17^th November 1965  2.00am

 

 

It was the cold that woke George; otherwise he might have slept there all night.

 

For a moment, he didn’t recognise his surroundings, then slowly, his fuzzy mind began to make sense of the shapes. He was on the floor in the porch of Kinfauns, leaning against the front door with his knees drawn up to his chest for warmth. George stood up and switched the light on. His whole body ached. His right shoulder hurt whenever he moved his arm, so George tried to do everything with his left. He found the spare door key, hidden under a flowerpot. George wondered where he had left his set.

 

As George opened the door, a wave of nausea rose up inside his stomach without warning. George just reached the bathroom in time to vomit violently into the toilet bowl. He lay on the bathroom floor in the dark for several moments afterwards, just trying to think past the pain in his shoulder and the pain in his head, that had also come out of nowhere. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten home. For a few moments, he couldn’t remember where he’d been. Then – Grace, the restaurant, Grace’s declaration they were to marry. George shook his head in disbelief. Where was Grace anyway? He must have left her at the restaurant. It didn’t matter, because he and Grace were over now, and Pattie… well, Pattie.

 

Another wave of nausea hit George, as sudden as the first, and he threw up again, only just reaching the toilet in time.

 

Did I drink that much? he asked himself, leaning there, trying to get his breath. It seemed there were a lot of – worrying – gaps in George’s memory.

 

When his stomach would allow, George stood up and pulled the chord for the bathroom light. “Paul’s!” he said aloud, suddenly remembering. Why hadn’t he gone to Paul’s house to meet the others? He looked at his watch; shocked to find it was nearly ten past two. Where have I been?

 

He went to the sink and turned both taps on full, splashing water over his face and washing his mouth out. As he stood up again, reaching for the towel, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the bathroom cabinet mirror and gasped.

 

The right side of his face was grazed and scratched, with one large cut on his eyebrow. George leaned into the mirror and prodded it with his index finger. Have I been in a fight? Gingerly, he unbuttoned his shirt and drew it off his right shoulder. The skin wasn’t broken but there was a lot of yellow and purple bruising. George tried to shrug but it sent too much pain hurtling through him. There were more scratches and grazing on his neck and the top of his chest. His back ached like he’d been bent double for a long time. George swallowed and re-buttoned his shirt, unevenly.

 

He left the bathroom and stumbled through the dark house to the living room. He went to the chest by the window and pulled open the draws, looking for the address book.  As he found it, he was surprised by how suddenly tired he felt, his eyelids drooping as he flicked thorough the pages.

 

All the entries were written out in Pattie’s neat handwriting. All of their friends. George remembered her doing it, it had taken her ages. Finally, he found Jennie’s number, Pattie’s sister. He had no idea where Pattie was living, but Jennie would.

 

George went out to the hall and fetched the phone into the lounge, as far as the chord would allow. He set it on the floor and lay down next to it, carefully, so he didn’t move his shoulder too much.

 

He dialled the number. It rang for a long time and George nearly nodded off, cradling the receiver under his chin. Finally it was answered by a tired male voice. George asked for Jennie, and a moment later she came to the phone.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Jennie?”

 

“Who’s this?”

 

“It’s George. I’m, uh, looking for Pattie.”

 

“George, do you have any idea of what time it is?”

 

“Is she with you? Do you know where she is?”

 

“Why? What’s happened?” Jennie said, alarmed.

 

“Nothing, nothing bad, but I do need to talk to her urgently.”

 

“Well, I don’t think she really wants to speak to you. And certainly not at half past two  in the morning!”

 

“She’s there then?”

 

“She’s here, but she’s asleep, and I’m not waking her. George, you’ll have to call in the morning.”

 

“Please, just fetch her.”

 

“No, I’m not.”

 

“Please, Jennie.”

 

“Are you drunk?”

 

“What? No…” At least, he didn’t think he was. He didn’t feel like he normally did when he was drunk.

 

“You’re slurring your words.”

 

“I’m not drunk, I just need to speak to Pattie.”

 

The phone was taken over by the male voice again. Jennie’s boyfriend, George assumed, though he couldn’t be sure. “Listen, mate, just call back when you’re sober, okay?” he said and hung up.

 

George redialled immediately but the line was engaged, the phone had been left off the hook. George closed his tired eyes as he listened to its monotone.

 

The next think he knew was a stabbing pain in his shoulder. George woke with a sharp gasp.

 

“Jesus, I only touched you,” John said, standing over him. “I tapped you with my boot, you Nancy.” He made to kick George’s shoulder again, George shifted out of the way quickly.

 

“Don’t, it hurts,” he said, closing his eyes again.

 

“Oi,” John demanded, kicking George softly, in the hip this time. “House guests, get up.”

