The Afternoon of November 3^rd 1965

 

Paul stood at the old, Victorian style window in the reception of NEMS offices, chanting softly to himself, “Come on, George, come on, George.” The street outside was busy, jammed with cars and people hurrying past, but as of yet – there wasn’t a sign of George.

 

“He won’t turn up,” John said, sitting across the room from Paul.

 

Paul turned back to the room. Ringo and John were sitting on the wine coloured couch, Ringo looking uncomfortable, John making himself at home, feet up on the magazine table.  The secretary, a new one –that Paul hadn’t seen before anyway – was making a good job of pretending not to be eavesdropping, sitting behind the desk, shuffling papers.

 

“He’ll be here,” Paul said and sat on the matching second sofa.

 

John snorted contemptibly. “Like he’s arsed about this fuckin’ band?” he said.

 

Paul looked away from him and cast his eyes around the room – anywhere but the door that George still refused to walk through. The reception was immaculate and stylish. Good taste down to the paintings on the walls. The mixture of the antique and the modern sat next to each other perfectly. The sofas, Paul suspected, were older then him, John and Ringo put together – but after all, behind the entertainment and music industries, the furniture business was where Brian’s expertise lay.

 

It was comforting to be somewhere that was so undeniably Brian, when he had been ‘missing’ for so long. It showed he was still there, still the steady, levelheaded support behind the Beatles. So long as we have Brian, everything will be okay, Paul thought.

 

No one had seen Brian since the dressing room at the Ed Sullivan show. Not once – even when they had returned to England, amid press rumours and tabloid headlines about arguments, walk outs and splits – had Brian emerged. Not so much as a phone call. If Paul hadn’t spent so much time worrying about George, he probably would have been worrying about Brian instead.

 

“You can go through to the meeting room now,” the secretary announced.

 

John stood up. “Can’t you see we’re not ready yet?” he said, a little abrasively. “We are still waiting for Mr Harrison. We will ‘go through’ when we’re good and ready, miss.” He added the ‘miss’ with some venom.

 

Paul caught his eye and smiled. John pursed his lips and looked away, picking up a magazine and flicking through it. 

 

They sat in silenced for a moment. Paul listened to the people walking past outside, trying, hoping to recognise George’s gait, his boot heels on the pavement, but still he didn’t come.

 

The office door, the one that read ‘Brian Epstein’, opened and Michael Archer leaned out.  He glanced briefly at the three Beatles and then turned his attention to the girl behind the desk. “Didn’t you tell them to wait in the meeting room, Miss Croxley?”

 

“Yeah, she did,” John said, before the girl could reply.

 

“They’re waiting for Mr Harrison,” she said timidly.

 

Archer sighed and checked his watch. “I have a meeting across town,” he said. “I’ll have to leave. This will have to keep for another time.”

 

John stood up. “It won’t,” he said. “We’re having it out here and now.”

 

Ringo cleared his throat and got to his feet, standing shoulder to shoulder with John. Paul followed suit. “It’s alright, John,” Paul said. John shot him a black look and Paul wished he wouldn’t be so quick to jump to conclusions. “If Mr Archer has to go, perhaps Mr Epstein will see us instead?” he offered to John.

 

John smiled, “Yeah, tell Eppy to get his arse out here, Archer.”

 

“Mr Epstein is unavailable,” Archer said frostily.

 

“Really?” John said sarcastically. “He will be fuckin’ unavailable when I get hold of him!”

 

John walked towards the office. Archer stood his ground, blocking the entrance. John craned his neck to see round the door. “Epstein?!” he yelled. “D’yer hear me?”

 

“John…” Archer said.

 

Ringo and Paul drew level with John. “Shift, you,” Ringo said in a low, menacing growl that Paul, and probably everyone else, seldom heard from him.

 

“You can’t go in there,” Archer said, but before he could finish the sentence John had swept him out of the way and the three of them barrelled in to the office, and then stopped.

 

This room was definitely not ‘Brian’ like the reception was, and Paul was tempted to step out and check the name on the door again. There were files and piles of paper stacked on the floor by the window and around the desk. The desk could hardly be seen for the paraphernalia covering it. Even the plant on the filing cabinet was wilting through lack of care.

 

“Where is he?” Paul said, turning back to Archer, still in the doorway.

 

“Well, not here, obviously,” Archer rubbed his shoulder. “There’s no need to resort to violence, John.”

 

“You’ll see violence in a minute,” John said angrily, stepping towards him.

 

Ringo stopped him with a hand on John’s lapel. “If Brian’s not here, what were you hiding in here then? That you didn’t want us to see?”

 

Archer cocked an eyebrow. “Nothing,” he said, stepping into the room. “We are in a little disarray. We’re in the process of moving things around…”

 

“Brian’s not been here,” Paul said suddenly. Ringo and John looked at him. “He would never have his office like this.”

 

“As I was just explaining, Paul, we’re moving…”

 

Paul shook his head; “Brian wouldn’t sleep if he thought it was this messy in here.”

 

“So where is he?” Ringo added.

 

Archer sighed and shifted his weight on to one leg, “If you would like to close the door, Ringo?”

 

Ringo obliged, albeit begrudgingly.

 

“And Wendy? Where’s she?” Paul continued. “Wendy Hanson?”

 

“If you would like to take a seat…” Archer gestured to the chairs, also occupied with files.

 

“We’ll stand,” John said.

 

“Please yourselves,” Archer said and placed himself in the chair behind the desk. “I didn’t want to have to inform you of this – not until it was necessary anyhow – but as you insist… Brian is very ill at the moment. He is on an extended leave from…”

 

“Ill?” John scoffed.

 

“Yes, he’s in the hospital.”

 

“What? What with?” Paul asked.

 

Archer flitted his eyes away as if he was trying to solve a problem. “They’re not entirely sure. He’s very weak, having tests. Nervous exhaustion, if you ask me…”

 

“What hospital?” Ringo asked.

 

“…The pressures of running this place is enough without having to deal with you bickering children, and of course you will have heard about theembezzlement…”

 

“What embezzlement?” John said.

 

“The board? That man, Alistair Taylor and even Brian’s own brother was…”

 

“What? You’re tryna tell us Alistair was stealing, and Clive? Clive Epstein too?” Paul shifted some of the papers from a chair and sat down in it, unable to take it all in. Ringo sat in the chair beside him and John hesitantly joined them.

 

“Well, it’s a little more complicated than that.” Archer said coldly. “I’m sure you’ll respect Brian’s privacy and not ask about it.”

 

“What hospital?” Ringo repeated.

 

“A private one. Rest assured the finest that…”

 

“The name, Archer,” John said.

 

“Ah, well, I can’t say.”

 

“You don’t know?” John looked at him disbelievingly.

“No, I know, but Brian requests no visitors with the exception of myself, of course…”

 

“He’ll want to see us,” Paul said.

 

“No…”

 

“And even if not, he’s no choice cos we’re gonna see him,” John added.

 

“No, no, not at all. Brian is to have complete rest. The last thing he needs is you three hot heads running in there and filling him all up with worry.”

 

“Give us the name,” John said.

 

“John…”

 

“The fuckin’ name. We won’t go but we have a right to know where he is.”

 

Archer pursed his lips. “I’ll let him know you’re asking after him and we’ll see what he says shall we.”

 

“Fuckin’ hell,” John said, looking to Paul and Ringo.

 

“When will he be back?” Ringo asked softly.

 

“Oh, erm, it would be hard to tell,” Archer said. “This is why I was appointed to take care of all Brian’s affairs. To, uh… put the house in order, shall we say?”

 

The three of them exchanged glances again, for once, all at a loss for words.