Pat, one of the recovery development officers who’d been visiting them regularly, had encouraged them all to write a poem about themselves and what they’d been through. From each of their poems, they’d developed a short story, and Pat had then suggested they try writing a play about their experiences.

It had been Marge who had proposed that instead of a play, they try to solve the mystery of what had happened to Karen’s pal, Mary McIntyre.

‘A mystery play,’ she’d said, her eyes lighting up at the idea. ‘Where we’re the detectives.’

Even if the body didn’t turn out to be Mary, Marge thought it was a good idea if they helped Karen remember as much as possible of the mystery. That way it wouldn’t continue to prey on her mind and she could put it to rest.

To this end they’d begun a mind map, using a big sheet of paper tacked to the back of an old discarded cupboard door. They’d got as far as writing up all the names of the families that had lived nearby and their connections with one another.

Karen had even surprised herself by remembering everyone.

‘We had to talk about what happened to make us take drink and drugs,’ Marge had reminded them as they’d worked. ‘We had to be honest with our stories. This is part of your story, Karen. You have to own it.’

While she was with the others, this all made perfect sense to Karen. Unfortunately, when she was alone again in an empty house, the old fears surfaced like shadows, creeping ever closer until they threatened to suffocate her.

The worst time was when the news came on the radio or TV. Without fail, the presenter would mention ‘the body on the moors’, as it had come to be known, and the possibility that it might be eleven-year-old Mary McIntyre from East Kilbride.

She was almost twelve, Karen inevitably found herself telling the TV. It was just before her birthday and we were planning a wee party at the den.

Mary had wanted a real birthday party, but her mum had said they couldn’t afford it.

So me and Mary decided to have one on our own. They’d already bought some sweets and a bottle of ginger with the week’s pocket money, and had hidden it at the den ahead of the big day.

Returning from her thoughts to the news broadcast, Karen would inevitably hear the same police spokesperson stating that the deceased hadn’t been identified as yet, and that their enquiries were still continuing.

It was the most recent news programme that had compelled her to revisit the diary, despite her nervousness about doing so. If she was going to try and remember the events surrounding Mary’s disappearance, as Marge had urged her to do, then surely this was the way to do it?

It was understandable that as a child of eleven in troubled times, she should have chosen to write down what was happening. In particular the things she didn’t understand. The question was, why had she kept hold of this diary that catalogued her friend’s disappearance all these years? Through adolescence, her time as a student at Stirling University, her marriage to Jack, the sadness of not having any children of their own. Then Jack’s descent into dementia and death.