On 27 June 1970, Billy McCurrie’s father was shot dead by the IRA.
As Billy waited for his dad to come home, he heard lots of automatic gunfire which continued all through that night. But, while running up the street to find his father, his friend’s dad ran out of a house, grabbed him and said that his father had been killed. Killed by the people from the much-reviled Republican community.
The funeral took place on the day of his brother’s birthday and, instead of celebrating, there was his brother, carrying his father’s coffin. His memory of the day was of thousands lining the street. Someone started to sing Psalm 23, and everyone joined in. The family were enveloped in a darkness, like a cancer that ate away at them and just took over their life.
