Torn Apart

by Ken Wharton

* www.anphoblacht.com/contents/16952.

  * Judge Peter Smithwick stated that ‘on balance of probability’ somebody inside the Dundalk Garda station had passed on information to the IRA regarding the presence of Breen and Buchanan.

  ** Southside Provisional: From Freedom Fighter to the Four Courts, Kieran Conway (Orpen Press, 2014).

  * See Another Bloody Chapter in an Endless Civil War: Vol. II, Ken Wharton (Helion and Company, 2017).

  CHAPTER 14

  EIGHT DAYS OF INSANITY: OCTOBER 1993

  By October 1993, the Troubles were in their twenty-fourth year; the death tolls over these last two and a half decades had varied, rising one month and decreasing the next. Because of greater SF control of most Republican areas – sadly except for South Armagh – and an increased penetration of individual PIRA/INLA cells, terrorist killings had been greatly reduced. In July 1972, deaths reached almost 100 in a single month, but since then that figure had not been surpassed, although some individual months had reached the thirty to forty mark. It was with some shock, especially at a time when the overtures for peace had not been higher for two decades, that almost thirty people lost their lives as the autumn of 1993 brought in the darker nights and the noticeable decrease in temperatures.

  Between the 23rd and the 30th, in several separate but interrelated sectarian outrages, a total of twenty-three people lost their lives in the bloodiest week for decades. It began on a bright Saturday morning on the Shankill Road and ended a week later in the northern coastal village of Greysteel.

  On that bright Saturday morning, nine people woke up to the dawn of a new weekend – relaxing, shopping, doing whatever they wished to do. Some of them were children, the others were adults, all with plans and hopes; for all of them, thanks to a decision taken by the IRA commander of the Ardoyne, it was to be their last day on earth. An explosion that shattered the peace of the Shankill Road later that morning would herald the deaths of twenty-three people, twenty-two of whom would be entirely innocent.

  No. 275 Shankill Road belonged to 63-year-old Desmond Frizzell, who ran a very popular fishmonger, sandwiched between Stephenson’s fruit and vegetable shop and a wallpaper and paint shop. He had run the business there for thirty-one years, helped by his daughter Sharon McBride, who was 29. On a Saturday, his tiny shop was always packed with Protestant residents from the Shankill, Crumlin, Woodvale and other Loyalist areas, although in truth there were many Catholics who braved the journey from the Ardoyne, New Lodge, Falls Road and Springfield Road locations. A plan that had been conceived by Eddie ‘Bubbles’ Copeland involving senior bomb-makers in the Short Strand had been given the seal of approval by senior PIRA commanders in the IRA’s Northern Command, allegedly involving Martin McGuinness. The operation was a risky one – risky enough to require sanctioning at the very heart of the Provisional IRA Army Council. If it succeeded, it would result in the eradication of the UFF’s ‘C’ Company, comprising Adair, McKeag and others skilled and experienced in the dark arts of sectarian murder.

  Sometime during the previous few days, a car driven by Volunteers from the Republican Short Strand in East Belfast had transported a small explosive device via a circuitous route to a safe house in the Ardoyne. When assembled, it weighed only 5lb (2.5kg) but in the narrow confines of the planned target, it would collapse the supporting walls, bringing down the upper floors, thus killing the men they had assumed would be meeting in an upper room in the building: the leading members of the UFF’s ‘C’ Company.

  At roughly the same time that the innocents were stirring, three men woke up in a safe house on the Republican Ardoyne with murder in their hearts; these men were: Thomas ‘Bootsey’ Begley (23) and Sean Kelly, who was 21 at the time, and a third, unidentified Volunteer. They collected the holdall containing the explosives and were briefed by their commanders, probably for the fiftieth time. The plan involved driving a stolen car from the Ardoyne to Berlin Street, and then walking to Frizzell’s, dressed in white coats that would make shoppers think that they were delivering fish supplies. Kelly would guard the door as Begley pushed his way into the shop, place the holdall on the counter, reach inside to trigger the timer and escape in the eleven seconds available to them. In the chaos, the pair would run to the parked car in Berlin Street, before returning to their pre-arranged safe house in the Ardoyne.

