On the day of the march it was there in spades. Grief. Raw and angry, vocal, new. You could see it in the placards and hear it in the catch of a mother's voice as she spoke of her child, taken too soon.
On the day of the select committee hearing it was there in the mother's shaking hands clutching an urn of her daughter Christie's ashes, and in the plea of a young friend of the teenage victim, asking, between sobs, for a country where "life means life".