 

“Fuck off,” George said, suddenly aware of the phone chord, wrapped around his neck, threatening to strangle him. “How did you get in anyway?”

 

“You left your front door open. Wide open. Lucky you live in a nice, middle class area, eh?”

 

George moved to an upright position, noticing Ringo lying on the sofa. George’s shoulder still hurt, but the sharpness of the pain had faded to a bearable degree.

 

“What do you want?” he asked John. Ringo had his eyes closed.

 

“What are you doing?” John said.

 

George untangled the phone wire and replaced the receiver. “I was trying to call… never mind. I must have fallen asleep here.”

 

“So what happened to the meeting at Paul’s?”

 

“I meant to come, I got waylaid…”

“Waylaid?” John said with a raised eyebrow.

 

George nodded, “I… don’t really know what happened but, I was out with Grace and then before I knew it, it was one o’clock. I really did mean to come, John.”

 

“Yeah, well, happen it was best you didn’t,” John said, sadly.

 

“Why?”

 

John crossed the room to Ringo’s sofa. He shoved Ringo’s legs back, to make room for him to sit. Ringo grumbled and opened his eyes, “I brought you here, now you let me sleep,” he told John and screwed his eyes closed again.

 

“Oh, sure,” John said to him. “Leave me to do the dirty work.”

 

“I don’t even want to be here,” Ringo said, grumpily. “Now is not the time to be doing this.”

 

“It’s as good as any,” John said.

 

Ringo yawned and sat up, checking his watch. “I’ve been awake nearly a whole twenty four hours now,” he protested.

 

“What time is it?” George said.

 

“Half fuckin’ seven,” Ringo replied. “Christ, George, you look like shit. What’s happened to you?”

 

“I’m… not sure…” George said, realising the gaps in his memory were still there. He got to his feet and collapsed into the armchair. Ringo gave John a strange look, which made George feel nervous. “You don’t look so great yourselves,” he told them. “Been up all night?”

 

“Up and out,” Ringo grumbled. “Since we left Paul’s.”

 

“Oh, you still went?”

 

Ringo and John exchanged glances again.

 

“What?” George asked. “What is it?”

 

“Well, nothing you don’t already know…” John answered vaguely.

 

George pursed his lips. “Yeah, but you don’t call round here at this time in the morning unless you’ve got something to say. So what is it?”

 

John scratched his forehead and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Me and Ring went round to Paul’s,” he started carefully. “And he was actin’ funny right from the start, tryna get rid of us, wasn’t he?” he turned to Ringo.

 

Ringo nodded half-heartedly, “If you say so.”

 

“You were there!” John said in such a tone George could tell they’d discussed this before. “Anyway,” he continued, turning back to George, “No Jane. No Jane’s parents. All alone and he wasn’t expecting us. I thought you’d told him?”

 

George bit his lip, “No,” he said simply.

 

John shrugged. “I guess you wouldn’t…”

 

“Cut to the chase, John,” Ringo said, unusually impatient.

 

“Alright,” John replied, annoyed. “I asked Paul outright about it, coz I’ll level with yer, George. I thought you were loosing it a bit.”

 

“What?” George said, confused. “What did you ask him?”

 

“If he’d been shaggin’ Pattie.”

 

Ringo rolled his eyes. “Subtle, Lennon,” he said.

 

“Oh,” George said flatly. “And what did he say?”

 

“He denied it,” John said. “And I believed him. And Ringo did.”

 

George rested his head on his hand. He could feel a hangover taking hold; this was the last subject he wanted to discuss, particularly with John and Ringo.

 

“But,” John faltered. “When we were leaving, nearly out the door – pushed out the door, actually, she turned up.”

 

“She?” George asked, expecting the answer, but hoping it would be something else anyway.

 

“Pattie,” John said. “Coming to Paul’s house.”

 

George looked at his feet, trying hard not to react. Nothing in front of them anyway.

 

“Sorry, George,” Ringo said sincerely. George nodded slightly.

 

“That fucking snake, George!” John said, leaning towards him and patting his leg. “I can’t believe it, mate.”

 

George nodded again. It was true, then. There had always been the hope that somehow it wasn’t, but George now felt that hope fade away like the light from an extinguished candle. Thank God I didn’t speak to her last night, he thought. Made another fool of myself.

 

“He wouldn’t try it on with Cyn or Mo,” John was saying. “Well, he better fucking not!”

 

“Shut up, John,” Ringo said, looking at George.

 

George shook his head, “No,” he said. “Had to get it all out in the open sooner or later.”

 

“Well, John punched him for yer,” Ringo smiled, kindly, trying to lift the mood.

 

George smiled back, “Did you?”

 

“Of course,” John said, cheerfully. “Not as hard as I would have liked to though. I woulda knocked him out if this one hadn’t dragged me off him!” He pointed to Ringo.

