Once again thanks to my faithful readers and many thanks for the reviews.
I remember the day vividly. Even in our line of work a bomb is a relatively unusual occurrence, although until recently we've had to be extremely vigilant, the natural result of being a main port entry from Ireland. As a matter of course we still watch out for what terrorist flotsam might drift across the water, but thankfully the stresses that were prevalent prior to the Good Friday Agreement have eased off a little. For the most part, and much to our professional relief, it has transpired that after suffering through two decades plus of strife the majority of the Northern Irish just want peace, combined with the security of being able to walk down a road and round a corner without apprehension as to what unsuspected, unseen dangers might be lurking out of immediate sight. That suits us fine, although the threat continues to linger on from a few dissident Irish factions, still allegedly fired by idealism. Maybe they are, but being a crabbed policeman whose years of experience stack up into double figures I suspect that their declared allegiance to the forty shades of green is nothing more or less than a cynical cloak under which fester a variety of organised crime syndicates, most of whose activities can't even claim a nodding acquaintance with patriotism. For myself I'm just grateful that the requirement for intensive security in that area of operation has diminished a little over recent years. We still have more than enough crisis's to keep us occupied, for while Ireland may be retreating into the status of an ancient issue Islamic extremism and organised high end thuggery are providing us with a more than adequate substitute in the gainful employment stakes. Consequently it was with horror that, as I was calmly driving my way into the office, I was suddenly diverted by a call crackling through the hands free at around half past seven. Early reports of an explosion in Allerton about fifteen minutes previously were flooding in. Nothing definite at that stage and some members of the public do love to ramp up the hysteria –the memory of the parrot that once escaped from Chester zoo and subsequently figured in news reports as a vulture remains my favourite mindless scare - but even discounting the usual panicking reaction the initial information was quite sufficient to suggest that we had bombing incident on our hands. Emergency and forensic teams had already been despatched but, given the likelihood that terrorism in some guise was the underlying cause, the attendance of a Special Branch officer was required as well. With nothing beyond the normal currently on our radar the alarmed subtext of my superior's communication was, 'Please tell me that we haven't missed something.'
When I arrived there it was immediately apparent that we had. Even from a distance, and about half an hour after the event, the slight misting of particles that any violent disturbance throws up still remained suspended in the atmosphere. The flashing of warning lights and the purposeful movement of various figures visible as I turned into the afflicted road providing further confirmation that I was approaching a scene of death and disaster, even without the ambulance tearing past me with siren blaring, aural evidence of at least one casualty. Parking my own car a little further away from the area of feverish activity I approached on foot. From the cursory assessment I automatically undertook on my short walk towards the white and green police taped cordon it seemed that while the two wrecked vehicles had borne the brunt of the attack the accompanying shock waves had also projected their vicious damage onto the nearest houses. The flapping of torn curtains suggesting that the force of the blast had put out several windows. Before I could confirm this I was halted at the sealed off barrier by a uniformed constable, young and looking slightly sick. We've all been there, before experience bloods us to a show of indifference.
Queasiness not withstanding he was polite but firm. "Sorry Sir but this area off limits to the public." With that he made to usher me away, until I stayed his action by producing my identity card. He was instantly contrite and helpful.
"Sorry Sir, we didn't know that Special Branch had been informed." The astonished look he gave me suggesting that I was some sort of rare beast, but I will say he was quick to recover and take up the implications as he added helpfully, "The officer in charge is Sergeant Eliot – he's just over there, talking to the bomb disposal squad."
Having thanked him I made my way towards the first on the scene officers, trying to avoid treading across the main area of damage for fear of hindering the Soco personnel at the work. If we ever did get anyone to court the last thing we'd want would be their brief attempting a defence of innocence on the basis that conviction was impossible owing to contamination at the crime scene.
