Devil In Her Heart
Chapter One, All I've Got To Do
London, England - 3 September, 1967
REMAINING BEATLES MOURN THE LOSS OF DRUMMER STARR
In London, England, the three remaining members of the popular band the Beatles mourn the passing of their close personal friend and band mate, Ringo Starr. Starr, real name Richard Starkey, was admitted to the University College Hospital of London this morning at 3 o'clock. Reports from the hospital say that Starr is in a deep coma, from which there is little to no chance of recovery. Circumstances for his condition are still unknown. The surviving Beatles, John Lennon, Paul McCartney, and George Harrison, were discovered with the unconscious Starr in a back alley late last night, not far from McCartney's residence on Cavendish Avenue. They have since given no explanation, nor any comment as to what is to become of the band now that Starr is indisposed. Many fans of the popular England group are asking if the long-time drummer will be replaced and if…
John flung the paper across the room in disgust, sick of the constant questions and suggestions to replace their friend. The three down and out Beatles couldn't even leave their homes without being bombarded with questions from every angle, always about their future in the music career. Never about how they felt, did they miss him; weren't they sad? Did no one miss Ringo? No, all the press wanted to know was when the next Beatles album was coming. John always sighed deeply, fighting back the tears and rattling off the stock, monotone answer; He will be greatly missed, and we haven't thought of replacing him yet. Which was really only half true; they had thought of replacing him, and the idea had been met with a universal negative. But the Beatles were missing out, and at the peak of their careers.
Paul picked up the paper where it had landed at his feet, stepping silently into the room. John, still not noticing his younger band mate, put his head in his hands, elbows resting on the kitchen table. More and more often the three met at Paul's expansive house, pulled ever closer by the bond strengthened by their incredible trauma. Paul silently sat next to his friend, scanning the newspaper with little comprehension. They sat in silence for minutes before John's rough voice broke the quiet.
"Where's George?" He rasped, head still in his hands.
"He's gone to see Ringo."
John lifted his head laboriously, and Paul could see a few tears rolling down his pale cheeks. "He's only making it harder."
Just then, the door from the front hall opened, and George slowly stepped inside, his eyes lowered, deep in melancholy thought. The other two watched him drag off his coat, lifting it like a lead weight to the coat hanger. Normally, Paul's housekeeper, Rose, would have helped him with his coat, but she had been given a holiday to let them brood in peace. Finally, the youngest Beatle noticed the two of them staring.
"How…how is he?" Paul asked guardedly, as if he didn't want to know the answer.
George shrugged. "No change." He paused, looking sadly at the paper headlines. "Have they missed him yet?" He asked rhetorically.
"No change? …At all?" Paul replied, his eyes filled with sadness, but an ever-bright shimmer of hope. When George shook his head, the glimmer died, for the hundredth time that week.
"The doctors say it's chronic. There's nothing they can do. There's nothing…anyone can do. They say he'll just linger awhile and…and…" George stopped, biting his lip fiercely. He collapsed into the third of four chairs surrounding the wooden kitchen table, taking an apple from the bowl of fruit and nibbling half-heartedly, staring at the opposite wall.
John suddenly stood up. "We've got to go back and get him."
Paul and George stared at him with tired, blank eyes, having heard this many times. Paul sighed. "How, John, how. There's no way we can get back to Valeth. And even if we did, would it matter? He's gone. Karine made damn sure of that…" He added with another heavy sigh.
"Let's go." John leapt up, grabbing his coat, hastily rubbing at his wet cheeks with the back of his hand.
"Pardon?" Paul replied incredulously. John had mentioned doing something before, but never acted; the others had talked sense into him. But now, John was running out the door, leaving Paul and John to grab their coats and stumble after.
"John, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Paul cried, throwing open the car door as George dove into the backseat. John's knuckles were white on the wheel as he sped from the side of the street, barely giving Paul enough time to close the car door. They drove in silence, speeding down the icy streets of downtown London, the massive, black University College Hospital of London looming in the gray winter sky, the same hospital where Ringo had had his tonsils removed oh so long ago.
By the time they finally screeched to a stop in front of the hospital, John had still given no explanation. He jumped out of the car, Paul and George right on his heels as he flew into the lobby. Breathless, John threw himself onto the counter in front of the rather surprised receptionist.
"May - may I help you?" She stuttered, leaning back in her chair as John leaned forward.
"I need to see Ringo."
"But Mr. Lennon, visiting hours are over. I'm terribly sorry, you'll have to come back tomorrow."
"But I'm his friend!" John cried, leaning in even further, looming over the nervous secretary.
"I'm sorry, sir," She repeated more slowly. "You can only visit Mr. Starr after visiting hours if you are closely related."
