‘You don’t need to worry. I’m not turning into an alcoholic. The sweet tea just wasn’t working for the shock and I’m not sleeping. Are you sleeping? I just can’t and then this …’

The front pages of several newspapers were scattered all over the sofa, all open at different pages about the murder. On top was a tabloid paper, The Chronicle, splashed with pictures from Clare’s Facebook page with the headline ‘Police hunt “ripper” killer’ in red, the only slightly smaller subheading declaring ‘Woman “almost decapitated” in brutal Derry slaying’.

Julie jabbed at the page; I noticed her nail varnish was chipped, her hand shaking. She took a long drag on her cigarette and looked back at me.

‘Is it true? They wouldn’t have printed it if it wasn’t true, would they? I can’t … I can’t even think. She was alive for a while after the attack. So it can’t be true. Oh, God, what if she wasn’t unconscious? What if she knew?’

Julie was almost manic, her words falling over each other. Her thoughts forming quicker than her words and rushing to get out.

‘Why would they say that? The police didn’t say that to us. Ronan didn’t say it. Who told the newspaper? It says “a source close to the investigation”,’ she read, her fingers still jabbing at the newsprint. ‘I always thought that meant it was a lie, but this is too serious. Why would they make her death so salacious? That same “source” said there was evidence she’d had sex on the night she was killed. Why would they print that? That’s nobody’s business. What’ll her parents think? Why won’t they leave her alone? Maybe I’ll ring this journalist and ask her. This Ingrid Devlin,’ she said, looking at the picture byline, ‘she might tell me.’

I realised I hadn’t spoken a single word, just listened to Julie rant and rave, crying as she recounted what she’d read and how she felt about it. I suppose the truth of it was that our friend didn’t just belong to us any more. She was a headline. A story. A victim. Would she always be looked at that way? Would how she died now define her more than everything she’d been to everyone in her life? Now, she’d be remembered as a victim first and foremost.

I glanced at the gaudy headline, the pictures of Clare, drink in hand and grinning at the camera. Painting her as some sort of party girl. Without even thinking about it, I swept the papers to the floor and trampled on them.

‘This is just shit to sell papers,’ I said to Julie. ‘It’s just shit.’