The headline is stark: ‘Bring her Home.’ The subhead speaks of the hell the family of missing schoolgirl Kelly Doherty are going through. The byline is Ryan Murray’s. He’s since climbed the ranks to editor, but must have been only a junior reporter then. This would’ve been a huge story for him to cover.

The Chronicle was published just twice a week in 1994, instead of daily like today. It was an era when local journalism bloomed. Circulation was high. Advertising was healthy. Competition was almost non-existent. The Chronicle was a flagship paper. Not like now, I think. The Internet has almost wiped us out. Why pay for news when you can get it for free?

Looking at the date on the front page, I see that by the time this paper hit the counters in the newsagents, it would only have been a matter of hours before Kelly’s body was found. I shudder, an icy coldness running through me. I blink and it’s like I’m there again, on Halloween night.

We were all dressed in our fairly basic costumes, throwing together whatever our parents could find to make us into a bunch of amateur monsters, vampires, witches and fairies. We were armed with plastic shopping bags, which we carried from door to door. This was before Halloween was Americanised. We didn’t say trick or treat – we would parrot in sing-song voices ‘Anything for Halloween?’ to our neighbours, and we would be rewarded with nuts and apples and grapes; if we were exceptionally lucky, we might get a lollipop.

Then, bundled in our duffel coats, we’d move on to the next house and the process would begin again. We didn’t need parents to chaperone us then. It was a different time. We watched out for each other. Our neighbours looked out for us. The only thing to fear was the thought that our bags of loot could be ‘raided’ by the bigger boys from the next street – taking our collections and leaving us to go home empty-handed.

That night, it was cold and wet. I remember my breath curling in soft white in front of me and the nip of the cold at the tips of my fingers, the strength of the wind catching the hood of my coat and pushing me backwards. I wished I’d worn my gloves and a hat – not that I would’ve admitted that to my mother. The smell of smoke from the coal fires in each home hung thick in the air.

I remember, or at least I think I remember, seeing Kelly. Those curls. Her white dress. A star on a stick covered with tin foil to give it the appearance of a magic wand. She was running down the street, following her friends, laughing. Jumping in puddles as she went. I remember her waving at me. And I waved back. Or I think I did. Memory is a funny thing.