Page 2
I want to see my family, my friends.
The light hits wrong, and the air fills my lungs differently, like my body doesn't know what to do with either of them. It takes a second to adjust. I fucking hate that it does.
Christ, I want to breathe fresh air. A bed that fits me and a toilet with a fucking door. Freedom. Mam’s soda bread, a bit crumbly but sweet, with loads of soft butter.
I have one night before I pick up the list I've been building and start working through it.
Those fuckers who put me in here don’t know yet.
I’m grateful to exactly no one for this. Maybe my cousins and brothers for getting me out, but I should’ve been out when my brother Cavin was released. I was framed.
Our footsteps fade into the open air.
The air fills my lungs differently here, like my chest doesn’t know what to do with it.
I stand there for one beat, only for me, before I let my face go blank again.
Declan’s standing by the car door, and he didn’t come alone. My older brother, Seamus, stands beside him. A small crowd of reporters stands a few yards away, cameras flashing. I don’t bother telling them to fuck off. I want them spreading the word of my release far and wide. I want every one of my enemies pissing their pants.
Declan grins and waves. I nod back.
The guard opens the gate and steps back. Then it’s just me, a brown envelope of cash, and a useless phone, wearing the only set of clothes that fits me, walking toward freedom.
The gate behind me closes as reporters push closer to the car. I’m still half waiting to wake up and find it was a fucking dream.
But no.
Seamus holds up a hand to the reporters.
“No, Seamus. Let them come. Let them tell everyone.”
“Torin McCarthy, is it true that you were framed?”
“Are you eager to get back home?”
“Is it true you were released on bail?”
My voice feels rough from disuse. “Aye, eager to be home. No bail.”
I know I was framed. They can fuck off asking for a comment on that.
Let them print it. Let every man who had a hand in putting me in here and making me suffer read it over his morning tea, understanding what’s coming.
The crowd swells. Microphones are pushed in my face, the eager voices peppering me with questions.
“What was your experience like?”
“What do you have to say to your enemies?”
“People say you’re Ireland’s most wanted. Do you agree?”
I ignore most of the questions, but one stands out.
“Mr. McCarthy, were you involved at all in the disappearance of Valentina Esposito from New York?”
I stop walking, look at that reporter until he takes a step back, then keep moving.
What did he just say?
