He was getting a day release to go to his son’s funeral, how fucking fucked-up was that? Well, he would go and support his Gabby, then he would work at getting out of this dump and, when he did, he was going to hunt down that mad slag of a brother of hers, James fucking dead man Tailor, and he was going to kill him. He would kill him slowly and painfully; he would burn that skank alive, and let him know just how it felt, how his little lad had felt, choking and coughing, the room filling with black smoke and that cunt laughing about it. Because he would surely laugh about it would James, just like he apparently had when he had killed that poor fucking kitten.

Vincent poured himself another drink, and swallowed it quickly. He would give ten years off his life to be with poor Gabby now, holding her, and comforting her. They said her hands were very badly burned from trying to open the metal doorknob; burnt down to the bone. She was an incredible woman. She had taken their daughter to safety first, and then gone back inside to try and get her boy. She had done everything in her power to save him. Vincent couldn’t hold back the tears then. He felt the uselessness of his life, and the complete waste of these years he had spent away from his family. He could have been with them every day if he had just used his loaf. It was too late for recriminations now, all he had left inside him was a thirst for revenge.

He knelt down in his cell and, placing his hands together, he made a pledge to God; he was going to find James Tailor and he was going to kill him. That was the only thing keeping him sane.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Seven

Cynthia was awake. She knew she should at least try to sleep, but it was the child’s funeral tomorrow and she couldn’t stop thinking about it. She wondered if she would be able to face it. She knew she had to go, if for no other reason than to allay suspicion, but she was dreading standing at the grave, knowing that the little boy being buried was there through her fault alone.

She wondered at life and how it could sometimes hold up a mirror and make you see yourself as others see you. It could hurt more than any physical injury. If she could, she would do anything in her power to change the last few weeks.

She had always been faithless; the nuns, priests, all the people who believed in God were nothing more than fools to her. Now, though, she wondered if she had been too hasty in blowing Him off. God, her mother used to say, paid back debts without money, and she must owe Him more than most people.