Bernie looks down, releasing the coat from her grasp at last. ‘He’s not. He’s not a strong man. He wasn’t strong enough for this and I did it. I only wanted to tell her story. To keep a part of her alive.’

Christopher pulls himself from his wife’s embrace, punches the wall – the sound his bones make as they smash into the solid brick is sickening.

The pregnant woman looks crestfallen. She shrinks back into herself, rubbing the roundness of her stomach in a protective manner. I feel for her. She was clearly only trying to help and here she is in the middle of this nightmare.

‘And people are talking about her. Remembering her. That’s a good thing.’ I say.

I want to reach for my phone to show Bernie and Christopher the Facebook likes and the retweets, but sense kicks in before I do. What do they care about stupid numbers on the Internet when Liam is in God knows what state.

Bernie just shakes her head. Tears are rolling down her face. ‘No … No.’

‘We’re in shock,’ the pregnant woman says. ‘It was just so unexpected. So brutal.’

Christopher sits down beside her, like a child in need of comfort, and she takes his non-bruised hand and squeezes it gently.

‘Did they tell you what they did?’

It’s Bernie’s turn to talk. My eyes flick to hers. She is ashen, her fingers still blanched white, wrung together.

‘No. No, I just heard he’d been attacked. The police were with me at Foyleside. My car was vandalised. A threat left for me. I took a panic attack and they brought me here.’

Bernie isn’t listening to what I’m saying. I can see that. She drops her gaze from mine, looks down at the floor.

‘There were three of them. Three big men in their balaclavas. They beat him, right in front of me. I tried to stop them, but one of them pushed me into the chair. Liam kept trying to reassure me he was okay, but all I could do was beg them to stop. One of them, a man with a Belfast accent, said if I spoke again it would be worse for Liam. If I so much as made a noise they would finish him off. So I had to watch … and listen … And then …’ she pauses as if trying to find the words, ‘one of them went out into the kitchen. I could hear it, you know.’

Her voice cracks. ‘Oh, Jesus, I could hear it and he could, too. The kettle boiling.’

She brings her hand to her mouth as if she is going to throw up. It’s all I can do to keep standing myself. Dear God, what have they done to him? I watch as Bernie steadies herself, takes a deep breath.