November 16^th 1965   12.25pm  24 Chapel Street, Belgravia, London

 

It was quite obvious no one had been inside the house for some time. It had that musty, damp smell that closed-up houses always had. There was no post on the mat though, and apart from a layer of dust, everything was as it always had been.

 

“I haven’t seen Mr Epstein in a long time,” the plump woman behind George was saying. “He gave me the key for emergencies, I hope he won’t mind me letting you in here.”

 

“No, he won’t,” George said, looking around the hallway, walking towards the front room, searching for something, anything that might tell him where Brian had gone.

 

“I wouldn’t, but I recognise you. You’re one of the Beatles, aren’t you?”

 

“Yes,” George replied, flicking through a letter rack on the bureaux.

 

“And Mr Epstein is your manager.”

 

“Yes,” George confirmed again.

 

The woman smiled, pleased at her detective work. “Everything is alright, isn’t it?”

 

George forced a wide smile, well practiced for a hundred promotional photographs. “Of course,” he said, patting the woman on the back and guiding her towards the door. “Mr Epstein asked me to pick a few things up for him, but he forgot to leave me his key, the silly thing. If you don’t mind though, I have to make a phone call. I’ll drop the key back to you in a little while.”

 

“Oh, okay then…” the woman just managed to say before George bundled her out of the front door and closed it.

 

George turned back to the house, waiting for something – a clue, the answer – to leap out at him, but nothing was forthcoming. Everything just looked… normal. So what did you expect? he asked himself. Furniture overturned as they came to drag Brian away? A big note written somewhere saying ‘Don’t forget to move to Australia tomorrow’?

 

He wandered from room to room. Brian had only moved to the house in January. He was still in the processes of redecorating it, not that anyone would know. Everything was predictably neat and perfectly placed. George came into the front room and leaned his elbow on the ornamental fireplace.

 

“Where are you, Bri?” he said out loud, and his voice seemed to echo, disconcertingly. There must be something here, George told himself. Something I’m missing, something I haven’t noticed.

 

 He looked down. The fireplace hadn’t been lit recently. Or cleaned out. There was a small corner of paper sticking out, quite white against the black ash and charcoal. George bent down and pulled it out.

 

The part where it would have been signed had burnt away, with just the top part of the letter still intact and just about legible. It didn’t matter anyway, George had seen that handwriting a thousand times, he would have recognised it anywhere.

 

….worried about you. I don’t….

 

….that man. He is not to be trus…

 

…Brain. I am always… in London.

 

The rest of the words were too badly charred to make out, but it was enough. George remembered Paul mentioning something about Alistair Taylor coming to see him, not long after everyone had been fired at NEMS. He was worried about Brian, what did he say?  The letter was unmistakably in his handwriting.

 

George walked out to the hallway and picked up the receiver to the white ornate telephone there. We are stupid, George thought. Brian sacks everyone, and we don’t even ask why.  Thankfully, the phone hadn’t been cut off. George dialled his home number, hoping Alistair still lived there. A lot of the old staff from Liverpool had returned home. Neil had. Mal had for a while.

 

The phone rang several times before it was answered. George drew a sigh of relief.

 

“Hello, 3637?”

 

“Al? It’s George.”

 

A seconds pause. “George who?”

 

“Me, Al! George.”

 

Another pause. “What do you want?” he said frostily.

 

“I… uh, I’m sorry. I should have called you before.”

 

“I’m just about to go out, George…”

 

“No, hang on. This is important. I’m in Brian’s house. I had to get one of the neighbours to let me in. Brian’s not here. I don’t think he’s been here for a long time.”

 

“So what has that got to do with me?”

 

“I found a letter from you. You’re saying stuff about Archer in it, I think, it’s a bit burnt, but…”

 

“I wrote that letter months ago.”

 

“I… yeah, I know, but Archer’s taken over now. No one’s seen Brian for months… Archer’s telling everyone this cock and bull story.”

 

“Then… then call the police, George.”

 

“Archer told me Brian was in hospital, this morning. He says he’s dying.”

 

Alistair didn’t reply.

 

“Al?”

 

“I’m here.”

 

“So, I need you to tell me what you know, so I can…”

 

“I don’t know anything, George. I went to Paul about all this months ago and he practically told me to sod off. And besides, I’ve seen Brian since I wrote that letter and he made himself perfectly clear…”

 

“You’ve seen him?”

 

“You know, all these years I’ve worked for him, they counted for nothing…”

 

“When?” George interrupted.

 

“What?”

 

“When did you see him?”

 

“Just before he left for America, though I wish I hadn’t bothered.”

 

George sighed. “Look, Al, I’m worried. Brian came back to England early, and no one’s heard a word from him since.”

 

“Is he really dying?” Alistair blurted, suddenly. George allowed himself a hopeful smile.

 

“I... I don’t know for sure, but I don’t believe a fuckin’ word that Archer says.”

 

“Well… it’s nothing to do with me. Not anymore. I hope things work out for you, George.”

 

George’s smile faded, “Al, I need you…”

 

“No, not anymore you don’t George. And neither does Brian, evidently... It hurts, y’know, George. I thought… I thought we were friends, not just…”

 

“I know but…”

 

“I have to go now.”

 

“Please, Al, wait…”

 

There was a click and the line went dead. George replaced the receiver, disappointed. Another thought occurred to him and he grimaced, lifting the phone again.

 

“Hello, this is the Chinese Embassy,” John said, answering in a terrible accent.

 

“Hello John,” George said.

 

“Oh, George,” John replied, all the mirth gone from his voice. “I wondered when you would crawl out from whatever rock you were under.”

 

“Yeah, I’m sorry I haven’t been to the studio…”

 

John snorted, “We’re getting' along without you just fine.”

 

“Well, I’ll be in soon – tomorrow - but that’s not what I was ringing about.”

 

“Whatcha want then?”

 

“I’ve just been to see Archer… he says…”

 

“Yeah, I know. Brian’s sick, in some hospital somewhere.”

 

“He told me he was dying.”

 

John didn’t say anything for a beat, then, “What do you want me to do about it then?”

 

“Well, do you think its true, John?”

 

“I don’t know, do I? Maybe. Probably. Who knows?”

 

“I’m in Brian’s house right now…”

 

“That’s illegal, breaking and entering.”

 

“He’s not been here for ages, no one has,” George continued. “I’ve spoken to Alistair Taylor, he’s not seen him before America, no one’s seen him since.”

 

 “So what? You think he’s been kidnapped or something? Where’s the ransom note, George?” John asked sarcastically.

 

“Well, don’t you think we should… do something?”

 

“Like what?”

 

George sighed, annoyed at John’s obstinacy. “We could at least talk about it. All four of us.”

 

“Four of us?” John laughed. “We’re a quartet again now, are we?”

 

“Do you want Archer managing The Beatles?” George demanded.

 

John was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “Of course I fuckin’ don’t.”

 

“Coz that’s what’s happening, John. He’s moved in and taken over, and we’ve just sat here and let him.”

 

“Right, okay,” John said with a sigh. “Come round to Paul’s tonight at about nine. I’ll tell Ringo.”

 

“Alright,” George replied, but John had gone. He hung the phone up and stood in the silent hallway a moment, thinking. The idea of going to Paul’s house hardly filled him with enthusiasm. Well, two birds with one stone, George reasoned. He could finally sort that mess out, one way or another.

 

Still, it didn’t feel enough. The time for talking seemed to have passed. George couldn’t see how that could help them now. The truth was Archer had his claws into the Beatles, and he wasn’t about to let go. Not while we’re making him all this money, George thought ruefully. Then the idea occurred to him.