
grown-up flowers to me.
    But Lewis hates cut flowers. He likes huge parlour palms, or tropical blooms that thrive in the little hothouse conservatory in his garden flat.
    Outside, I hear a car rattling as it pulls up.
    ‘Never mind your secret admirer. Shall we find out who’s here?’ Mum says, her voice oddly excited.
    I follow her out, glad to leave the flowers behind. She opens the front door, and there’s a silver car in the drive. One of those jelly-mould-shaped ones. A Ka.
    I don’t know anyone who drives a Ka.
    Dad gets out of the driver’s seat. He walks up the path, and hands me an ignition key.
    ‘All yours, darling Alice.’
    I take the key, not quite understanding. Dad hasn’t noticed the bloody kitchen roll wrapped around my finger.
    When I don’t say anything, Mum puts her arm around me. ‘I know it’s not the flashiest car around, but it’s in really good