The Troubles

Oh, How Music Can Inspire

A faint roaring could be heard at the start of the film, and Elliot squinted to see the moving dots on the screen were thousands and thousands of girls. In the centre of the screen himself, stood Elvis, a dazzling movie smile on his face, acknowledging his fans. Elliot sat forwards in his seat, as even the people around him in the cinema went mad; and they weren't even there, Elliot thought to himself. It was insane. It was somehow grippingly fascinating; and the four musicians with a pretty half-witted name had the same effect. And the music, good god, the music. It somehow sent cogs churning in Elliot's brain, his spine chilling when the guitar played solos, with twanging high notes. He was fixated the entire two hours, and even twenty minutes after they'd left the theatre, his eyes were still glazed over with excitement and amazement. 

"It was alright," Joe shrugged. "I'd have preferred an alien film." 

'I'm going to buy a guitar," Elliot said abruptly, causing Joe to turn and face him in confusion. 

"You what?"

"I'm gonna play like them Joe, I swear I am." 

The corner of Joe's mouth curled up into a smile of amusement. "I believe you man."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah!" Joe nudged him with a grin, and they grabbed their bikes, as a sudden shout came from across the road. 

"Brickroad scum!" 

Elliot grabbed the corner of Joe's jacket and pulled him behind a wall to avoid the can thrown in their direction. 

"Shit man." 

"It's them again? Those bastards!"

"Joe, they'll steal my bike! I'm not even a fucking nationalist, I hope they know that."

"Mate, the fact your dad proudly is - that's enough for them."

"We're gonna have to run." 

"I'm not running," Joe said with vengeance. "I'll fucking show them. I take this war seriously, man." 

Elliot pushed him back against the wall as he tried to run out from behind it. 

"It's about seven on two! Joe, do you want to be the bigger man or lose your dignity and get us both beaten up?"

Joe's face crumpled into one of dismay, as he looked out. He kicked the wall, swearing violently, before leaning out to grab the handle of Elliot's bike from behind the wall and drag it towards him, resulting in the sound of another can hurtling in his direction, but hitting the bricks. 

"Let's cycle out this way." 

Significantly later they were cycling through the field and down onto the cobbled paving stones again. 

"Protestants," Joe muttered under his breath. "They don't know what's coming, mate. We'll get a crowd of us, Brickroad lads, and we'll barricade them."

Elliot ignored the battle speak from Joe, frankly hoping they could ignore it. The Troubles were bad enough without these stupid acts of revenge. In other words, his mind was on a guitar. He wanted one that sang like Elvis's did. Although, any guitar could sound like that if it's being played right. As his bike bumped over the stones, he waved his usual goodbye to Joe, before running up the steps into the house - it was pretty much pitch black and he didn't want to be outside too long in case the Kendrick Street rioters came back. 

The moment he opened the door, he heard shouting from inside the kitchen, and rubbing his eyes, he made his way past the stairs. 

"The water keeps coming out!"

"Fix it then! You're supposed to be training to be a mechanic."

"A mechanic dad, not a bloody plumber." 

They both turned when Elliot walked in, and a dark cloud washed over his dad's face. 

"Where in hell have you been, eh? Is your watch an hour off?" 

"You were supposed to be doing this, not me!" snapped Fred, lying underneath the sink in an attempt to fix it. 

"Dad -"

"Pissing off to see a bloody Beatles film!"

"Me and Joe had to take a long route! The guys from Kendrick Street started throwing cans, so we had to go around Halls Way." 

A hint of softness was discreetly visible in his dad's expression, but he shrugged, handing Fred another tool. 

"Man up and face them. Don't drag the Catholics' name through the mud." 

Elliot nodded slowly, and with a scowl, made his way upstairs, heading towards his bed. Reaching under his mattress, he grabbed the photograph lying there, and pulled it out to stare at it. The contraband photograph of his ma had taken residence there for two years; Fred knew about it but even he hadn't the heart to grass up about it. Frowning slightly, Elliot pondered for a few seconds, before pushing the photograph back under, and reaching for the box under his bed. Dust clouded out as he pulled it out, provoking wheezing and coughing, determination evident in his expression. As he pulled open the lid, he traced his fingers over the records inside it. In all honesty, without a record player there really hadn't been any use for them, although a sense of guilt twisted around him as he looked at how neglected they had been. Only about five remained from the old collection - but if the money he had was saving up for a guitar, where would he get more of these? Unless - No. He'd never hear the end of that if he tried, never mind a probable legal warning. He gave another glance at the door. Unless he was really careful about it. That was possible.