 

“We’re… uh, behind you, though, George,” Ringo added. “That’s what we came to say really.”

 

“Yeah,” John agreed. “You’ve been staying away from the studio, and that, because of that bastard, and that’s not on.”

 

George shook his head, “The band,” he said. “Where do we go from here?”

 

John shrugged and looked at Ringo. Ringo said nothing. “We’ll. play it by ear,” John said, with a smile.

 

George forced a grin.

 

“Did you know she’d be there?” John asked. “Pattie, at Paul’s house? Is that why you wanted us to go round there?”

 

“No,” George said, also thankful he hadn’t been there to witness it. “I wanted to talk to you about Brian.”

 

“You’ve seen him?” Ringo asked. George shook his head. “But you’ve… heard?”

 

“I’ve heard what that Archer’s been saying.”

 

John snorted in contempt.

 

“But it just doesn’t… sound right,” George continued. “If Brian was as… ill as he’s saying I can’t believe he wouldn’t have said something to us. And, well, you know Brian, don’t you think he would have sorted everything out, for after he was gone?”

 

“Yeah,” Ringo said. “Unless he was too sick?”

 

George rubbed the stubble growing on his jaw. “Nah,” he said. “I’m not sure that story washes. I went to his house, got the neighbour to let me in. No one’s been there for a long time by the looks of it.”

 

“He’s not back home either,” John said quietly. “In Liverpool. I rang Queenie.”

 

“Really? When?” George asked.

 

“When Brian first disappeared,” John confided. “I couldn’t find him, and… I guess I sort of gave up. I shouldn’t have done.”

 

“In the house, there was a letter from Alistair Taylor to Brian, from months ago. I couldn’t read it all, it’d been in the fire, but it was about Archer and I get the impression Al didn’t trust him. I rang him but…”

 

“We should have known something was up when Brian sacked him,” Ringo said.

 

“Exactly,” George said. “And we need Brian, especially now what with… Paul and me. Because if we do… break up…”

 

“Who said we were breaking up?” John said. “I started this band, and I’ll say when its over.”

 

“You can’t expect George to carry on with Paul as if nothings happened,” Ringo said.

 

“I’m not saying that,” John replied. “Just… don’t write us off yet. But,” he added, turning to George again, “you’re right. We could do with finding Brian.”

 

George nodded, “We have to force him out.”

 

“Force him out?”

 

“Something drastic enough that he’ll have to come back and do something. No matter where he is or what state he’s in.”

 

“You don’t think it’s been ‘drastic’ enough already?” John asked sardonically.

 

“Well, its possible he doesn’t know what’s been going on.”

 

John shrugged, “I guess.”

 

“Which is why I…” The doorbell rang, interrupting George. He looked round to the front windows, thinking it might be Grace.

 

“I’ll get it,” John said, standing. “Or get rid of it,” he added, walking towards the hall.

 

“John, if it’s Grace… you’d better let her in,” George said after him.

 

With John gone, Ringo stretched out on the sofa again, putting a cushion behind his head. “Don’t mind if I get in forty winks here, do yer, George?” he asked, closing his eyes.

 

George shook his head, distracted by whoever was at the door. He got up and followed John to the front door. John was standing with his arms folded, blocking the doorway, but George could see he was talking to two-uniformed policeman and what he supposed was a plain-clothed one.

 

“George Harrison?” the plain-clothes officer asked.

 

“No,” John said bluntly.

 

George walked to the door, “I’m George Harrison,” he said, stepping outside.

 

The policeman stepped back from him. “Mr Harrison, I am Detective Constable David Myles. I’m afraid I am here on rather a delicate matter,” he said. “You are, er, aquainted with a Miss Grace Burgess?”

 

“Yes,” George replied. It couldn’t have been much past eight o’clock but the sun was unusually bright for November, hurting George’s eyes. He put his hand to his forehead and squeezed his temples. “What’s this about?”

 

“I’m sorry to inform you, Miss Burgess was found dead, early this morning.”

 

The words might as well have been a slap in the face. George’s hand dropped to his side. “What?” he whispered, hardly believing what he’d heard.

 

“We have reason to believe she was murdered,” Myles continued. He had a sickly look on his face, like he was actually enjoying telling George this. George looked back at John, still standing in the doorway. John stared back at him, shocked.

 

“We would like you to accompany us to the station, please, sir,” the detective said. “It appears you were the last person to see Miss Burgess alive.”

 

“Am I being arrested?” George asked, feeling sick again.

 

“No sir,” Myles replied. “Unless you are refusing to come with us?”

 

“No,” George said quickly, an uncontrollable shake in his voice. “I’ll come.”

 

Myles smiled.

 

“We’ll come with you,” John said, his eyes wide and fearful.

 

George shook his head, “I’ll be okay, just…  just find Brian.”