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Getting out of the house is a military exercise, but if I don’t do it now I’ll stay here all day. The days whizz by and blur into one another, and yet at the same time they are long. I dwell on things at the moment if I sit still for too long; unwelcome thoughts snarl around my brain like Japanese knotweed.

I seize my moment between feeds. If I move fast enough after the last one, before the next, I can still make it actually worth going somewhere. Coming down the stairs with the bag of Victoria’s things – so many things that need to be carried everywhere – I catch the smell again, sweet and sickly. I try to ignore the fact it’s close to where they said Mum was found. I stop to see if I can pinpoint it, but then it’s gone again. We used to watch Most Haunted at uni. Didn’t the ghosts sometimes have a distinctive smell? ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Sylvie.’ I realise I’ve said it out loud.

‘Isn’t Mummy being silly, Victoria?’ I say to the baby instead.

I look out of the window, pulling the discoloured lace curtain back, peering through the filthy glass. It’s another blank, sunless day outside. The sky is white, with the slightest tint of grey.

Something catches my attention. A shape, a block of colour; something out of place about it. Then a movement. There’s someone there – a man. He’s standing halfway up the steps to the house and he’s looking directly at the window. He’s seen me too. My body jolts. I expect him to run or gesture to me, but he doesn’t; he just stands there, fixed, arms by his side. His face is expressionless.

‘Can I help you?’ I say, opening the door. Seems unlikely, but maybe he knew Mum. He still doesn’t react.

He speaks then. ‘Are you Sylvie?’ He’s young, twenties maybe. He’s wearing a faux vintage Americana T-shirt depicting a surf café. ‘Sylvie Armstrong?’ His accent doesn’t sound local.

Sometimes I don’t even recognise that name any more. It’s Reynolds now. Sylvie Armstrong sounds like someone I used to know once but can’t quite place the face.

‘Sorry, what do you want? Are you looking for my mum… Margaret?’

He doesn’t say anything and I instinctively step back into the house and try to get behind the door. He makes one swift move then there’s a camera sound then a white flash and another click. The blur clears and I see a camera hanging round his neck, an old-fashioned manual one. He turns and walks down the steps.

‘Hey!’ I call after him but he’s gone across the street. He gets into a car. There are other people inside – two in the front and one in the back. Someone takes another picture with a phone out of the side window. I’m too stunned to move. As the car pulls slowly away, a woman turns in her seat and stares at me out of the back window until the car is out of view.

Why would anyone want a picture of Mum’s house? I stand back and look up at it, the half brick, half pebble-dash. I wonder if they heard about her death. About how she had lain there for days before anyone found her. But still, why would they want a photograph? The surface of my skin prickles all over.

I go back inside, gather all the baby luggage, and we set off.

There’s a fine, fizzy drizzle in the air, almost imperceptible. After just a few minutes, my hair feels wet and my clothes are starting to stick to me. Walking this so-familiar route to Victoria’s house makes my insides tighten.

Maybe I shouldn’t have come here again. Perhaps I should have just paid someone to clear out Mum’s house and sell it on. Something pulled me back, though, the way your hometown does. Maybe you want to see if it offers any clues as to how you became who you are; see whether you can blame it.

One last time, Conley whispered to me, quiet at first, but then more insistent.

Back then, I’d walk this way to school every day, calling on Victoria along the way. We would always be late for school because she was never ready – she’d be half dressed, one shoe on, eating a bowl of cereal and glued to something on TV. She was like that: a whirlwind through your life. She’d always mess up your plans but usually in a good way.

I’m out of breath when I get halfway up the road, cheeks burning, so I pause and lean on the pram to recover. Victoria is sleeping. I look out over the expanse of open green on the hill between our houses. People call it a park but it isn’t a proper one. More a field that’s had a few recreational items dropped into it. Masses of green lumps, great for sledging on. There’s a concrete football pitch in the middle and a rubber rectangle with rusty swings at the top. It’s where we spent most of the summer and even the winter, braving it out, standing around outside just so we could be together, away from our parents. It’s empty now, completely still.