  Just before 13.00 hours, the stolen car parked up on Berlin Street, roughly halfway between Riga Street and Pernau Street, before Begley and Kelly, now clad in white coats, walked the short distance to Frizzell’s. Kelly positioned himself in the doorway as Begley pushed his way through the throng of shoppers, all patiently waiting their turn to be served by either Desmond or Sharon. Did those about to die reluctantly move to one side as Begley roughly pushed past them; did they grumble at a possible queue jumper; or did they shrug their shoulders at the sight of another fish man dropping off supplies? Only they would be able to answer these questions; but the dead cannot speak for themselves. Did Begley hesitate for a split second before he triggered the device? Did he think that he was striking a blow for Irish unity? Did he think that he was going to wipe out the leading lights of the UFF? Like the innocent dead, the guilty dead are also unable to speak for themselves.

  He pressed the timer but in a flash of whiteness it exploded; a bright white light is all he and the others in the shop saw, as instant death and destruction tore the shop and its occupants to pieces. The terrorist and nine others were either killed immediately or mortally injured; Kelly, at the door, was also injured, losing an eye and badly damaging his arm; he may have been cushioned from the blast by the packed humanity inside the shop. Tons of rubble crushed the dead, dying and injured, as the upper floors came down. The two-storey building was demolished; in addition to the nine dead innocents and the IRA bomber, a further fifty-seven people were hurt. The upper floor came down on top of those inside the shop, crushing the survivors under the rubble, where they remained until rescued some hours later by volunteers and emergency services. Many people in the street were injured by flying bricks, mortar and glass as the blast hurled debris into the street and beyond.

  The contemporary press photographs show a scene reminiscent of the wartime East End of London after a Luftwaffe direct hit, like the gaping hole of a missing tooth in a mouth of otherwise intact teeth. After the deafening explosion, all that could be seen was dust, clouds of bluey smoke and the hazy, blurred shapes of shocked survivors staggering around; there was the stench of fresh fish mingled with the metallic smell of blood and the choking odour of cordite. After the first few seconds of shocked silence came the screams of those alive, almost numbed by shock; this was followed by the low moans of the injured and deafened, unable to hear their own pleas for help and pity, but worst of all, there were no sounds at all from those already dead, dying or unconscious. Those with mortal wounds, cut off from medical assistance, could only remain in that state until the blackness of death ended their suffering. Those who died that day took with them their despair and pain, as their internal organs began to shut down, unable to cope with the pulverising blast that tore off limbs or collapsed lungs. Those people who had once been loving human beings, with laughter and tears, hopes and fears, plans for a Saturday or for a full life, were now just bloody piles of rags, torn and crushed beyond recognition. Their life-clocks had stopped suddenly and irrevocably because men on the IRA’s Army Council had decided to sanction the planting of a bomb inside a shop that sold fish and other seafood.

  Scores of people were quickly on the scene, including fire and ambulance services, soldiers and police officers, as well as ordinary civilians, desperately trying to free those trapped inside the wrecked shop. Gradually, the bodies were pulled out one by one, limp and lifeless, already beyond help. The saddest sight according to one RUC officer was the bodies of the two children, Michelle Baird and Leanne Murray, as they were gently lifted out; grown men turned their faces away to hide the tears that streaked down their blackened cheeks, marking channels of sorrow that th
ey wiped away with grimy hands. One victim – Wilma McKee – was found in the middle of the road, dreadfully injured by flying masonry; she was rushed to the nearby Mater Hospital, but died from those injuries the following day. Rescuer Raymond Elliott told the Belfast Telegraph’s Suzanne Breen:

  There were body parts stuck to the wall, blood and guts. People’s insides were lying there. I saw somebody’s scalp. Adrenalin kept me going. I was no hero. Everybody that day did all they could to help. The terror on one victim’s face haunts me. There is nothing from a horror movie that comes close to that expression. People have tried to tell me it was like a light switching off for those killed and they didn’t suffer. If you saw the look on that face, you wouldn’t believe it.

  The main bomber, Begley, was in tiny shredded pieces of bloody human tissue, but among the rubble on the footpath was a badly injured Kelly; his hands were covered by plastic gloves, which caused the rescuers a little puzzlement. He was carried across the Shankill Road by three men and laid outside Hogg’s Chemists until the ambulance arrived. At the time of his rescue, it was unknown that he was one of the two perpetrators. The judge at Kelly’s later trial later described: ‘This wanton slaughter of so many innocent people must rank as one of the most outrageous atrocities endured by the people of this province in the last quarter of a century.’ The third PIRA man abandoned the stolen Escort in Berlin Street and made good his escape on foot, looking for all the world like just another shocked and bewildered survivor, as huge numbers of people raced towards the blast to help.