The sight that greeted me had probably been depressingly familiar a few years back in certain areas of Belfast, and I freely admit that we do have more than our fair share of trashed cars in the sundry rough areas of Liverpool, but the sight of two scorched burnt out vehicles, one resting on what remained of its roof, with both reduced to their basic unpainted battered skeleton was still a shock. One of them, the upside down one, seemed to have had its entire side removed. That I was informed by Sergeant Eliot, who had instantly materialised at my side, was the result of the driver having to be cut out of the front seat. He added that the fire service, now packing their gear away, in cahoots with the mostly departed paramedics had proceeded against advice despite the danger of further explosion. I sometimes wonder if the complaining public ever consider how often these guys risk their own lives. Like all the emergency services they keep quiet about their heroics, which they simply consider to be part of the job. From where I was standing it was a toss up which was the greater of two competing minor mysteries. How the paramedics, now rushing their charges to hospital, had managed to extract the driver from the twisted metal shell of a car or alternatively, looking at the scattered debris while inhaling the smell of burning, how come there hadn't been more than two casualties, both I was informed from a family called Lynott: mother and seven year old daughter. In sober truth as the specialist teams were already engrossed in disentangling the strands of cause, effect, and culpability there was little I could do other than confirm from the various experts present that in their opinion this was, or had been, a car bomb, although not, they thought, ignited by the driver's key turning on the engine. Positioning and a witness suggested the actual explosion had taken place a little after the car was backed out of the drive. Not that that tentative conclusion was going to make much difference to the Lynotts. The ways and means would be of secondary importance to the fact that half their family members were now on the way into hospital, and from the sight that had greeted me on arrival it was a wonder they'd survived thus far. House to house, begun with alacrity, had already established that witnesses were thin on the ground. At that time of day most of the street residents were either shovelling down breakfast in their kitchens, or were positioned in front of the bathroom mirror making themselves look respectable for the rigours of the day, most of which locations were situated towards the rear of the properties. As my assumption about destroyed windows had proved to be accurate several individuals, prevented from going to work due to the enforced road closure, were inspecting the damage to their properties while disinterring the details of their insurance companies. Personally I thought, having noted state of the front gardens nearest to the blast area, that we'd been lucky – a relative term in the circumstances – that we'd had no more inadvertent casualties. I've seen the result of too many broken bottle fights in pubs to underestimate the damage a shard of glass can do. Given the correct angle – again a relative term- a glass fragment if yielded carelessly can be as lethal as a dagger.
That witnesses were going to be thin on the ground was bad news. Apart from Michael Lynott, or as I was informed Dr Michael Lynott, who was understandably not available for immediate interview, only the neighbour from across the street claimed to have seen the bulk of the horror. As I watched the elderly agitated woman being ushered into a car by a uniformed constable I was guessing from her demeanour it would take some time and much sympathic expertise to tease any coherent statement from her. Leaving that task to the well practised, trained interviewers I was just in the process of ascertaining an estimated timeline for the series of events when I was interrupted by a call patched through from an MI5 operative. That in itself wasn't a huge surprise. With Special Branch occupying the professional hinterland between the every day world of the various district constabularies and the unseen officers of the security services we are too aware that the spooks have primacy in all cases of suspected terrorism, and it was glaringly obvious that a bomber on the loose was responsible for creating the devastation I was currently surveying. It was the fact that it was the central London offices, not the local Manchester based MI5 employees, that was the surprise. Even more so when they, without us having filed a preliminary report, were querying suspected Irish involvement. I confirmed that if anything ever had 'made in Derry' written all over it this was it. Having rung my own office with a verbal update I was tasked with heading off to the hospital, there to monitor the progress of the injured, but to do nothing else until further instructions were forthcoming from the security services.
When I finally made it into St Mary's casualty unit, at around nineish, I walked slap bang into the usual hospital hell of organised confusion, not helped by A & E having to deal with a major RTA simultaneously with the admissions I was intending to follow up. Consequently the hospital staff didn't have time to answer anything much in the way of questions as they scurried around with various instruments and tubes in an attempt to save lives, which is after all their primary function. It took me about ten minutes of fighting my way through the hubbub to ascertain that the Lynott casualties had been brought here. That was when I discovered that the initial family details I'd acquired at the scene had been garbled. Due to the need for speed, and the almost inevitable crossed wires attendant upon that, no one had informed me that the affected household contained two Dr Lynotts. The victims being Dr Karen Lynott female and their eldest daughter Sarah, aged seven. Protocol demands that usually only immediate family receive whatever clinical information can be ascertained, but given the circumstances I eventually managed to persuade the medics to give me at least an outline. It wasn't good. The daughter was unconscious, with severe internal injuries. Stable: but at a dangerously low level. Dr Karen Lynott was in the ICU and unless some medical miracle intervened it was only a matter of time before a least one casualty became a fatality.