After I catch my breath, I carry on. Everything looks the same on Victoria’s street, but the colouring or the light is different, somehow, the way it is in old photographs. You can tell straight away they’re from a different time. The Prestons’ house still stands out as the neatest; it always did. A small, perfectly trimmed lawn, the gleaming car on the driveway, a pristine hanging basket by the door.

He makes me jump when I catch him out of the corner of my eye. Peter is in the garage, the door swung open. He’s standing there in his shorts and an old T-shirt, even though it’s September. I can’t quite tell if he’s waving or shielding his eyes from the light. I’ve been standing here looking at the house for a while, mustering up the courage to knock on the door.

He comes walking out slowly, wiping his hands on an old rag. His face is revealed last of all. He looks at me expressionless for a while before breaking into a craggy smile.

‘Bloody hell. Look at you! Look at you two in fact!’ He peers into the pram at Victoria. ‘Hey, it’s smashing to see you. Judith, we’ve got visitors!’ he shouts back through the garage.

Peter and I stand there smiling and nodding; unsure who is going to go first.

‘Judith, you’ll never believe who’s here. Jude!’

‘I bumped into Judith in the shopping centre the other day actually.’

‘Did you? She never said.’ A breeze out of nowhere makes the trees in the street swish loudly.

He looks back through the garage, but Judith appears at the front door. She’s wearing neat jeans, a candy-striped pink blouse and pearl stud earrings. She always looked perfectly turned out and dressed up, even in casual clothes.

‘Sylvie, love! Thank you so much for coming over.’ She reaches out and presses a hard, dry kiss on my check. I get a strong whiff of make-up, old-fashioned lipstick, a taste of heavy, sweet perfume.

‘You never said you’d seen Sylvie, Jude?’ Peter says but she ignores him and he disappears back into the garage, starts wrapping up the cable from something, looping it between his hand and elbow.

‘Yes, I did, Pete. It’s just that you don’t listen.’ Her tone is strained but she’s smiling at me, gesturing for me to go into the house.

‘Come inside, Sylvie love. Do you want a cuppa or something?’

‘Yes, that would be lovely, thanks.’ I wipe my hand across my forehead, damp with rain.

We go in and Peter appears behind us. Judith falls back and whispers something to him.

‘This is Sylvie’s daughter, Pete. Isn’t she gorgeous?’ Judith is on full beam again.

‘Hey, she’s a bonny little thing, isn’t she?’

‘Tell him her name, Sylvie.’

The air stiffens. I assumed that she would have already done this, but they are both looking at me expectantly. Peter looks between us, his confusion growing. I send a glance back to Judith, willing her to say it, but she just wears a fixed smile.

‘Her name’s Victoria. I hope it’s not… Sorry, I didn’t intend you to find out like… like this.’

Peter takes a big breath, looks winded for a second, but recovers.

‘It’s an absolutely lovely thing to do, darlin’. We’re thrilled, aren’t we, Jude? And Victoria would be too.’ His voice cracks on that.

The house is silent except for a clock ticking somewhere. Everything so clean and undisturbed. Peter points into the sitting room. Inside it’s the same as it always was. Freshly decorated but very similar to the original. Neutral magnolia, tasteful chintz. Three remote controls are perfectly lined up on top of a copy of the Radio Times. The house smells of bleach and air freshener.

Peter claps and rubs his hands together. ‘Right, you get yourselves sat down in here and I’ll get some drinks on the go. What do you fancy? Tea, coffee? Something stronger?’ He winks at me.

‘Just tea for me, thanks.’

Judith sits with her hands on her knees, prim. The quiet sound of the clock ticking booms around the room. The seconds seem slow. She purses her lips, putting her hand to her chest, flaring her nostrils. ‘I’m sorry, Sylvie. Just seeing you here again after everything. It’s knocked me for six.’

