‘So he was found by a member of the public,’ the coroner continues, running a pen tip down a piece of paper. Mark can just make out the Metropolitan police logo at the top of the page. ‘Pronounced dead by the paramedics on arrival. Habitual drug user. Evidence of drug use at the scene,’ she reads on. ‘It all points to the cause of drug-related death, but of course that’s not for today. Let’s set a date of twenty-sixth May for the full inquest. Is that okay, Claire?’ The coroner turns to the blonde woman on her left, who’s staring at a laptop screen. She mumbles something Mark can’t make it out, then starts clitter-clattering on her keyboard.

Mark feels a stab of disappointment when the coroner picks up her collection of papers, rustles them into an order, and places them to one side. He’s not sure what he was expecting from today, but he knows it wasn’t this. The police cared more about the drugs in the squat than the fact Jon had died, and now the coroner doesn’t seem bothered at all. He can tell they’re moving on to the next dead guy, so it’s now or never. ‘’Scuse me,’ he says, coughing to warm his voice up.

‘Yes?’ If the coroner isn’t used to heckling from the public gallery, she doesn’t show it.

‘Is that it?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing. ‘It’s just that Jon was my mate,’ he explains, trying not to let his voice wobble. ‘And I was sort of with him when he died, except I was sparko and didn’t have a clue what was going on.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she responds, her voice holding more respect than Mark has experienced since Jon died, and a while before that, to be honest. ‘That must have been very shocking for you.’

Mark blinks, swallows, takes a breath. ‘I thought I might get a few answers today, you know, if I came to the inquest. That’s what Ted told me anyhow.’ His voice drains away. He’s not sure why he trusted a useless drunk like Ted.

‘Can you come back on the twenty-sixth May?’ she asks, but there’s no expectation in her voice. Mark knows what she sees, his dirty clothes and unwashed face. If he doesn’t have anywhere to sleep tonight, how can he know where he’ll be in six months? He wants to clear his throat and explain. To tell her that he’s got proper plans for his life, and that his not attending in May will be because he’ll have a job by then, for some big-shot gaming designer, too busy to come to some old guy’s inquest. But at best she wouldn’t care, and at worst she wouldn’t believe him, so he just shrugs instead.

‘Dunno,’ he mumbles.