From the garden wall I can see all around me. I picture how he would have been able to watch us as we walked home from school in a pack, small groups of us drifting off at each street that broke off from Broadway. He would’ve had a clear view all the way up to St Mary’s Chapel from his preferred spot.

Do I think he was being predatory when he stood watching us? Chatting to those of us who passed him? I know I didn’t at the time. I think of the sad, scared man I spoke to last night. Something about it feels off to me, but God knows I’ve been taken in by protestations of innocence before.

Digging my hands deeper into my pockets, I start to walk up towards the chapel. A slow movie of my childhood memories is playing in my head as I do so.

I can see the garden we used to hide in during our more adventurous games of hide-and-seek. Can see the low wall I sat on making daisy chains while waiting for my friends to finish their dinner. Those were such innocent times.

I’m so lost in my own thoughts that I almost don’t hear someone call my name. A male voice, low, gravelly – as if fighting off a cold or a cough – breaks through my reverie and grabs my attention. I look up, see a tall figure maybe fifteen feet away from me. A black beanie hat pulled down on a weather-worn face, a dark beard that needs trimming. A bulky khaki coat, dark blue jeans. Hands, like mine, buried in his pockets, shoulders hunched. A pair of once white trainers, now scuffed and grey, on his feet. He could be any age from twenty-five to forty-five. I can’t quite tell, but he is looking at me, and he definitely knows who I am.

‘Are you too good to say hello to me now?’ I hear him say.

There’s a cheekiness to his voice and I look closer until something about him becomes familiar to me.

‘Niall?’ I ask.

He laughs, which ends in a coughing fit that causes him to fold over onto himself, his hand covering his mouth until he catches his breath. ‘You’re almost right. To be fair, it’s a fifty-fifty chance.’

‘Declan,’ I say, and I know that I’m right. I’m talking to one of the Heaney twins. They sat three rows back from me in primary school and liked to pull at my plaited hair and steal my fruit for break. But they were actually funny and sound and let me join in their games back in the street.

‘You’ve got me!’ he confirms. ‘I have to say it, Ingrid. You’re looking well. I like the blonde hair! The years have definitely been kinder to you than they have been to me.’