That was when my friend got attacked in a bar, or was that the second time I gave a statement and this the first. I can't remember. Memories get so jumbled up at times.
Anyway, I remember when they came, knocking on the door and asking to come inside. I knew I'd not done anything wrong but there was that niggling doubt in the back of my mind that I might say something stupid or somehow make myself accountable for something. But I didn't. They just asked the usual questions.
Name, age, address, where were you on the night in question?
Night in question, they couldn't even say it and I didn't even want to think about it. A murder, they couldn't even say it, murder. A boy of twelve went missing on his way home and was found the next day 50 miles away, strangled to death. That boy, that poor boy was friends of some children I used to babysit; my mum had once been his dinner lady while she still was on. The boy went missing from the village next to mine.
You never forget things like that, the sad looks behind the professional faces of the police, that worry that flares inside you because this has happened so close to home, the sadness that it's actually someone you might have met without realise it.
No, I remember the date now. I was seventeen, I'd spent the weekend at a carnival having a good time with friends, and this boy had lost his life. I'll never forget that, not having to make a statement for a murder investigation.