John was silent for a moment. "Is Maureen up there?" The receptionist nodded. John stared at her for a moment, and she shifted uneasily under his gaze until he turned to the others, herding them back towards the small leather couch in the corner.
"We need to get him out of here."
George's jaw hit the floor. "What?"
"John, what the hell are you talking about?" Paul whispered harshly, watching the passing visitors with a wary eye. So far, they hadn't been recognized by any but the receptionist.
"If he's going to die, don't you think he should be home? Not in this bloody hospital, hooked up to all the fuckin' machines…" John trailed off, watching a young boy in a stretcher being wheeled by.
"I hate hospitals…" Paul whined feebly, staring at the needles in the boy's arm.
"Come on! All we have to do is get him out!"
"And how do you suggest we do that?" George countered, as yet unfazed by the boy's appearance. "Just walk up, say, 'Hi, we know he's going to die, can we just carry him off? Wouldn't want to bother you nice people…he's only a Beatle, after all.'"
John grabbed George by the collar, startling him and Paul, who's nerves were near gone anyway. "I'm not kidding!" He cried, and George could see the seriousness in his eyes.
"Well…what are we going to do?" Paul asked, trying to pull John away from George. John sat down, putting his head in his hands.
"I don't know."
Suddenly, a man with a large cart full of linens bumped into Paul with a mumbled excuse. John's head snapped up, his eyes following the man out the door to the waiting laundry truck. Paul followed John's line of sight, and his eyes promptly grew. "No way, John. No way!"
"D'you want to get him out of here?" John asked softly, gazing after the laundry man.
"Is it such a good idea?" George stammered, watching the truck pull away. "What if he recovers? There's still a chance…"
"That he'll recover?" John interrupted impatiently. "Have you already forgotten what the Guardian said? He's gone, George. So let's get this over with."
Ten minutes later, three men in uniform pulled their hats down low in front of their faces, wheeling the laundry cart into the waiting elevator. Paul's trembling hand pushed the button for the third floor, and the elevator lurched, unsettling his already nervous stomach.
"John, this is fucking insane!" Paul whispered, despite the fact they were alone in the elevator. "What'll people think when his body just…disappears?"
"Who cares? He'll be better off with us. None of this technology shit'll help him. We know that. He'd live just as long at home." He paused thoughtfully. "I just don't know what we're going to tell Mo."
Paul's jaw dropped, and he was about to exclaim when the elevator doors slid open and a doctor stepped in, clipboard in hand. He smiled and nodded at the three, and George waved feebly before pulling his hat brim even lower. They rode in silence until they got to the fifth floor, where the three "laundry men" quickly exited the elevator.
"Room 446," John mumbled, passing down the hallway towards Ringo's room. They found the proper room, entered, and quickly shut the door behind them.
"Uh…?" Maureen stood up from her chair by Ringo's bedside, clutching a handkerchief in her trembling hand. The three took off their hats, and her jaw dropped.
"What are you doing here?"
John ignored her, stepping slowly up to where Ringo's head lay, the only sound in the deathly still room being the soft electronical beeps. With one shaking hand, John brushed the long hair from Ringo's sickly pale face, staring at his friend's waxen cheeks. Maureen watched him silently, holding her handkerchief to her nose and trying to fight back the tears. Paul walked over to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she turned to give him a hug. George could only stare at the lifeless body that was their best friend.
"All right. Let's go." John threw back the bed sheets, exposing Ringo's arms, pricked with IV needles. Paul shuddered, still comforting Maureen. John looked at the tubes for a moment, and with a grimace, un-taped the needles and pulled them out, covering the prick with Maureen's discarded handkerchief. She suddenly turned around, mouth agape in shock. "What are you doing??" She cried, and Paul quickly clapped his hand over her mouth.
"Shh! We'll explain in the car!"
She pried his hand away. "You can't take him! He'll die!"
Again, Paul silenced her. "We'll explain! Just please, be quiet and cooperate!"
Given no other choice, Maureen nodded, her eyes wide with fear as John gently lifted Ringo into the large cart, carefully covering him with a large sheet. Making sure he was all right, the three headed for the door, replacing their caps as Maureen followed bewilderedly behind.
Just as they reached the end of the hall, a frantic beeping came from Ringo's room.
"Shit!" John cried, looking back. "The machines! They'll be getting no readings!"
"Didn't you unplug them?" Paul cried, ushering Maureen into the waiting elevator.
"That was your job!" John cried.
"Forget it! Just go!" George shoved them into the elevator, cart behind, as a group of white-coated doctors rushed down the hall, headed towards Ringo's room. John frantically punched the ground floor button as the doors slid lazily shut.
"You three have a lot of explaining to do!" Maureen said, her voice wavering through the tears she'd been shedding at Ringo's bedside.
