November 17^th 1965

 

“John? I’m still at the station. I can’t get through to anyone. I’m on a fucking payphone, its eating money!”

 

“Don’t you get a free phone call?”

 

“They won’t let me use their phone. They’re not exactly… welcoming. I can’t get through to anyone at the offices. It either just rings out or I get pushed around the switchboard.”

 

“Have you been charged?”

 

“No, not yet.”

 

“Not yet?”

 

“These twats have already made their minds up. I think it’s a matter of time. I need to speak to Brian, I need a lawyer.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Does he know about all this? I would have thought he’d be here himself by now.”

 

“If he hasn’t, he’s about the only man in Britain. The fucking press are everywhere. They’re camping outside of here, ringing the fucking doorbell, peeping in the fucking windows. We’ve had to draw the curtains, it’s the middle of the bloody day and we’re in the pitch fucking black…”

 

“So where is he?”

 

“I’m past caring. I don’t know where he is. Fucked off. That’s what we should do,”

 

“Well, I can hardly…”

 

“I wasn’t talking about you.”

 

“So what am I gonna do, John? This is… frightening.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“John?”

 

“Quite honestly George, I don’t give a toss what you do.”

 

 

 

 

“Wha-? John…”

 

“Did you hurt that girl?”

 

“No! Of course I didn’t! How could you…”

 

“Well, it just seems we don’t know you as well as we thought.”

 

“You think I murdered Grace?!”

 

“It’s not the first time you’ve been in trouble, is it, George?”

 

“What are you talking…”

 

“Except this time Brian’s not around to bail you out.”

 

“John, what the fuck…”

 

“When were you going to tell us?”

 

“Tell you what?!”

 

“That you’re leaving. You’ve resigned. About the fucking Moonshadows, or whatever the fuck they’re called.”

 

“I… I didn’t mean… it was just an impulsive… with Paul and everything…”

 

“Impulsive? A fucking legal letter, typed out and signed – George, that’s not impulsive, that’s planned.”

 

“I couldn’t…”

 

“And as for Paul! You let us go round there and fucking have a go at him, when you were fucking carrying on with that girl, and then you’re sodding off anyway!”

 

“John, it’s not like that…”

 

“Isn’t it? Cos its how it fucking seems, mate!”

 

“John, please…”

 

 

 

“John? John?”

 

“George, this is Cynthia. I think it’s best if you don’t call here again.”