Ken Wharton - To a Dark Place: Experiences from Survivors of the Troubles

First published 2022

The History Press

97 St Georges Place, Cheltenham,

Gloucestershire, GL50 3QB

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

Ken Wharton, 2022

The right of Ken Wharton to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 7509 9976 2

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ Books Limited, Padstow, Cornwall.

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

I can see you, youre dead inside, but still you wont look at me. Ignoring me wont change the facts that I took your dad away from you. Theres more of me at the front door; I smashed the glass and took a life; I settled in your wall. You know Im here. Dont look, dont look all you want, but Im inside your head.

Laura Burns, whose father was murdered by Republican terrorists

The thing which hit me the most was the empty shell which had once been my mummy, sitting in a corner.

Mary McCurrie, whose father was murdered by Republican terrorists

I am often asked: do I forgive? I cant forgive, no, not for them taking those young lives away. My emotions have never changed: I am still very, very sad, and what my poor mother and father went through; I can never forget their agony.

Anthony OReilly is the brother of Geraldine OReilly, murdered in a UVF bombing in Belturbet

My family didnt know where I lived so I heard it from the news. My father and my young brother went to identify him; on a mortuary slab awash from Terences blood. My father never got over it. At 62 years he suffered a brain haemorrhage and died soon afterwards. No one was ever charged with his murder.

Denis Maguire, brother of former UDR soldier killed by the UFF

There were bodies all around me. Some crying out for help. It was the quiet ones who scared me. Just lying still. The men of evil came to our town that day. They stole the lives of many.

Laura Hamilton, who was badly injured alongside her sister Nicola in the RIRA Omagh bombing

Paramilitaries dont realise that theyre not only murdering one person, theyre tearing a whole family apart. It has been a very difficult thing for us to live with, but talking about Gavin helps me. It is difficult even now to realise that he has been dead longer than he was alive.

Phyllis Brett, mother of Gavin who was murdered by UFF terrorists in Belfast

Mum falteringly told us Ive got something to tell, you Your Daddys dead, kids and then collapsed into tears. I was scooped into the arms of Sheila Jackson, whilst my Mother hugged the boys. I didnt want to cry, but felt I should. I felt numb and very strange as I had not witnessed this kind of emotion in adults before. I remember also feeling angry that nobody had warned me that my Daddy might lose his life in Northern Ireland.

Anita Haughey, whose soldier father was killed by the IRA when she was just 7

He wasnt coming home, my boy, our boy wasnt coming home, as he lay covered in a tartan blanket in the Army barracks.

Claire Monteith, whose brother Alan was killed in the Omagh blast

There is no difference at all in a broken heart; they are still broken, whoever you are.

Mary Hull, whose husband was murdered by the UVF in Belfast

I was praying that David would be alive, no matter how serious his injuries were; how selfish of me. At exactly 9 p.m., my sister Heather phoned; her exact words were: Ruth, its all over, David is dead.

Ruth Forrest, whose brother David was killed by the IRA in the Teebane crossroads massacre

The hurt is still there, but we have had to learn to live with it. I have a little cry about Patrick every now and then.

Geraldine Ferguson, whose son Patrick was shot dead by the Real IRA at Massereene Barracks in 2009

I would like the reader to picture how life might have felt, living in an alien world, a world of suspicion and fear. Can you imagine what life would be like, in that alien world, where a seemingly innocent knock at the door might herald something more that the postman or the milkman coming to collect his money? Imagine that insistent rapping on the door might herald violent death; are you able to look inside of your worst nightmares? Can you picture a man with a black hood showing only his eyes? Can you imagine the shock of seeing a weapon in his or her hand? Could you even begin to process the brain-freezing realisation that they were there to rob you of lifes most precious gift? Imagine your shocked stare, with your brain and legs simultaneously locking, that cold stab of fear as your own life-clock suddenly clicked on to midnight?

The man standing there, at your front door had come with but one purpose: to end your life. Your premature demise was now almost inevitable and imminent. It could be as a consequence of several factors: the church at which you worshipped, your job, or the uniform you wore; even the company that you kept. Imagine a place or a time, where violent death could be meted out with such a frightening casualness. A time when life could be taken with the same unthinking ease as one might swat a wasp or a fly. If the reader can picture this nightmare scenario then it will be easy to understand that, for many thousands of people living in a part of the United Kingdom, this was a frequent occurrence. For many ordinary civilians, this was everyday life in Northern Ireland during the final three decades of the twentieth century.

In those dreadful times, violent death was a very real possibility; it was random, it came calling in many shapes and forms, in different places and at different times; but the one constant was that it was going to call. Imagine a world in which men and women would wake from their sleep, with but one thought: that of violent death uppermost in their minds. A world in which they, in good conscience, carried explosive devices to place under vehicles, or plant inside shops and pubs. These actions were carried out, in the full knowledge that the end result would be the termination of lives, young and old, or the shredding of limbs or torso, young as well as old.

Try to imagine shoppers walking blissfully and casually along city streets and markets; occasionally passing the ubiquitous waste bins. At places as diverse as the centre of Enniskillen, Victoria train station or in the centre of sleepy Warrington, fellow human beings chose these same receptacles in which to place deadly explosive devices; designed to kill and maim.

Try to imagine being an 81-year-old man, enjoying a pint of beer with your family, neighbours and friends; imagine your eyes rising from that cooling drink, possibly to share a joke with your companions, but instead, meeting the cold, steely gaze of a man with a deadly automatic weapon in his hand. That sudden, chilling realisation that the weapon was aimed at your body, as your heart begins to pound, your pulse races, as adrenaline attempts to force your inert body to react, to survive, to move.