‘Tried it on?’ My jaw is tight and I have to consciously work to unclench my teeth as Cynthia’s face swims in front of my eyes.

‘Oh God, silly stuff. She’d put her arms around me, kiss my cheek, tell me if I needed drink or slightly less legal substances, she could get them for me, that kind of thing. To be honest, I was glad when she stopped coming around.’

‘Which was when Luke was three?’

He shrugs.

‘Same summer as Lily disappeared?’ I try.

‘Actually it was, I think. I remember Cynthia asking me if I was single, giving me advice, and being quite full-on for a bit, and the next minute she was gone – not coming around any more, leaving poor Mum to look after her own kids, God help her.’

‘Advice?’

‘I use the term loosely. It mostly seemed to involve me giving her money to buy drink for my mates, and her taking a cut of the cash and the beer.’

That, I think, sounds exactly like Cynthia.

I park on Woodbine Street opposite Kinsella House and sit for a moment, composing myself. I have cake with me. She doesn’t eat. Not regular food like regular people. But she likes cake. Takes tiny bird-like nibbles, picking with her narrow fingers, pincer-gripping crumbs with her long nails. So I have cake. And an excuse for calling on a Saturday.

At the front door, I press the buzzer, half hoping she won’t be there. Mostly hoping she won’t be there. But she answers; a hoarse, nicotine-soaked ‘Hello?’

‘It’s Joanna. I was nearby so thought I’d stop in. I have cake.’

Her reply comes in the form of the buzzer, and the click of the front door.

Her apartment door is ajar. I push it, not sure why I’m expecting it to be different to any other time. It’s not. The dark, dust-covered furniture, the half-closed green velvet drapes, the faded oriental rug, the smell of stale smoke that makes my skin crawl – everything is exactly the same as always. She’s lying on the couch, her head on a cushion, her bare feet resting on the arm, a cigarette between her fingers. She blows smoke rings towards the ceiling, then turns her head to face me. I take her in with fresh eyes, comparing her to the photo in Susie’s house. Her hair, white-blonde, is piled on top of her head in a bun, no longer flowing down her back. Her skin is cracked from age and nicotine but her eyes are just as blue as they were back then. Her teeth are stained yellow now, the gap as prominent as ever. Cute, no doubt, back in her heyday. Less so today. Sixty-two now, Cynthia could pass for forty-five on a good day and at other times – on bad days, at her most hungover, after her rages – she becomes a shell inside her own skin and could be eighty. She still favours the same kind of long dresses she wore when she was young, and today she’s wearing something that looks like a white Grecian robe. A blonde Cleopatra, reclining. Waiting for an explanation.