A brutal killing shattered members of a quiet community - but they've found a way to rebuild. Anne Dempsey reports

Born within a stone's throw of Dún Laoghaire's West Pier, Nuala Mooney hasn't been able to revisit it since her brother Johnny Shortall was killed there on January 24th, 1992. She becomes visibly upset remembering the telephone call indicating something was very wrong. "We still miss him. Everyone loved Johnny; his death has left a huge gap."

The loss of innocence signified by the brutal killing, themes of emigration, and stories of a closely-knit harbour community are linked in Michael Kelly's film, Dún Laoghaire Lives, which will be launched tomorrow night.

Nuala, one of nine children, remembers long days playing around Salthill beach. "My mother never had to worry about us. The girls would be playing shop, and the boys would steal the stuff. Johnny was born with polio; my parents used to get the train to Amiens Street and my father would carry him to Clontarf for treatment. He walked with a limp, it affected his speech, and one hand was twisted, but Johnny never felt there was anything wrong with him, and could row a boat perfectly with one arm. He would light up your day."

Their father worked around the harbour, so Johnny too began bringing the boats into dry dock, going out with the trawlers and selling fish on Crofton Road. At 14, Nuala went to work for a family in York Terrace for five mornings' a week, home by lunchtime.

"My mother would have the washing done, ready to put out - you can imagine the amount with all of us."

Nuala married Christy in 1966. They have five children, 12 grandchildren, and live in nearby Sallynoggin. Johnny and his brother Harry remained in the York Road family home, and at 50 Johnny got a job as night-watchman in the Motor Yacht Club. "He would be home at 7.30am. Harry was a porter on Stena Line and when he came in, Johnny had the fire lit and breakfast ready. The job gave Johnny stability. Kids could try to break in from time to time, but Johnny knew them all and sent them home."

The night he died was different. Johnny was asleep on a couch in the bar at 2am when two non-locals broke in. They battered him to death as he slept, before stealing money and champagne. They were caught and charged with manslaughter, not murder, serving - the Shortalls feel - an unjustly short sentence for their crime.

Life for Nuala has changed utterly. "I'm much more wary. I would not have believed that people could be so vicious. Even walking along the road now, I'm looking behind me. Life is not so safe."

WHEN JOHNNY WAS in his early 30s, Michael Kelly was a 10-year-old living in Booterstown who cycled to fish at the West Pier, and regularly met the man with the limp who cared enough to share the time of day. "I was touched that he would say hello, it was as though he was keeping an eye, making sure I came to no harm."

Last year Kelly set up a DVD company called Real Irish Lives. His first documentary explores changing times in Roundwood, Co Wicklow. His next, Forty Foot Lives, captures friendships binding the hardy community who swim in Sandycove all year round.

Now Dún Laoghaire Lives examines the significance of the harbour, and describes stories of life growing up there. It includes the reminiscences of Fred Espey, well-known sailor and former commodore of the Royal Irish Yacht Club, but focuses most on those earning their living between the piers.

Mick Davis was born in the coastguard station 60 years ago, and although the family moved to Sallynoggin, his childhood was rooted by the sea.

"My father had a saddle on the cross-beam of his bike, so I was very small when he began taking me down. He was known as a professional sailor, one of a group who looked after the boats. They were paid hands, taking the boats up in October, working on them through the winter and sailing them in summer. Some owners couldn't sail, they were posers, more interested in the gin and tonic, and that hasn't changed!

"My father looked after Susannah, a 25-30 footer, and later Colleen, for the Callow family, Dublin coachbuilders. There was huge mutual respect between the owners and men, though they were paid a pittance. My father had a regular day job in the Board of Works, as had most of the others, but they loved the sea, and the harbour was their life.

"As kids we had our jobs. On Tuesday and Thursday we were dispatched when the trawlers came in and you'd get a dozen flat fish for a shilling. We had our trolley and shovel ready for the coal boat, and anything that fell off the lorry we would scoop up. You'd get six trolley-loads in the few days. When the horse-drawn dairy carts came round, the manure wouldn't hit the ground before we had it shovelled up and brought to the grandfather's allotment beside the railway tracks."

Mick, too, knew Johnny Shortall. "He used to row the owners out to their boats, and if he wasn't there, we'd take his boat and do it. If he caught you, you'd get a clip on the ear, but he let you keep the money. Johnny could be an unofficial truant officer. If you met him when you were on the hop, he'd say 'why aren't you at school, young Davis?' and a few times, he marched me there. You couldn't do it these days, you'd be had up for assault or worse. Back then we were allowed be kids. My father knew I would be completely safe at the harbour. His friends were like other parents offering great protection and authority. [If you were told] 'Run up to Florrie Daltons and get me 10 cigarettes,' you'd do it, of course."

Like many contemporaries, Mick got his start in life through those harbour days, serving a five-year apprenticeship as coach builder with Robert Callow, before going to work as a technical supervisor in Aer Lingus. Married to Margaret for 40 years, he is retired and lives in Killiney.

"Looking back, all the people I grew up with have been steady: we kept our jobs, stayed married, reared good kids. I think our childhood gave us something which has stood us for life."

DAVID MOLONEY IS the fourth generation from his family to work in Dún Laoghaire harbour.

"My great-grandfather was a porter on the coal boats in the 1850s. My grandfather was a general port operator on the mail boats and my father, Joe, joined in 1945."

This was the time of mass emigration, which Joe graphically recalls. Passengers were clocked through manually, and once the figure of 1,200 was reached, the gangway went up, causing panic. People queued often overnight, with just one toilet. Sometimes British Rail would provide carriages to sleep in, and local good citizens dispensed tea and cake.

"My father saw members of our own family go away, and never come back," says David, who recalls playing football and chasing pigs in the fields beside him in Sallynoggin.

When he was a teenager, heroin and cannabis hit Dún Laoghaire, but he was into karate and got his kicks more healthily. Trained as a mechanic, a recession in the motor trade when he emerged from apprenticeship meant no job.

"I got work as temporary port operator. There was a tradition then of father and son; it's not like that now. We worked in a dilapidated building on Carlisle Pier, conditions were very poor; one day I found a rat on the table eating my lunch."

In 1989 Joe Moloney retired as foreman after 44 years. David is now duty operations manager with Stena Line, with a staff of 24, in a job where ongoing training in customer relations and health and safety is standard.

"Today we run a service here like an airport. We have check-in procedures, luggage handlers, loading supervisors; we deal with customs, gardaí, security. We have a travel centre, restaurant facilities, passenger lounges."

He met his wife, Deirdre, who worked in customer services, through the job. They have three children and live in Wicklow within sight of the sea.

"I'm a member of Wicklow Lifeboat Service. I could never move inland, I think with my family history, there's a bit of salt in my blood," he says.

Dún Laoghaire Lives (€20), dedicated to Johnny Shortall, will be launched tomorrow night at the Motor Yacht Club, West Pier at 8pm