But now, as I walk through Foyleside, I’m surrounded by tired mothers, children dressed as witches and warlocks, princesses and superheroes. The build-up to the Halloween carnival is at fever pitch. There are a number of people offering face-painting and the queue would try the patience of a saint. Actors in costume move through the crowds, engaging with shoppers. I keep my head down.

The further I walk through the centre, the more uncomfortable I start to feel. The adults in costumes are intimidating, witches with long, pointy fingers, a zombie with white contact lenses in. Someone is wearing a Scream mask, dressed as the killer from the Nineties movie. Underneath their costume they could be anyone. No one would know.

‘This way, my dear!’ a woman dressed as an old crone implores, her voice croaky.

I turn my head, coming face to face with someone dressed as The Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. He waves an oversized lollipop in my direction. Sneers. It’s all part of an act, but I don’t like it.

‘Leave me alone,’ I hiss, and he steps back as if I’ve offended him, but I don’t care. I walk on.

The noise is too much, it’s too warm. Too busy. I see people, street theatre actors, jump out to try to scare other shoppers. The air rings with screams and nervous laughter. It brings me back to that night, when I fell and I heard the screams on the air. ‘Stop!’ ‘Wait for me!’ ‘No!’ My memory is hazy now.

Those voices, back then, were they male or female? Was Kelly among them? Was she calling for help? Imagine screaming for help and everyone thinking it was part of a game. Imagine the horror of realising no one was coming to help you.

Someone brushes against me and I flinch. I look up and around at the sea of faces and realise any one of them could be the person responsible for the attacks on my car and my home. Among those happy families and young people wandering around with all the swagger of those in their youth might be the person who held Liam Doherty down, or the person who made the call to pour the boiling water over him. Did it even bother them, what they did, what they saw?

God, Jamesy Harte could be in that crowd. Would anyone really recognise him any more? I hadn’t. As implausible as I feel it to be in my gut, could he really be behind what happened to Liam Doherty? What did he mean by what he’d told me last night?