The Day the Music Died

The Day the Music Died

An old man seeks closure

Photo by Help Stay on Unsplash

‘If you work doing something you love, it will never feel like work.’ Those were the words my father said to me when I told him I was leaving college to join a band. ‘Tony, you can always go back if it doesn’t work out.’

Understand this, it’s easier to go down the safe road after a bumpy one chasing your dreams, than to leave the secure job and income. If anyone tells you to first pursue the backup plan, they’re denying you your dream.

My father recognised this. That dear man was ahead of his time in pushing me towards my first love; the guitar. I’ve never stopped loving it.

For forty years since the day I don’t discuss, I haven’t touched that instrument. For four decades, I have been living a half life, diminishing incrementally until I am nothing more than a carbon shell.

Maurice had warned us we were putting our lives on the line, playing gigs on both sides of the border. We pushed him out of the band because of it. Me, I was high on the idolatry, the music, the road, the band, the money. I was young, eternal, protected by Saint Cecilia.

The war raged around us. Like the country itself, the band was united and divided; different faiths, different factions, different nationalities and cultures, unified by our common goal of playing music and basking in the adulation of our loyal fan base. Wherever the largest dance halls were, we played.

We were the Irish Rolling Stones; that’s what they said.

I can’t watch the old film reels. I don’t watch us on the news. No nostalgic interviews. I don’t think I’m alive. I’m a ghost. Floating in limbo, I am.

I see myself and the band flashing on the news. I don’t recognise that smiling carefree Tony who lived and slept the language of music with his eviscerated bandmates. I try to avoid watching TV or going online on those anniversary days.

There are years when I get careless, distracted by living or a fleeting moment of joy, and I forget to ignore the date. Today, my life was shattered anew.

I left the music for a Bristol bank and raised my family there. On this day, the anniversary of my half-life, I was catapulted out of my daze. They read the letter on the six o’clock news. My adopted country had betrayed me.

‘That’s it,’ I said to Linda. ‘We should move back home. They murdered my friends. I can’t stay. I have to fight and face this.’

‘You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you to say that,’ she sighed.

It started with a checkpoint. They lined us up outside the tour bus. Joked and bantered with us on the side of the road as we waited in the dewy grass in the darkest night. Six of them there were. Army.

I trusted them.

My own father and uncle had fought in that army. Same with Gerry and Matty. The state that raised my children and allowed my family to fight for them against that tyrant, Hitler, arranged to have us murdered. They wanted us labelled as terrorists and not musicians. Why?

To bring the war to the Republic and to tighten border controls so the IRA couldn’t run there to safety. We were expedient innocent pawns. That was the day I woke up. I needed answers. For decades I thought I was the one who died. I was living in a wizened alternative universe. My friends were alive and playing music.

I am no longer numb. I am angry. I am determined.

The two explosions that took my arm, my bandmates and 6 UVF lives (3 of them UDA soldiers), was ordered by MI6.

I can’t hear them. I can’t recall the blood because I was unconscious. That’s what saved me. The detonators for the devices were faulty.

They left me for dead, lying by my dismembered right arm; tried to discredit me as a terrorist and threatened my family because I told the truth. The government didn’t just cover it up. The UVF didn’t want to do it. They had to be strong armed into it.

Ire is all I have left. I’m an old man. It’s time they faced the music they stole from me.

This fictional story was inspired by two things. The first was a story seed by Neil Shooter .

The second was a documentary I watched on Netflix about The Miami Showband Massacre in Northern Ireland in 1975, carried out by the infamous Jackal, supported by British intelligence. This is not that story but it is heavily influenced by it.

The seed was:

A pair of explosions changes everything.

You can find the link to Neil’s seeds below:

[embed]Everything You Need to Know About “366 Story Seeds” A new story for every day of the (leap) year.medium.com