He spent some time this morning cleaning his flat. He hadn’t realised just how messy it had become, or how stale the air was until he had pushed open his windows and let the cold autumn air flood his living room. He’s going to get himself under control, he promises himself. Stop smoking the grass. Stop drinking – or at least cut down on the drinking.

He picked up a parcel from the food bank yesterday, which has taken the bare look off his cupboards, and he vows he’ll spend some of his dole on some fresh fruit and veg. He’s been feeling so sluggish lately that he can feel himself spiralling and is afraid of how low he will go this time if he doesn’t get a grip.

It’s amazing, he tells himself, how looking after himself, and his home, has the power to lift his mood so quickly. His flat will never make it into the interior pages of the Ulster Tatler or the like, but at least it looks clean now. More homely. Dust motes no longer dance in mass formation in the air as the autumn sun shines through the windows.

He’s not sure what has brought about this change in him, but he thinks it might, just might, have something to do with his meeting with Ingrid last week. He thinks that he might message her again. Offer to take her to the exact spot where he and Niall found Kelly’s body. Tell her as much as he can about that day, what he remembers.

He has an urge, no, a need to see her again. He can’t get the thought of her out of his head. Her blonde hair, her blue eyes. The way she had spoken to him so kindly as they’d sat opposite each other in the café. At one stage she had reached out and touched his hand, and he had revelled in the warmth of it. Ingrid Devlin was a walking reminder of a better time in his life. Of innocent, happy days before Kelly died. Seeing her again has sparked something in him and he can’t stop thinking about her.

His ma hands him a cup of tea and he sits opposite her at the kitchen table as the last load of washing runs through the tumble dryer.

‘Your brother’s coming down again this weekend,’ she says, and he feels something uneasy start to bud in the pit of his stomach.

‘That’s not like him,’ he says. ‘What brings him down again?’

‘I thought he’d have told you,’ she says, reaching for a Rich Tea biscuit and taking a bite.

He watches as crumbs fall to the table and she brushes them into a neat pile immediately.

‘We’re not as close we used to be, Ma. You know that.’