John hushed her with one hand raised. "We need your help first. They'll be looking everywhere for him…you need to distract the receptionist while we slip out. Ok? The car's waiting outside. Come out as soon as you can."
Maureen nodded, still confused. "As long as you think this is right…"
Paul put a hand on her shoulder. "Trust us. Please."
Maureen nodded warily as the elevator doors opened to the bustling ground lobby. With a look in each direction, she waved them out, and then rushed to the receptionist's desk, ready to give the performance of her life.
"Miss, do you know what it's like to lose a husband?" She cried with emotion, her eyes easily filling with tears. The receptionist started, caught off guard.
"Mrs. Starkey! I…uh…"
Behind Maureen, John, Paul and George rushed for the door as quickly as possible without arousing much suspicion, glancing at Maureen's back as she waved her arms dramatically. George couldn't help but smile at the startled look on the secretary's face.
"I loved him, Miss!" She cried, pulling out another handkerchief with a flourish, dabbing at her red eyes. "He meant the world to me!" The receptionist nodded sympathetically, hardly noticing the three men carting out another load of laundry.
"Well, Mrs. Starkey, I suggest you go home and have a nice long rest," She said, moving from her desk to put an arm around Maureen, who nodded, dabbing at her eyes again. "Have a cup of chamomile tea and a good lie-down, and you'll feel so much better…" She continued, leading the sobbing Maureen to the door.
"Thank you, thank you Miss!" Maureen cried, breaking away with her hand on the door. Just a little bit further… "So many people don't care these days, but you're special!" With that, Maureen burst into tears and rushed out the door. The receptionist sighed, returning to her post, having never noticed the three laundry men that looked suspiciously like a trio of Beatles…
Wiping hastily at her tear-streaked cheeks, Maureen rushed to the awaiting car, leaping in the back seat as John drove off, tires squealing.
In the back seat, Paul and Maureen sat with Ringo's limp body propped up between them, handkerchiefs wrapped around the insides of his elbows. Maureen bit her lip, fighting back another surge of tears. They drove in silence until they reached Paul's house. Once through the massive iron gates, John and George covered Ringo with their coats and carried him inside, Paul leading Maureen behind them.
John carried Ringo's still form up to the guest bedroom, George opening the doors for him along the way. "Got 'im ok?" He asked nervously, wringing his hands.
John nodded, a strange look on his face. "He weighs almost nothing…" He trailed off, noticing the shocked expression on Maureen's face. John lay the oldest Beatle on the bed, removing their coats and covering him with thick blankets. Maureen dragged a chair from the corner, collapsing into it with a sigh.
"Explain." She said simply, yet commandingly.
"Well…uh…see…we can't." Paul stuttered, looking to George and John for help. Maureen looked at him disapprovingly, almost with a look of betrayal. John swallowed audibly.
"It's just that…we don't know…how to explain." John stammered, sitting on Ringo's bedside.
Maureen nodded for him to continue. "Try."
With a glance to George and Paul, John sighed, then tried his very best to recount the entire story, from their arrival to Valeth, to Liryl and the dragon, to the palace of Karine and Mystique, to the final battle on the chessboard and Karine's defeat. By the time he'd finished (with various input from the other two), it was well into the night, and Maureen was looking more and more tired. They sat in silence, waiting for her response.
She took a deep breath. "Great. Publish a book. Now what really happened? Drugs? What? You can tell me the truth!"
John leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands rubbing at his unshaven face. "We told you the truth."
Suddenly, the large grandfather clock in the corner began to chime twelve; midnight. Four pairs of eyes stared at it until it had finished it's somber decree, then lowered to the ground as silence descended once again.
"Look," Maureen began, standing up slowly. "It's been a long day. Why don't we all get some rest, then, in the morning, you can tell me what really happened."
This comment was met with three astonished stares. Maureen's brow furrowed. "What?"
"Look!" Paul breathed, pointing past her to the bed.
Ringo's body was glowing, radiating a crimson light that mimicked his magic from Valeth. As they watched, speechless with shock, the light grew brighter, and Ringo's body began to fade.
George summed up their feelings with three to-the-point words. "What the hell…??"
Ringo's body began to disappear before their very eyes, and with a cry of despair, Maureen flung herself onto her husband's retreating form…
…But met only air. His body had disappeared completely, leaving no trace whatsoever. The light faded into nothing, leaving Maureen sobbing on the bed. The others sat in silence, not knowing what had happened, much less what to do next. Paul was the first to move, helping Maureen up and straightening the bedclothes. He held her shoulders firmly, looking into her eyes.
"You cannot tell anyone…anyone…what we have told you or what we have seen. Do you understand?"
Confused, Maureen nodded, choking back sobs. The four turned back to the empty bed, staring at the space their friend had just vacated.
On to Chapter Two
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