When I rang in with these scanty but updated details I was informed that although MI5 were taking over the case, I was to remain, then handover to the spooks, a brief accompanied by the informal instruction 'for Christ's sake Keith keep the press away.' I'd been expecting that of course, if it's a bomb its MI5's but I can't say I was happy about having to handover to the security faceless, especially the London officials. We work quite well with the Manchester based staff, a matter of necessity given the blurred areas of responsibility we all operate within, but in my somewhat limited experience, the London officers, when they finally deign to turn up tell you nothing and, displaying a breath taking metropolitan arrogance, treat you like a sub intelligent errand boy. Meanwhile I'd been stuck with a major problem.
Apart from the woman I'd seen being escorted to the relevant police station it had now been confirmed that Dr Mike Lynott was our only other competent witness, meaning someone was going to be allocated the unenviable task of questioning him, and sooner rather than later, but he was also on the cusp of becoming a bereaved man and even if he was a doctor I very much doubted that in this instance his professional knowledge would be helping the situation. If anything it would be even more agonising since it was unlikely that he'd believe the soothing verbal bromides issued by the medical staff. While I knew the questions I would ask, the officer from MI5, being privy to information that was not for the likes of us - good only for mopping up the odd crumb that was beneath their job description - would no doubt have his own questions and I found myself reluctant to subject Mike Lynott to a double grilling within a matter of hours. He'd already had to make the appalling decision as to whether he stayed with his daughter, now lying in a separate side ward, temporarily made private due to circumstances, or sat with his wife in the ITU awaiting the inevitable. Not a choice I envied him, although I gathered he'd decided to stay with his daughter. In the end, having once again been obliged to pull out my id card in order to pass the uniformed officers standing guard outside, I walked into the ward, introduced myself and explained that while I needed to interview him I was awaiting the arrival of a colleague who would be investigating with me. Taking over was more like it but some things you don't say. I'm not sure how much of this actually registered with Mike Lynott. I didn't blame him for that at all, Sarah looked dreadful, breathing via ventilator and plugged into a variety of other monitors. His sole acknowledgment of my presence being, "I'll not be leaving any time soon.' A rending statement of fact, rather than aggravation.
Not wanting to distress him any more than was necessary I retreated to the bridge like walkway placed a few yards beyond the ward. An airy glass and girder arrangement, connecting one part of the hospital with another, giving a welcome glimpse of the ordinary outdoor world, and with it the reminder that my working life usually succeeds in its objective of ensuring that the mundane continues on its daily course uninterrupted by the type of high tragedy I was currently embroiled in. With little to do expect hang around the wait seemed endless, punctuated only by the occasional swish of a nurse heading to and from the multitude of wards the walkway corridor formed. When no one was in sight I took the chance of ringing the office, the update was uniformly depressing. The further details of the attack that had been painstakingly culled from the neighbour all confirmed the initial assumption that this was not an accident. Allied with that was the news that a D notice had been issued to the press, plus the named officer despatched from London was Tom Quinn, Section Chief of Section D Counter Terrorism department. Having for the first time since I'd been diverted to the explosion to actually think, while I awaited his arrival I realised that if Thames House were already aware that the Irish were involved they must have known something we didn't. Had they decided to let something run for Intel and now it had blown up, literally, leading to at least one and probably two pending fatalities?
Knowing that eventually I'd have to write up a paper report I'd noted my time of arrival at the hospital. Apart from that and my subsequent communication from the office, my next entry was the time that Dr Karen Lynott expired. Mike Lynott was of course informed that his wife was now definitely failing so, with me keeping a discreet distance away, he abandoned his daughter and hurried to the ICU unit. He managed to reach it just in time, although whether he'd have recognised his wife underneath all the bandages had her name not been scribbled on a board above her bed was a matter for debate. I stood back watching from a distance, feeling like a voyeur, one of the most unpleasant parts of the job in my opinion. Emergency death and disaster in an unexpected moment requiring an emergency reaction is one thing. Standing aside while someone expires, watching the grief of the family and friends, breaking the bad news, sitting by as they gasp with the sorrow that no one can know until they experience it themselves, that really is the worst. I have to say I admired the man. Most people in those circumstances lash out, looking for someone to blame. I'd even braced myself to take the brunt of his distressed anger, but as the monitoring screen flatlined and the time of death was called he simply bent over, kissed his wife's body, thanked the staff and without further comment walked away. As he passed by he acknowledged me with a nod, "You'll know where I am." Falling into step with him we returned silently back towards the ward where Sarah lay. It was obvious that he was trying to hold himself together for the sake of his daughter. He disappeared through the guarded doorway to keep vigil by her bedside leaving me to return to the unspeakable tedium of waiting for his high and mightiness from MI5 to put in his august appearance.
