With that, his lack of alibi and testimony that he used to stand outside his house and wait to talk to school children every day, that some thought he had an unhealthy interest in some of us, the jury had found him guilty.

‘Who would have done that?’ I ask. ‘How?’

I shake away my growing feelings of pity for this poor creature in front of me. Her stuff was found in his house. His house that he rarely left. It seemed impossible that they could’ve been planted there.

‘I don’t know!’ His voice is loud and thick with emotion.

The family across the café stop chatting and look at us. Jamesy drops his head in his hands.

‘I don’t know,’ he says again, quieter. ‘I’ve spent twenty-five years trying to work that out. Seventeen of those years in a prison cell. You can do a lot of thinking in a prison cell.

‘I should have fought harder at the time. But I trusted them, the police and the lawyers. The policeman, he said to me, he said, “If you did nothing wrong, you’ve nothing to worry about.” And I thought, sure I didn’t do it. I can’t get into trouble if I didn’t do it. I kept telling myself that. But that policeman told lies, didn’t he? Because I did get into trouble.’

Jamesy rubs at his temples, pressing the pads of his thumbs into the soft flesh. I can feel the stress radiating off him in waves. I glance around and the waitress is eyeing us suspiciously. The family are whispering among themselves and shooting furtive glances our way.

I reach my hand across the table and place it gently on Jamesy’s arm. He looks at me and his sadness washes over me. This man is broken. I see his truth in his eyes and I want to believe he is telling me the truth.

‘How about we go for a wee walk?’ I say to him. ‘Free up this table for other people.’

He nods, not questioning my desire to free up a table in a café that has only six customers in it, and at least eight other empty tables already.

I pack up my stuff and watch as he shuffles back into his grey anorak. Everything about him is grey, bleak and diminished.

Before we leave, he thanks the waitress.

‘Mammy said there’s no excuse for forgetting your manners,’ he tells me.

I thank her, too, as she moves to wipe down our table, her eyes never leaving us.

The rain is still falling as we walk up the promenade. It’s now a fine drizzle and actually, it feels good to be out in the open air. Jamesy stops and watches as the waves crash to the shore.

‘I love the beach,’ he says. ‘Any time of year. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’