Seeing someone murdered changes you as a person. Nothing ever feels light again.
I’d seen death before. I was at my father’s side as he took his last breath, comfortable in his bed surrounded by his family, surrounded by love. It was a gentle passing.
I was beside 29-year-old Lyra McKee when she was shot dead by a dissident republican gunman in Northern Ireland. She was a bright, vibrant young journalist on the cusp of a brilliant life. She deserved to die an old woman, comfortable in her bed after a life well lived, not on a
