Which of course begs the question – if it wasn’t him, then who was it? And why?

I sit back, swill the dregs of my wine in the glass before downing it. Even though I’ve only had one glass, I feel a bit woozy. Remembering I haven’t eaten since lunchtime, I get up to forage in the cupboards for something quick and easy to make. I’m just heating water to boil some pasta, when the shrill buzz of my doorbell makes me jump.

I lift the handset and say hello. The grainy CCTV image shows a figure I can’t quite recognise. I squint, trying to see who it is, but the security light outside seems to be on the blink again. I glance at the door to my flat, locked, with a security chain just in case. I hate that I’m jumpy.

‘Hello?’ I repeat again, my voice no doubt echoing into the cold night air.

I’m about to hang up, when I hear a male voice answer.

‘Hello? Erm, hello, is that Ingrid? I hate these things …’

‘Who is it?’ I ask.

Sure as anything, I’m not confirming or denying my identity to anyone before knowing who they are. Especially not now.

‘Declan Heaney,’ he replies. ‘You know, from school.’

He sounds awkward, hesitant. There’s something, I don’t know, a little sad about the fact he is identifying himself as the person he was twenty-five years ago.

‘We met last week, up in Creggan,’ he continues. ‘I wanted to talk to you. About you know, the story?’

I have no idea how Declan Heaney got hold of my address. Yes, I’d given him my phone number, but I hadn’t told him anything about where I lived. Or at least I don’t think I had. I’m not sure how I feel about him being in my space.

Biting my lip, I reply, ‘I’m a little busy just now, Declan. Is it important? Maybe we could meet for a coffee tomorrow.’

I hate having a conversation with him, or anyone, over this bloody intercom system. You never know who is walking past and listening.

I hear him sigh. ‘I was kinda hopin’ …’ he says before his voice trails off, carried by the wind.

I hear the rain lashing against my windows and even though I’m often accused of not having a conscience, I feel a prick of something akin to guilt or pity.

It’s only Declan, I tell myself. I can trust him.

‘Come on up, sure,’ I tell him. ‘Top floor and go to the far end of the corridor.’

‘You’re a star bar,’ he says, and I wonder if I detect a slight slurring in his words.