  Somewhat ominously, the UFF made a statement shortly afterwards: ‘John Hume, Gerry Adams and the nationalist electorate will pay a heavy, heavy price for today’s atrocity.’

  The world’s press was outraged, but in the UK this was limited to the few Sundays: Express, Mail on Sunday, etc., with the bulk of the reports appearing in the Monday editions. The Daily Express relegated the story to page 2 under ‘Premier Condemns Bombers As Families Grieve’, followed by ‘They Went Out To Kill Mad Dog, Instead Nine Innocent Victims Died’ on pages 12 and 13, with the sub-heading: ‘Why Us, Ask Angry People of Shankill’. Their reporter spoke of the tragedy:

  These are the innocent victims of the IRA’s plot to kill a Loyalist leader known as ‘Mad Dog’. In redbrick houses the length of Belfast’s Shankill Road yesterday, the full horror of the fish shop bombing was being felt. Families mourned an ‘angelic’ child who was killed as she went about an errand, a wife who died in the rubble and a husband who was murdered as he minded the shop. Saturday’s attack came as the shopping street at the heart of loyalist west Belfast was packed. Horrified bystanders who seconds before had been window shopping, scrabbled amongst the debris. Some wept as they worked, others cursed the IRA. One stunned survivor said: ‘I went over to try and help but there was nothing I could do. There were people lying dead in the middle of the street. It was horrific: women and children ... what did they do to deserve this?’ Among those killed instantly was Leanne Murray, 13, whose mother, Glen had sent her to buy some seafood while she was in another store nearby. [She] was one of the first on the scene searching even before the dust had settled. Yesterday the mother wept as she told of the moment she realised that her daughter would not be coming home. ‘I couldn’t find her, she was under the rubble, it was horrible,’ she said. ‘Leanne was our little angel, a beautiful little girl. She said: ‘I hate the IRA! People say that you should forgive and forget, but they have destroyed innocent people’s lives.’

  Some of the victims were taken to the Royal Victoria Hospital (RVH) on the Falls Road, where a Catholic nurse called Cameron who lived at Conor Rise in the Lenadoon area worked tirelessly to help ease the suffering of those injured that day, along with her other nursing and medical colleagues. Her husband was called James and he worked at the council cleansing depot at Lower Kennedy Way; sadly, we shall hear more of this man shortly.

  One of the youngest victims that day was a tiny 22-month-old toddler, Marcus Lowe, injured by the blast while riding in a taxi along the Shankill Road. He was hit in the head by shrapnel and required several stitches; his mother was treated for facial wounds. One survivor, Walter Harris, on the way to watch a football match with his 13-year-old son, called the IRA ‘... yellow cowards. They did not care about who was going to be blown up. I do not often pray, but I am praying for my son and for all those families who have lost loved ones. It is terrible for them all.’ Michael O’Flaherty, writing in the Daily Express, cannot possibly have realised just how prophetic his closing words on the 25th would prove: ‘As night fell, the people of the Shankill suffered their own darkness. Anger rose from it like the smoke from a smouldering volcano. Tomorrow, you felt it would erupt.’

  It is very easy to read the bare facts about bombings, outrages and casualty figures, without a real understanding that behind the shocking newspaper headlines, there are stories of human misery and lives that, although ruined, must carry on. This is the story of the daughter of two of the victims of Frizzell’s. I thank her for sharing her painful memories.

  AN IMAGE THAT I WILL NEVER FORGET AN ACCOUNT FROM MICHELLE WILLIAMSON

  I have thought long and hard as to what I could add to your book, but I keep coming back to my account of how my world changed forever on 23 of October 1993. To this day 24 years after the event, it is still very painful to recall. I have told this story so many times, but it is my story. I can’t change it no matter how much I want to.

  It was a sunny Saturday morning, as my mother and father decided to go shopping in Belfast for some fabric to make curtains for their new home they had only just moved into the previous day. Normally I would have gone along with them, as Mum and I shared an interest in sewing and crafts. She taught me to sew and knit and we loved to go around the fabric shops in Belfast looking for a bargain, but on this day, I was busy finishing curtains for my own home.

