By John Judge

December 2001

 

For many of us there comes a point in our lives when an event occurs which changes everything we thought to be true.  For some this may be a joyful time.  A marriage for example, a new born baby, passing the exams we spend our whole lives working towards gaining, getting into that perfect job or even that perfect holiday we spend our whole lives saving every penny for. 

For others it's more dramatic and simple.  When fate steps in and takes a firm hand and deals you that royal flush in life, such as winning millions of pounds on the lottery.

For some, the hand we are dealt in life is not worth the "cards" it's printed on. 

Well, the story I'm going to tell is of one of those worst hand cases.  I admit it could so easily be so much worse.  But then the term worse varies from person to person.  The rich, upper classes of the early part of the twentieth century may deem a worst case scenario as one where they are reduced to the working class in terms of wealth.  In my case it is of losing a parent and both the circumstances surrounding that loss and of the long-term effect of that loss. 

I am telling this story because I want others to know of what effect the troubles have had on my life.  In here is a small part of Irish history, which may already be forgotten…but not by neither my family nor me.  It begins on the 31^st of July in the year 1990…

My father told me we are going to Antrim tomorrow to visit my uncle, his brother, Tommy Judge and his family  I spent all day looking forward to that visit.

For the last few years the residents of Valley Side have been asking the local RUC to erect a barrier at the end of the street, and to close off the Lanark Way barrier to traffic.  The local Catholic residents have already felt the results of this reluctance by the local RUC to take action.  The results were 7 murders, and in all cases Loyalists have used Lanark Way as an escape route.

Before this street got closed off to traffic there was to be one more murder.

After my father stopped a small fight between my brother and I (I can't recall what we were fighting over) I asked to borrow his toy, windup car.  It was an American style black Cadillac with an open top roof, and a thin red stripe running the whole length of the car.  It was to celebrate his 5^th birthday.  I was surprised he actually allowed me to play with it so soon.

(It is at this point which I would like to express that I am writing from my viewpoint.  Other details of the night and the evens occurring will be added later, as that is when I myself first became aware of them.)

At around 10pm I took the car and went to the end of our driveway and started playing.  My father was just inside the driveway talking to his mates and having a beer.

When from the bottom of the street I could see car lights coming towards our house.  This was not unusual, because cars often turned beside my house.

But this car stopped in front of me.  So I looked up to see who it was. 

When I seen the black balaclavas I ran.  I ran towards the house.  Everything went into slow motion.  I looked over my shoulder to see what was happening.  A gunman stood beside the car door and fired.  I remember the noise and the sparks that flew from the barrel.  And a body fell to the floor.  My vision homed in on a tiny line of white paint on the blue jacket, no more than maybe an inch in length.  I knew my father had a similar mark on his jacket, but with all the chaos I didn’t have time to really acknowledge the truth.  I turned and seen the wall of my house racing towards me.  I jumped to my left and ran into the living room and crouched under the window. 

(At this point I was joined my by brother.  I don't know where he was up until this moment.)

I recall saying to him "no we can't stay here.  They might come in and kill us.  Let's go into the kitchen and hide under the breakfast bar."

So we ran into the kitchen and hid under the breakfast bar.

After some time had passed and I thought it was safe, I left and walked to the front door. 

People everywhere, running and shouting.  I can't remember what they were saying.  But then, through the crowd I saw the blue jacket with the white paint on it.  I remember asking "who's dead, who's dead?" but no one answered.

At this point in the back of my mind I knew the truth.  But I just had to have someone tell me what I thought.  Just to confirm my nagging feeling.  No one did.

Then we were ushered back into the house.

My next memory is of being in my room with my brother and two women.  They introduced themselves, but I don't recall they're names, and they started talking to us.  I don't remember what about.  I don't even remember going to bed that night.

The next day, 1^st August 1990, I went out to play.  Photographers, reporters and cameras everywhere.  All pointed at my house.  I wondered why?  I started looking for traces of blood from the previous night.  And I found a tiny amount.

I ran back into the house and remember my mother telling me not to go outside or to talk to "those people".

Instead I went upstairs to my mothers' bedroom and started scanning the news waiting to see our house on TV.  I must admit I was quite excited.  I only remember one picture on the TV from the previous night.  It was around 10am and was on BBC 1.  (The exact orders of things on this day are blurred.  There is no way of me being certain.)

Some time later that morning, my mother took me to the bottom of the street and set me on a boulder.  (What was to become more of the housing estate which stands there now, had been, at that time, nothing more than gravel and the usual large boulders placed there to keep the joy riders off the site.  What is funny is that in all my time watching these houses being built, I never saw the boulders being put there, nor did I see them being taken away.)

She started crying.  It took her a few moments to finally tell me why.  "John, your daddy's dead".

I immediately started crying.  And was taken back home.

What my mother didn't know was that I was at my fathers wake.  I remember seeing him all dressed up nice in a suit.  But I also remember seeing a white piece of cloth lying on his forehead.  I wanted to pull it away but I new I'd see a bullet hole in his head.  So I let it be.  Walking into that living room and seeing him lying there is a memory I'll take to my own grave.  Pretty terrible last memory of my father.  But one I would never give up.

After I left the living room, I went outside and sat on the small fence which separated our "garden" from the path that led to the back gate at the side of the house.  (We were the only ones in the street to have private access to our back garden).   It was the same fence, which I watched my father build and I stained.  It was here that my primary 4 teacher, Mr. Collins, came to visit me.  He said he was sorry about what happened and things will get better as time goes by.

I was quite surprised to see him there.  That was the last time I ever saw that man, and though I hated him before, that day I realized he is only human and was just doing his job.  I haven't had a bad thing to say about him since. 

After that I have no memory of events, only feelings.

Sometime after my fathers' murder I learned it was the Ulster Freedom Fighters (UFF) who murdered him.  And that they escaped through Lanark Way.  Less than a week later it was closed. 

8 people had to die before the RUC would take action.

I wanted to join the Irish Republican Army (IRA) and kill my fathers' murderers.  They killed an innocent man, in cold blood in front of his children.  Thankfully I never carried out this wish.