The last clear memory I have of seeing Judith is at the kitchen table at our house, her hands in her hair. I saw Judith and Peter in the days after, going over and over everything, but they all blur into one. Mum wouldn’t let me go to Victoria’s funeral. She said I was too young; that it was no place for someone my age.

Judith avoids my eye. ‘It’s like seeing a ghost, you know?’

She turns her attention to Victoria. I think what it’s like for Victoria having a face etched with pain looming in at her. Does she sense things like that yet? What will she remember? But she is impassive, tongue lolling adorably.

‘The house looks nice,’ I say pointlessly. I trail off because I can’t think how things should be between Judith and me. I’ve never known her on an adult footing, not since I was fifteen. Our relationship is trapped in that time, never ageing or progressing.

Judith shifts in her seat, rearranging cushions and primping her hair. She reaches under the spotless glass coffee table and pulls out the local paper, the Conley News.

‘Did you see this, love?’

I shake my head. Does she really think I still read it?

‘Have a read. It was in the paper a few weeks ago. I’ll go and get some biscuits.’

The paper feels thin, smooth like it’s been handled a lot. The article starts on the front page, continued on page seven. There’s a picture of Judith taken here in this front room, perched on the end of the sofa, unsmiling, camera tilting downwards at her.

There’s an inset picture of Victoria, too, in her red hooded top and green jeans, sitting on the wall outside the house, squinting at the sun. The whole crowd of us used to wear the same stuff – green or red jeans and hooded tops. Matching raincoats from the market too. Walking around like a set of Russian dolls, Dad used to say.

Judith hovers with the biscuits as I read the article. Each time I look up, she is focused on me intently. It has a timeline of Victoria’s disappearance and a map of the lake and the local area where she was last seen, the route she took.

‘I just have to do something, you know? It’s twenty years. Twenty years.’ She emphasises the words, stretching out the ‘years’. ‘I ring the police every year on the day she died. To remind them that I’m still here. I’m still waiting.’

‘Do they have any new leads?’

She bats the question away with her hand. ‘Oh, I can’t even understand what they say to me. “It remains open.” That’s all I get. Neither this nor that. Fobbed off. They’ve moved on. They say it’s open but they’re not doing anything. I know they wish I would just go away. But I won’t. I won’t give up.’ Her jaw is set hard.

‘Do you have somewhere I could feed Victoria?’

Judith’s eyelids flicker at the name again.

‘Of course, love. In her old room. You know where it is.’

Victoria’s bedroom, where we spent so many hours French-plaiting each other’s hair, listening to tapes, listing our favourite boys, ranking them into an ever-shifting top ten. I open the door slowly, bracing myself, but it has been turned into a guest room, as neutral and ordered as everything else in the house.

Who lives in a house like this? If you were asked, you wouldn’t be able to say.

There’s a spare bed and an exercise bike, too. No sign of Victoria anywhere, except for a picture on the wall from when she was a bridesmaid – it was that final summer. I remember how excited she was about wearing the shiny, ice-blue dress and getting her make-up done by a professional make-up artist. It looks so dated now – the harsh purples and pinks are ageing.

After I’ve fed Victoria and sat with her upstairs a little longer than I need to, I go back downstairs. Judith has put the paper away now.

Peter is back in the living room, perched on the sofa arm.

‘I had to change the room,’ Judith says, as if she needs to apologise. ‘It was just too much – seeing all her things every day. I still have most of it, though. Stored away. People said it was for the best to redecorate it; that it might help.’

I think of Mum’s house, the stink and filth of it.

I make a shape with my mouth but nothing will come out. What could I say?

‘So, there was something I wanted to ask you, Sylvie. If you don’t mind,’ Judith says, a light going back on in her.

I was getting ready to start leaving, but she gestures for me to sit down again.

‘It’s about Victoria.’

‘Oh.’

‘My Victoria,’ she adds, and my scalp prickles.

‘There’s a man, a film-maker. He wants to make a documentary about it. Victoria’s case.’

