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episodes in her life that hadn ’ t troubled her at the time, but aroused her curiosity now.
    The asphalt swept by at a pace made relentless by the swiftness of Justine ’ s feet. It wasn ’ t just the calories that she was burning up; it was the frustration. Being out of jail gave her a modicum of freedom, but she couldn ’ t escape the sense of confinement wrought by those long hours. This at last was the breath of freedom that she craved.
    She was dressed in the colour of the sea. Her track-suit and running shoes were dark blue as she jogged energetically past the older and less tenacious health freaks who were trying to recapture their youth. She both admired and pitied them. At least they were doing something and not just sitting down passively waiting for whatever meagre share of good fortune life was ready to hand them. But for all that they were just following a fad, copying a trend instead of trying to set one. Jogging was the “in” thing and Central Park was the “in” place.
    She sometimes used to flee to Central Park , deserting her mother when her father ’ s erratic temper got too much for her to bear.
    But it wasn ’ t always possible to flee. Suddenly it all flooded back to her, like a wave sweeping over a lonely swimmer, pulling her under and threatening to drown her in painful memories.
    The violent rage in her father ’ s voice bellowing at her mother in another room as Justine lay in bed waiting with desperate longing for sleep to engulf her.
    The cringing helplessness of her mother, not yet the rock of refuge that she was to become.
    The sound of vicious slapping as the hands of a shell-shocked victim of some one else ’ s cause lashed out at the woman he loved, beyond his own control as well as hers.
    The advancing thud of bare feet along the uncarpeted passageway as the cries of anger and fear drew nearer.
    The hurried opening of the door to admit a frightened woman in a torn nightdress whose tears mingled with the blood that oozed from the sides of her lips.
    The rapid slamming and locking of the door before the battle-crazed stranger could enter.
    The hammering of an iron fist against a solid oak door, an accompaniment of human thunder to the silent prayer that went up from inside the room.
    The soft bodies of mother and daughter pressed against each other in silent fear and patient hope, helplessly clinging together as they waited for the paroxysm of rage to pass and the bitter sobbing to begin.
    Justine spat on the ground and raced on, stretching the pace as if to leave the past behind her. There was a fresh, natural look about her firm, body and smooth complexion. In a word, she looked healthy. Only a single line of bitterness crept into her smile and gave away the fact that she couldn ’ t capture the inner tranquillity that she had known as a child before her father ’ s return from the jungles of South East Asia .
    Somewhere along her route, she passed a discarded copy of a two-day old newspaper. “Pretty Poison to go to trial” read the headline, borrowing a reference to a movie from before her time.
    Trial by the press was part of the price one had to pay for having a free press. It would have been tempting to dismiss it as too high a price. But not for Justine. She never saw events out of context. Nevertheless the headline worried Justine, not because it boded ill for her trial, but because it reflected a lop-sided view of justice on the part of the public . They knew about Sean Murphy and what he had done. They knew that he had blood on his hands. Yet there had been no public outcry for his extradition. Some Irish Americans had even tried to portray him as a soldier for a righteous cause.
    She passed another old newspaper. But this one she didn ’ t even bother to look at. She seldom noticed things or people when she jogged. To the runners whom she overtook, it almost looked as if her face held a Thousand Yard Stare, the look that haunted the faces of so many shell shock