Soul Fire

that.’ He laughs.
‘And what about you? What do you speak?’
    ‘French.’
    ‘Tell me something in French.’
    ‘Um . . . je voudrais du lait, ma jolie vâche .’
    ‘Sexy. What did you say?’
    I giggle. ‘I’d like some milk, my pretty cow.’
    ‘You’re mocking me.’
    ‘Never, Danny.’
    We kiss more, talk more. Share first memories, most embarrassing moments. Mine was a skirt tucked into my knickers in my first week at high school. His involved a bout of vodka-fuelled
seasickness on a yacht belonging to the father of a billionaire school friend.
    ‘Was that a female school friend?’ I ask.
    ‘Does it matter?’
    ‘To me it does. Is it the brunette you went to a barbecue with?’
    He leans back. ‘Wow. Do you have supernatural powers?’
    ‘Only the internet,’ I say. ‘She was in the video they show of you . . .’ I stop because I daren’t mention the news coverage of his death, ‘. . . well, the
video of you that’s online.’
    Danny scowls. ‘Hope they got my best side,’ he says, trying to sound amused.
    ‘You don’t have a worst side.’
    He laughs sadly. ‘My friends would disagree.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Ah, Alice, I was spoiled. The life I had, I wanted for nothing. It’s not the best thing for a kid, getting everything they ask for. I was a brat.’
    ‘You’re a reformed character, now, though,’ I say, holding him tighter.
    ‘ You changed me, Alice.’
    I think I must have fallen asleep because suddenly the sky is lighter, and I’m shivering. He holds me closer but it doesn’t warm me through. ‘It’s
time.’
    The spell of our magical night together is broken. I remember where I am: not a tropical beach, but a freezing cold dining room.
    I kiss him once more but I hardly feel anything. Then I click out of the site. Reality is so colourless. I check the clock on the mantelpiece. Quarter past six. Bloody hell. I could have had
another ten precious minutes with Danny before I had to go back to bed. But it’s too late to go back, too painful to drag myself away from his arms twice in one morning.
    Instead I click onto Burning Truths. It’s not exactly a site I can checkout while Mum’s watching me. I go straight onto Tim’s page, but when I lookfor the skull icons in the
corner of the screen, I realise I’m the only person online.
    I scroll down anyway. There’s nothing new in the comments section, but there is an update at the bottom of Tim’s profile.
    TIM ASHLEY – LATEST NEWS 17 APRIL:
    INQUEST OPENS TOMORROW (18 APRIL), 10AM, SOUTH EAST THAMES CORONER’S COURT.
    Inquest? Instinctively I know I need to be there, not only because I owe it to Tim.
    But also beause I feel certain that whoever is behind this site won’t be able to keep away either.

15
    I was expecting somewhere . . . scarier. A Gothic courtroom, with turrets and soot-stained black stonework. Gargoyles.
    But the coroner’s court is a modern brick building with huge glass windows and cheerful yellow blinds. It’s too bland to be a place where the end of a life is examined.
    No one knows I’m here. I texted Cara to ask her to cover for me at school till lunch, but didn’t say why. Luckily, Mum’s sick note from yesterday is vague enough for me to get
away with it.
    There are two cameramen and a huddle of reporters outside the court, their breath condensing in the cold air like dragons’ smoke. I pull my scarf up around my face so they don’t
recognise me. For a time last summer, I was almost famous.
    I check my disguise in the ladies’ toilets. My school uniform’s in my rucksack, and I’m wearing a shapeless shirt and jeans, my hair in a scraped-back ponytail, plus an old
hooded duffel coat on top. This is pretty much the dress code for freaks – I found that out at my sister’s funeral.
    But I’m no freak. Am I? I’m here for a reason, doing the police’s job for them. I feed coins into the vending machine. Espresso? Cappuccino? Soup . . .
    That’s when I sense I’m being watched.
    I spin around, but the only person near me is a thin policeman with droopy eyes.
    ‘Hello. Are you press or family?’
    ‘Er. Neither. I was . . . studying with him. With Tim.’
    ‘Right. You want the public gallery, at the back. You know nothing will happen today, don’t you? It’s a formality.’
    I nod. ‘I wanted to be here anyway.’
    ‘I hope it helps you.’ He has an understanding face. Perhaps it comes of living with death every day.
    He’d never believe I know