Peter tuts loudly, shaking his head. Judith shoots him a glare.

‘He’s from Wales. He read about the case.’ Judith gestures to the newspaper under the table. ‘He says it’s a good story; there’ll be interest in it. We might get new information. Sam is his name. Sam Price. I’ve a good feeling about him.’

‘Good story,’ Peter says, a sneer to his voice, his mandible twitching. ‘It’s not a “story”; it’s my daughter’s life. And yours. Or it was. And he’s turning it into a bloody “story”.’

‘He doesn’t mean it like that, Peter, and you know it.’

‘Bloody vultures,’ Peter says. ‘There’s next to nothing they won’t make money off of.’

Victoria lets out a sharp cry. ‘Will you get involved, Sylvie?’ Judith asks.

‘Me?’

A loud bang makes me jump in my seat. The glass panes in the door rattle and Peter is gone.

‘Ignore him; he’s just struggling with it all a bit at the moment. It’s bringing it all back.’

‘So you’ve met this Sam?’ I say.

‘Yes, of course. He’s here. In Conley.’

‘Oh, really? OK,’ I say. ‘If you think it’s a good idea.’

Judith straightens up. ‘Well, don’t you? Isn’t it worth a try?’

‘Of course, of course I do. Sorry, I’m all over the place. I’m just tired and with Mum’s house and this one… Sorry… So who’s he going to be interviewing?’

‘I don’t know exactly. He was a bit “journalistic” about it, to be honest. I have to accept it’s independent and blah blah blah. But he’s going to interview me again, of course. And he wants to talk to you too. You were the closest person to Victoria. Even closer than me, maybe. Well, definitely. Let’s face it.’ She looks down.

‘I just don’t know what help I would be, is all. I’ve already recounted everything I know. Many times now. There’s nothing new I could say.’

‘Please, Sylvie. Please, for me and Peter. He’s never been the same. We’re getting old now. We need some closure, Sylvie. We have to know before…’ The tendons in her neck tighten and stick out, rock-hard.

‘I’ll do what I can, OK?’

Judith puts a business card into my hand and squeezes it closed, the corners of the card digging in. ‘I’m really hopeful, Sylvie, that this could stir things up – that’s what we need. Really jog someone’s memory, you know? People move on, things change: that’s what Sam said. You just don’t know.’

I tilt my head up at her and squeeze her hand back before extricating myself and shoving Sam’s business card into my bag.

Judith looks towards the living-room door.

She speaks more quietly. ‘I really am sorry, you know. About your mum, and that we lost touch. After Victoria, my head was all over the place. And then your dad… I think we both shut ourselves off for a long time. We should have done the opposite and looked after each other at a time like that. But that’s hindsight, isn’t it? I guess I just didn’t have it in me.’

‘I’m sorry too,’ I say. ‘That I didn’t keep in touch when I moved away.’

Judith brushes it off. ‘You were a kid. And you were better off away from this place. She was always a good pal to me, your mother, you know.’

‘You were to her, too.’

Victoria starts to wriggle.

‘I better go.’

Judith and I hug lightly before I leave. Or at least we mime one; our bodies hardly touch.

Outside, Peter is clattering in the garage. The concrete floor is swept perfectly clean. Various tools are hung up on the wall, cords neatly wrapped away.

I hover in the entrance. ‘I’m going to get off, Peter. Great to see you.’

Peter jumps, turning to face me. ‘Christ, you gave me a scare. OK, love. I’m sorry about before.’ He gives me a strange, long look, a slight grimace to his face, and then he breaks out of it. ‘Ignore me. It’s just you’ve such a look of your mother. It’s uncanny from certain angles.’

I feel myself flush.

‘Anyway, grand to see you. Pop by again, won’t you? And don’t mind Judith – if you don’t want to get involved with this Sam, you’ve no need to.’

When I have walked halfway down the street, I turn back and Peter is at the end of the driveway, waving and watching us.