  The television was switched on and I was half listening to it in the background, but then a news flash interrupted the programme to announce that a bomb had gone off in Belfast. This was unfortunately a common occurrence and didn’t concern me too much, but I remember thinking: ‘I hope mum and dad don’t get caught up in the chaos.’ I carried on with what I was doing but as the afternoon wore on, I started to worry as they said they wouldn’t be long. Then at about 5 p.m., there was a loud knock at the door; I knew it wasn’t mum and dad as they wouldn’t have knocked. As I came down the stairs I saw the unmistakable silhouette of a policeman; my heart pounded as I opened the door.

  A policeman asked me: ‘Are you Michelle Williamson?’ I answered: ‘Where’s Mum and Dad?’ but he kept asking me if I was Michelle Williamson. When I eventually said yes, he told me my Mum and Dad had been caught up in an explosion on the Shankill Road in Belfast. He told me that Dad had severe head injuries and that Mum was with him; he also told me to go to the Royal Victoria Hospital as soon as possible. I was anxious, but from the way that he phrased things, I presumed Mum was OK and was looking after Dad.

  The next thing I remember is being in a small room at the hospital and a doctor was telling me that Dad had sustained severe head injuries and was already in a coma on arrival. Then he announced that he had died just before I got there; I asked where my Mum was, as I had been told she was there.

  Nobody seemed to know, so they started ringing around all the hospitals in Belfast to find her. I wanted to see Dad, so they led me to the corner of a corridor, where behind a screen lay my Father. Until my dying day, I will not forget that image; seeing my Daddy lying there on his own with his head bandaged and blood seeping onto the pillow. I held his hand, kissed him gently on the cheek and told him how much I loved him and said goodbye. Next thing I remember is being back home in Lisburn awaiting news of where Mum was, but eventually at about 10.30 p.m., word came through that Mum had been found and that she was in the mortuary in Foster Green hospital. She had died at the scene and had been lying on her own all day. I wanted to go and be with her, but my relatives wouldn’t let me g
o as she was so badly injured. I will regret that for the rest of my days!

  Since that awful day my life has changed in so many ways; I am no longer the carefree girl I used to be. My heart is full of pain at the loss of my parents, but I have so much anger and hatred of those that carried out this heinous atrocity and for all that they claim to stand for. Whenever I see Gerry Adams, my blood boils! Words cannot describe the hatred and contempt I feel towards him and his ilk; I cannot forgive, and I will never forget what they did to my family.

  It is now approaching the 25th anniversary of that awful day. I still hurt, and I still miss my Mum and Dad and I still spit venom at Adams and his fellow killers. I no longer live in Lisburn, as I was hounded by the press after I tried to challenge the early release of Sean Kelly and all the injustices innocent victims have had to swallow, whilst the killers parade themselves like movie stars! But my life has changed too; I married and became a stepmother to my husband’s son. I never had the chance to have my dad walk me down the aisle and give me away, nor did my husband and my stepson get the opportunity to meet my mother and father. I think they would have approved that I married a proud Ulsterman, and both he and his parents have stood by me and supported me through some very tough times when nobody else seemed to care. Sometimes the only thing that keeps me going is knowing that my Mum and Dad are looking down on me and that we will meet again someday, and that Adams, Kelly and Begley will all be joining McGuiness in hell.

  In 2016, the Belfast Telegraph interviewed one of the rescuers, Alfie McCrory, who told Ivan Little:

  It was pure pandemonium. We never thought about any dangers, we were just hell-bent on getting the injured out. There were people lying everywhere, inside and outside the shop. Some were moaning, and some were obviously dead. One man had virtually no face left. One policeman was hit on the head by falling bricks, but he just wiped the blood away and went on trying to save people. The fire service brought in a sniffer dog and heat-seeking equipment and told us to get out because we could be sitting on top of injured people. Every so often there would be calls for quiet as someone heard a cry for help. The silence was eerie with hundreds in the area and yet you could have heard a mouse scrambling in the wreckage. It was there [at the Mater Hospital] that I saw the name Sean Kelly on a list of the injured; I knew there were no Sean Kellys on the Shankill and I then realised that he must have been a bomber and he must have been one of those helped into an ambulance. I remembered that after I lifted him his hands fell by his side and he had on surgical gloves. If I had known who he was, I would have killed him for what he had done to our people.