Gerry Doyle wrote:

>  Even one was too many, but here they are if ye haven't seen it already, the complete list of lives lost
>  from the Troubles, when, how, and by whom... http://cain.ulst.ac.uk/sutton/index.html

O'Reilly, Anthony 9 March 1976, (43) Catholic
Status: Civilian (Civ), Killed by: non-specific Loyalist group (LOY)
Restaurant owner. Shot during gun and bomb attack on Golden Pheasant
Inn, Ballynahinch Road, Baillies Mills, near Lisburn, County Down.

O'Reilly, Myles 9 March 1976, (41) Catholic
Status: Civilian (Civ), Killed by: non-specific Loyalist group (LOY)
Restaurant owner. Shot during gun and bomb attack on Golden Pheasant
Inn, Ballynahinch Road, Baillies Mills, near Lisburn, County Down.

The O'Reilly's worked their hides off in that restaurant, & with the money they made, the bought a holiday home in Donegal, a cottage built by my father, where they could get away with the wives & kids for a while every year.

Sometimes, there was no apparent reason, & the question I ask again & again has no answer @ all. I wrote a song about that, some while ago...

Quinn, Eamon
8 October 1982, (20) Catholic
Status: Civilian (Civ), Killed by: non-specific Loyalist group (LOY)
Found shot at his flat, Damascus Street, Belfast.

They misspelled his name, but of course that's not what matters.

Somewhere he is walking up a quiet street,
finished with the business of the day;
passing shuttered shops & rows of council flats,
alleys where the lines of laundry sway;
somewhere he is standing in a corner shop,
buying bread & bacon for the tea;
paging thru the papers for the football scores,
or what's on this night on UTV...

         ...and does he think of you?
         Does he see your face?
         Does he think of you?

Somewhere he is reckoning a pony's odds,
scratching notes across a racing form;
somewhere he is clearing out a market stall
as the sky is threatening a storm;
somewhere he is sitting in a noisy pub -
painting of King Billy on the wall -
calling for a round of bitter for the lads,
boasting of his prowess to them all...

         ...and does he think of you?
         Does he see your face?
         Does he think of you?

Somewhere he is shouting fiercely in the stands
as his team is pressing towards the goal;
somewhere pulling on a pair of battered gloves,
heading out the back to fetch more coal;
somewhere in a lorry on a motorway,
tattered map unfolded on his knees;
somewhere on a ferry on a sunlit bay,
leaning on the rail to catch the breeze;
somewhere he is plastering a garden wall;
somewhere he is rowing with his wife;
somewhere he is doing nothing much at all,
living out an ordinary life...

         ...and does he think of you?
         Does he see your face?
         Does he think of you?

Was it just an address scrawled upon a page -
one wee job to do, & nothing more -
or was he a neighbour with a voice you knew?
Is that why you opened up the door?
Eamonn, does he ever wake from dreams of you,
hear the gunshot blast & see you fall?
Eamonn, when he aimed his weapon at your chest,
did he even see your face at all?

         Does he think of you?

Sometimes something on a dim & rainy night
wakes the living nightmare of that day -
maybe it's a glance, an accent like your own;
something tears the years & miles away:
once again I stumble down a crowded street
choking on my disbelief & pain;
see again the grainy newsprint photograph -
see the word "reprisal" by your name -
and, Eamonn, then I see
the shadow of this man....

         Does he think of you?
         Does he see your face?
         Does he think of you?
         Does he speak your name?
         Does he think of you?
         Does he, like I do?