Soul Fire

how he feels.
    I choose hot chocolate, then sit down in the waiting area as more people arrive. The journos come in: two men, one woman, joking like mates on a day out. The woman catches my eye and I freeze.
But when she looks away, I feel safer. Obviously I don’t look like me anymore.
    More people come in: two policemen, a woman in a boxy suit . . .
    And that . . . that must be Tim’s father.
    Meggie never met his family. Tim’s mum died in a car crash when he was thirteen, and within a year his dad had moved another woman and her kids into the house. Tim began sleeping on
friends’ sofas. He once told me he had to leave home when he started feeling jealous of a three-year-old. ‘I knew why Dad paid them attention,’ he said. ‘They were
cute. I wasn’t. So it made sense for me to go.’
    Poor Tim. Not much of a life: unwanted by his father, then wanted as a murderer. Perhaps he deserves the paradise of Meggie and the Beach. If eternal life with little hope of escape really does
count as paradise . . .
    His father has redder hair than his son, and taut, dry skin. His eyes dart around, as though he’s expecting someone to question his right to be here. It’s a shame he didn’t
show he cared about Tim that bit sooner.
    He turns towards me, and for a moment, I feel a horrible chill; those are Tim’s eyes meeting mine, yet icier.
    ‘Mr Ashley?’ The policeman escorts him towards a side room, but I’m still shivering, even though the hall is boiler-room hot.
    The clock ticks towards ten, when we’re finally allowed in.
    I wait until everyone else is seated, then take a seat in the empty public gallery.
    ‘Good morning, everyone. I am the South East Thames coroner and we are here today to open the inquest into the death of Timothy David Ashley . . .’
    The coroner reminds me of Dad’s colleagues at the solicitors’ office: grey men in grey suits.
    The policewoman who answered Ade’s 999 call reads a statement. ‘The deceased was discovered seated at the kitchen table. A torn plastic bag was tied around his neck. We noted bottles
of what appeared to be alcohol on the table. These have been removed for analysis.’
    ‘Had the body been touched?’
    She nods. ‘The deceased’s flatmate, Adrian Black, had come home to find Mr Ashley slumped on the table, but with the bag intact. It had been secured at the neck, to restrict air
flow. Mr Blacktore through it, but it appears Mr Ashley was already dead. Death was confirmed at twenty-one thirteen hours, by the police surgeon.’
    ‘Thank you, officer.’ The coroner leafs through some papers on his desk. ‘An initial autopsy shows that the cause of death is asphyxiation. The pathologist is still waiting for
toxicology reports on alcohol levels and so on.’
    Tim’s dad is motionless.
    ‘Mr Ashley? I’m sorry for your loss. Today’s hearing will be brief, I’m afraid. There will be the opportunity to ask questions when the hearing resumes once I believe I
have sufficient evidence to proceed.’
    ‘All I want to know is why .’ His soft accent is the same as Tim’s. I was too hard on him, earlier. The poor guy is totally lost.
    ‘We will do our best to find out, Mr Ashley, you have my word.’
    That’s when I feel it again: the certainty that someone’s watching me. I look behind me, half expecting to see Ade waving, but there’s still no one sitting in the gallery
except me. I turn back. Tim’s father is staring bleakly into space. I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking – that this procedure in this stuffy sanitised room
seems so wrong.
    ‘So, Mr Ashley, you understand that I am adjourning this inquest until a future date, to be confirmed, when investigations are complete.’
    But Mr Ashley is understanding nothing. And neither am I.
    I wait until everyone else has left. Back in the entrance hall, the journalists say noisy goodbyes before rushing off to write their stories. After a few words with the
coroner’s officer, Mr Ashley half steps, half stumbles outside and the cameras flash briefly and he ignores shouted questions. If he even hears them.
    Then everyone’s gone except him and me.
    He lights a cigarette. His son hated smoking, but when Mr Ashley’s lips tighten around the cigarette, his expression of concentration reminds me so much of Tim that I want to scream.
    Should I try to talk to him? I could comfort him . . . but then what? Tell him that his son has been reunited with Meggie in the afterlife? Yeah.