Having rung in with the confirmation that we now had a fatality, adding murder to whatever charge sheet the culprits would eventually have to face, assuming we, or someone got them, I estimated that I had at least an hour to occupy. To wile away my time I visited the hospital shop and purchased a copy of the local newspaper editions. Just as well I was in a hospital as the headline story sent my blood pressure soaring to danger level. Yes I was already aware that a D notice had been issued, but just in case that was not adequate a cover story had also been released. World War Two bomb indeed. I didn't have to look far to decide who pushed that particular tale. Even worse was my having to go back and explain to Dr Lynott, before some kindly person did it for me. I think his immediate reaction was not to follow the implications of this news in in all its enormity . Hospitals he was familiar with, but only when he was roughly in charge. Having his daughter in a small private ward with policemen on the door was an unaccustomed scenario. Judging by his glazed expression, with tears lurking just behind his eyes, my guess was that he was existing on a form of mental auto pilot.
With that self imposed task performed I retreated back to my now accustomed resting spot in the glass and light corridor awaiting the eventual appearance of the spook, my fury mounting as I considered the various implications of us having been kept in the dark. I have to say I was pleasantly surprised by the figure that finally turned up, half an hour earlier than I'd expected. That he'd arrived so quickly only underlined the importance that was being placed on keeping this under wraps. Although I knew who I was expecting by name, I'd only ever had phone contact with that office, I recognised him for what and who he was the moment he pushed his way through the swing doors at the entrance end of the passageway. Something in the walk, the way he took everything in without seeming to look. He was young, thirtyish I'd guess, tall with very piercing eyes and a certain assurance that made me practically fling the paper at him with one sharp word of greeting in the form of a question.
"Satisfied?"
"Not really Keith, No." He glanced at the paper before asking, "How's Dr Lynott?"
I took an almost savage pleasure in replying, "Which one?"
He really looked surprised, which, had I been disposed to be charitable I would have considered to be fair enough, after all I'd had the same reaction myself a couple of hours previously. Having absorbed this he replied interrogatively,
"There's more than one?"
I hastened to enlighten on him on that, plus another minor detail. "Husband's a Dr too. She died half an hour ago."
He seemed stunned by that as well. As we'd kept a news blackout as requested he obviously wouldn't have known that we now had a fatality and with it a problem. A fatality is nigh on impossible to hide and if the probable cause, terrorism, became common knowledge that would lay the service open to a prize public pasting. Possibly deserved if MI5 London had hugged what they describe as Intel to themselves. He paused for a moment as he processed this - for the want of a better term - game changer, taking these altered circumstances and my vented temper on the chin, making no attempt to argue or justify. There again he didn't need to. We both knew who was in charge.
Having established my mild hostility and it with the need to get on with whatever he had in mind, I guided him towards the ward where Sarah lay struggling for life. Just before we reached the police guard Tom halted for a second before saying, "I want to keep the distress to the husband to a minimum. You've already met him I assume."
I nodded to confirm this as I added, in the interests of us getting our story straight, "I told him a colleague would be joining me but I didn't say who."
In a tone of approval he outlined his thoughts, "So if he doesn't know I'm MI5 don't introduce me. We'll see what he has to say without trying to harangue him. You take the lead as long as possible and I'll ask any supplementary questions."
It sounded considerate, but of course it also meant that he could maintain his cover. Personally I rather doubted that Mike Lynott, an intelligent man whose brain cells were still intact, would be fooled for long.
As I'd expected from my earlier visit Mike was still standing beside his daughter's bed looking at her with a despair that made me instantly decide that if the only way by which we could collar whoever had done this required cooperation with the Devil himself then I'd do it. As it was I'd settle for Tom Quinn as a suitable substitute. The ward in which Sarah was being nursed wasn't unattractive, painted in light colours, reasonably modern and airy, it was certainly an improvement on some out of date holes I've visited, but given the state of Sarah, comatose and plugged into numerous machines, it must have represented a form of personal Hell for Mike Lynott. Normally it would have housed more than one patient but, due to the security concerns that were physically isolating the afflicted family, Sarah was lying in solitary state at the far end, on the bed she would never rise from, near to the window she would never look out of.
