‘What was her surname again?’ I ask, trying to cover the fact that I have asked so many odd questions with something a little more obvious.

‘You’re not a reporter, are you? Asking all these questions?’ the woman said with a raised eyebrow, maybe teasing, maybe not.

‘Oh gosh no, just curious in case I know her family. Wouldn’t want to put my foot in it,’ I say, realising I must sound odd asking.

‘Her name is Mandy Green. Her mum Liz works up at the Spar shop on Temple Street, although I haven’t seen her there since it happened.’

I want to recognise the name, to justify my being here – but Mandy Green still means nothing to me. I try to think of anyone I might have known back then with that name, but I have done such a good job of suppressing my past that I draw a blank. Something tells me the girl is connected to me. I just don’t know how.

‘Thank you,’ I say as she puts the cigarette out and gets on the bus. I move back so she can get into her cab and put a five pound note on her tray. I can’t remember the last time I was on a bus for anything.

‘Where you off to?’

‘Just up to the fork please. Single,’ I say. It’s only a short walk from there to the Spar. Even though there’s a bus stop outside the shop I don’t want the driver to know I’m going straight there.

She prints out the ticket and gives me my change and I retreat to the back of the bus. It has leather seats and is much cleaner than I ever remember these buses being. Maybe I’m judging this town too harshly – maybe my whole view is tarnished by my own experiences. We go past several houses I remember visiting at one point or another, although I can’t remember who lived there. Before I know it, I am off the bus again. I stand at the fork in the road, very aware of how close I am to my old house. The Spar was my local newsagent for a while; my mother would send me there for milk and I would complain because it was uphill all the way home. I look at the houses that surround me, the faded pastel paint and mossy trails around the foundations as though they had been steeped in algae. The gardens were the real prize, bursts of coloured blooms and a multitude of greens, like something out of a fairy tale. They look exactly as I remember them, almost as if I’m looking at a photograph of the past. That’s the thing about these old towns, changes were hard won because no one wanted them.