I remember the sense that this was something very, very important. Our teacher had told us we weren’t to show her up. We were to be on our very best behaviour and if we were, we would get no homework for a full week and we could go home with our mammies and daddies after the Mass. I remember the sense of solemnity about the whole thing.

But I also remember the fear. This was our friend. And she was dead and in a box – and we didn’t, none of us, quite understand it.

And then I saw Kelly’s mammy and daddy crying. Her mum roaring with grief, like nothing I’d ever heard before. The grief of a mother who had lost her child. It haunts me still, even though I’m the least maternal person in the world. Maybe that’s why I’m the least maternal person in the world. Much too scared ever to risk experiencing pain like that. I remember there were people holding her up, helping her to walk into the chapel while she was bent double with the pain of her loss. I couldn’t look away, even though I couldn’t bear what I was seeing.

I remember I saw my mother crying. And my teachers. And the neighbours. And my friends. I remember my own lip trembling but being determined not to cry. Not even one little bit. Even though I was sad and scared and it all felt very grown up.

I remember thinking if only Kelly had been with us that night. With our gang. None of this would have happened. I was ten years old and riddled with guilt. We were the older kids on the street. We should have watched out for her more, but she had her own friends. I couldn’t even start to imagine what they were feeling.

I slip another strip of negatives into the old scanner, watch the full images appear on screen and study them. It’s all, more or less, as I remember. I look at the crowd. A sea of heads bowed in procession outside St Mary’s Chapel. I see a face I think I recognise. Head up, looking directly at the cortege. I zoom in closer, only to have the image pixelate and blur. But I’m sure, or as sure as I can be, that it is Jamesy Harte. He looks just as I remember him – younger maybe. I know I’m older now than he was when he went to prison. He doesn’t look like a killer, but then again, what does a killer look like?

I save the file on to my computer. Then I email it to myself, just to make sure I have a second copy.