We entered quietly, with me walking a couple of paces in front of Tom, who was still carrying the paper that had so aroused my ire. I was right about Mike Lynott not being fooled, he already knew something was afoot and being concealed. As he assessed the arrival of the new face he noted the newspaper before saying evenly, but with a just hint of a sob,
"That was no German bomb. I know what's going on here."
Tom equally evenly, but with a mere touch of firmness responded,
"Then you'll know how important your information is to us."
At which point Mike made it plain that Tom's cover had been sussed. "Anti Terrorist Unit, right?"
Whatever I might think of MI5 they are - in the final analysis of who is who and what - professional colleagues and frankly I didn't want to be the one to let daylight in upon the secrecy . I judged it unlikely that Mike Lynott would be tempted to run to the tabloids with his story, but you do never know, and thinking as a policeman I would prefer to avoid letting loose the wave of hysteria that would inevitably hinder the intelligence operations, even if privately I thought they'd landed me with a naff story to cover up the origin of the bomb. So, spearing Tom with a quick glance, I contradicted Mike as I informed him,
"Special Branch."
With that Mike looked to me directly and said the first words that might begin to give us a handle on the whole incident as he admitted with a choke,
"We'd been getting hate mail."
That did surprise me. From behind my back I sensed a quiver run down Tom. I didn't dare look at him as I pursed the issue with the obvious question.
"For how long?"
"We'd had a few last year and got in touch with your lot. Nothing ever happened but the whole business almost broke us both. So when it all started up again I tried to keep it from her."
As he said it a tear began to fall as he blamed himself.
"Should have told her the truth really, shouldn't I?"
The first part of his answer when it came had made me mildly annoyed. Surely once I'd given them the name of the victims someone back at the ranch could have run a computer check and given us some background to work with. Or maybe they had and just hadn't managed to contact me due to the regulations related to mobile phones and hospitals. While I was wondering how to defend our earlier failure to act, a failure that possibly had presented us with this tragedy, Tom went up a couple of notches in my estimation as he leapt into the breach, trying to soothe Mike's distress.
"You were protecting her."
His effort wasn't wholly successful but then, in these circumstances, whose would have been? Mike, now he'd started talking, was continuing to flagellate himself, and I guessed that he probably would do so for the rest of his life.
"I was lying to my wife. My dead wife."
A statement to which there was no answer. Tom had fallen silent, probably wondering, as was I, why exactly the Lynotts had been singled out for such an inhumane fate. Was it specific, or was it random? There was only one way to find out, so stepping into my pretended role as lead officer I asked the question, hoping that Mike would continue to hold himself together. I was all too aware that with what he'd been through today most people would have collapsed by now.
"Why hate mail?"
A straightforward question, to which I received a very straightforward, direct answer.
"We're both family planning doctors. We do abortions, death threats are an occupational hazard."
We didn't need to ask further for reasons, but it fell to Tom to ask the final pertinent question.
"When was the last letter?"
"This morning."
It was as well that we had no more questions to pose, at least for now. Mike Lynott was clearly not capable of taking in much more. From his face it was obvious that he wanted us gone, so he could be left alone to concentrate on willing his desperately injured daughter to live. Tom, with more sensitivity than we tend to associate with spooks – to do what they do and face what they face on a regular basis being hardened to anything the world can present is a job requirement - took me by surprise when he walked over to Sarah's bed and looking down at her bruised and battered face registered the full extent of the damage. While he was preoccupied looked at the girl I wondered briefly if he had children of his own. Nothing I could pin down – I could say that about his entire manner - but I thought I detected a very slight wince followed by a mild undertow of anger. I think, despite neither of us being told so officially, we both knew that the chances were that the bomb would ultimately prove to have murdered two people.
When Tom did finally speak the words were calm, but sympathetic. He at least managed to avoid that occupational hazard of seeming blasé.
"I'm really sorry."
A phrase that sounds inadequate even when heartfelt, which I think this was, but honestly that is about all anyone can say in those circumstances.
