Raking around the kitchen, I clutched my sore throat.
‘We’ve got no painkillers,’ I said.
‘You OK, Mam?’ my daughter Nikki asked.
‘Yes pet,’ I smiled. ‘Just going to Nana’s to get some medicine.’
‘I’ll come,’ she grinned.
I chuckled. It was the evening of 7 October 1992, and Nikki Allan, 7, was my second oldest of four girls, and my little shadow.
Followed me everywhere with her toothy grin.
We lived in Wear Garth on Sunderland’s Garths estate.
I was a single mum and didn’t have much, but we were happy.
My dad Dickie and stepmam Jenny only lived two floors up.
‘Popping to Nana’s,’ I shouted to my eldest, Stacey, then 9, sitting with my youngest two, then 3 and 1.
Outside, the air was icy and Nikki clutched my hand during the 150 yards across the corridor and up the stairwell.
Only, as I rifled through Jenny’s medicine cupboard, the vacuum cleaner started up.