I'm not sure that Mike Lynott even heard the words. As we departed it was to the sounds of him once again indulging in personal recriminations as he repeated once more,
"I should have told her."
Once outside the emotional intensity of the ward we were able to relax a little. From his first request it was obvious that Tom's silence as we left was due not just to his being appalled by the sight of the badly injured child, but also to his thinking through what we'd just heard. Once we well out of the uniformed earshot he asked - well instructed might be a more accurate description.
"Can you get an officer to check the Lynott's house and see if they've kept any of that correspondence?"
I must have raised my eyebrows a tad at that as he explained, "I don't want to ask Mike Lynott, you saw the state he was in and if we can get our hands on some of these messages they might just give us a clue." From his tone it seemed that at present they didn't have many or any.
I nodded, "No problem." Then remembering my irritation with my own people I suggested, "We should still have the correspondence that produced their earlier report on file."
He nodded with a flicker of thanks before resuming the great stone face while I stated the obvious.
"I assume you want anything we find sent by secure courier to Thames House."
Having made that gesture, and despite being well aware of just how tight the spooks are with their information, I reckoned that as we were going to have to liaise co-operation cut both ways, encouraging me to venture on an 'in my dreams' verbal fishing trip.
"Be nice to know a little more, Tom. Don't know what it's like down in London these days, but up here, we like to think we're all on the same side."
My unspoken thought, of course, was 'and the way MI5 don't let us know what's happening you'd never think it.' Therefore I wasn't overly shocked at the reply,
"Right now, Keith, this is need to know."
Maybe it was, and it was the response I'd anticipated, but I was getting exasperated. I mean Thames House obviously had information they'd not bothered to share with us and were still refusing to do so, while those of us who based locally were faced with the prospect of trying to contain a mad anti abortion fanatic freely roving around Liverpool. The task of checking out the earlier report of Mike Lynott and then cross referencing it with any other of the same ilk would fall to us as well. Consequently I wasn't exactly patient in my repost.
"I just want to get those bastards. Alright?"
Which was perfectly true. To my surprise the outburst seemed to have some effect as Tom, after giving me hard apprising look – which made me grateful not to be a subject of his interrogation techniques - disgorged the news they'd received, the information that had sent him scurrying up here like no one's business, expect of course it was his business, and mine, and, until we managed to catch the culprit, everyone's .
"Twenty bombs arrived in Liverpool last night."
Christ, he was basically telling me one down, nineteen to go. No wonder they were in a panic, and much as the spooks can annoy you they were right to be both worried and not to spread that little detail around. Before I could comment acerbically about the lack of warning Tom unbent a further inch to explain that they'd only received the definite Intel at around six this morning. By which time it was too late set in train any action that could have prevented Karen Lynott's death. He added that limited though the information had been they had good reasons for accepting that their asset was telling the truth.
Seemingly I hadn't been wrong about the bomb's provenance. One of those wretched Irish splinter groups wanting some ready cash had happily sold on the explosives. With the attitudes they've displayed to what they've perpetrated in their own wretched province the prospect of exporting untraceable terror onto the mainland was probably being viewed as a nice non- monetary bonus.
Given how helpful Tom had been in overstepping the 'need to know' protocol I replied with a heartfelt, "If you need help, and keep us informed as far as possible." Ferreting in my coat pocket I finished with, "Here's my card. Anything at all."
From Tom's face he wasn't used to such cooperation from the police. Usually with their attitudes to everyone else the spying community deserves this so I felt obliged to explain further,
"I want to get those bastards because I have a son, Jimmy, he's about the same age as Sarah."
Ever since we'd announced the pregnancy I'd become accustomed to the expression on his face. After all I'm a bit elderly to have so young a child. Wryly I answered the unspoken thought,
"Jimmy – he was a bit of a surprise."
Actually he was the product of a romantic twentieth wedding anniversary second honeymoon but that would have been too private to share, along with the fact that until the various routine scans and tests had given the all clear we'd had to face up to the possibility of availing ourselves of the professional services of either the Lynott's, or some of their colleagues.
Cutting back on the personal confidences I reiterated to him "I want to give Lynott the satisfaction of knowing we've got them."
Even as I said this I was doubting that anything would. If there's one thing I've learnt through the endless tragedies that have touched me in this job it is that you can't replace anyone, let alone a child.
Thanks for reading. If you have a moment a review would be appreciated.