The Dark Horse, Part 27
Title: The Dark Horse, part 27
Pairing: George/Ringo, Paul/George (plantonic), John/Paul
Warnings: Hospitals and policemen
Previous Parts: Here
Summary: Richard, an ambitious seventeen-year-old, has his life turned upside down by the wickedly devious, yet deeply endearing, street urchins- George Harrison and Paul McCartney. (AU)
Their first glimpse at Pauls’ sudden turn of fate happens on the day of their return. They decide to stop by the hospital on their journey back from Portsmouth… George armed with a rucksack full of sand, a few seashells, a postcard, and a spliff. Richard warns him that Paul won’t be able to smoke that around the nurses, but George wants to bring it anyway - realising that perhaps Paul will appreciate marijuana more than the symbolic mementos.
He wants to go on his own, and orders Richard to join him in an hour or so, which is fine by Richard. George has a good memory, and can remember the route to Pauls’ ward without having to try and read the directions.
Only when he gets there, he realises he is not the only visitor.
When he bursts into Pauls’ room, face shining in a massive grin, and seashells clustered in his palms… Paul is not alone. He’s sat up in his bed, and is unsmiling… even when the door bursts open and he sees George standing there, he’s STILL unsmiling. It’s unnerving, And before him, stand two police officers. And their faces are so serious… so STERN… and they turn to George… the law-enforcers who he has grown up to despise, and see as enemies. Their uniforms and their postures constructed to intimidate, and the eyes that piece into George threateningly, studying his shocked and uneasy expression.
“What’s going on?” George croaks.
They don’t answer him. They turn to Paul, and one of them points to George with a long, fierce finger.
“Who the hell is this?!” He barks
And Pauls’ face…… it’s…… pale. And expressionless. And he blinks, as he views George standing in that doorway. There’s no spark… none of his usual chirpy charisma… nothing.
“I dunno.” He speaks. His voice is cold… empty. “I’ve never seen ‘im before in my life.”
And in that moment, it is like all of Georges’ blood has run cold. Because Pauls’ expression reflects every word that comes from his mouth. There’s no recognition there at all… no sign that Paul even knows of Georges’ existence… no sign that they spent every breathing hour together for the last six years of their life… nothing. There’s no mischievous glint in his eye that tells George, and George only, that he’s in on some kind of childish prank. In fact, the very eyes that watch him now seem lifeless and cold… bearing nothing familiar. And Georges’ heart sinks, and pounds, and he doesn’t know what to do… doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what’s going on here. All he knows is that if Paul is acting… it’s the best performance of dumbness he’s ever seen him do. And he’s scared. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
“What’s goin’ on?” He asks again, “Why are you talkin’ to him? He hasn’t done anything wrong. What’s happening?!”
“What’s your name, son?”
“George.”
“Hey!” Paul barks, “I told you I don’t know this guy! You’re s’posed to be talking to me!”
But the policeman ignores him. He withdraws a pad, and writes something down. “George.” He mutters, “George who?”
“H…huh?”
“What’s your surname?”
George is struck - confused. He hates policeman - HATES them. He’s run from them his whole fucking life. He doesn’t want to talk to them, doesn’t want them to talk to him. He doesn’t feel comfortable standing so close to them, when he’s tried so hard to get away all this time. More than anything, he doesn’t like them being here… in this room. And when he glances back to Paul… his face says it all. It’s not empty anymore… but fierce - warning. He’s staring at George, eyes like daggers, threatening him not to talk… but also pleading. Silently pleading with him and George hates it.
“S…Starkey.” George stammers. “George Starkey.”
The policeman writes it down. And when George glances back to his friend, Paul is no longer looking at him, but straight down at his duvet cover - unwavering. George just wants eye contact, that’s all. He wants to know what’s going on and if Pauls’ okay, and … he just wants to say hello. But Paul doesn’t look. George can’t reach him.
“How do you know this boy?!” The policeman orders.
“I…” George swallows. He doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t even want to pretend. But he has to.
“I don’t.” he mutters. “Sorry… wrong room.”
Again, he looks at Paul, and again Paul doesn’t look back. Paul glances upwards, watching the policemen… studying their reaction.
“Well you better get going then. George.” One of them growls.
And that’s it. He can’t do anything else. And his stomach drops miserably, and the seashells sit heavily inside his hands, and he can’t say anything… can’t even smile. He just has to go. He just has to LEAVE Paul there… again. Unable to do anything for him, after all Paul has done for George over the years. He doesn’t even know what’s going on in there. But he saw how pale Paul was. He saw that look in his eye. Paul’s in trouble.
And there’s nothing they can do about it.
The police had started snooping around ages ago. At first it was just stupid questions: “Who did this to you?”, “Why were you in Blue Jay Way?”. Paul answered with the basics, “I dunno who he is.”, “I was just there.” But then, the questions became fiercer, and more interrogative. “How would you get a sexually transmitted infection?”, “Where are your parents?”, “Where do you live?”. John had pre-warned him on those ones. He said “Probably from my girlfriend.”, “Mum’s dead I dunno about Dad.” And “I live with Mimi at Mendips.”
But Paul knew they were closing in on him. And he tried to ignore it. He played his guitar, made up songs. When George came to visit, he made out it was minor… just “nosing around” he said. And somehow Richard clocked on… but that didn’t matter. When the police came, he fobbed them off with tiredness or flippancy. Either worked.
But then he started getting better… and yet they wouldn’t let him leave. The nurses hated him anyway; when he was polite they thought he was being fake. They didn’t trust him, and suspected him of all sorts. And yet they wouldn’t let him leave the bed, they said he needed to stay there while the police were investigating.
And then they came.
“Hello McCartney.” He says. He sits down on the end of Pauls’ bed, which pisses him off somewhat, though he hides it. He greets the policeman with a quick smile for good-measure… and an expectant silence.
“How are you today?” The policeman asks.
“Have you found the bloke that did it to me yet?”
“Actually…” The policeman sighs, “We’ve found some other rather interesting information.”
Paul raises his eyebrows. His calm façade is nothing like the nervous heartbeat that torments and that sinks inside his body. “Oh?”
“We’ve arrested eight men today. Arrested eight men under the charges of drugs, theft, pornography…… and procuring.”
Paul says nothing. His expression unreadable, as always. It’s a trait of his that these coppers find most infuriating, and possibly does him no favours.
“Tell me.” The officer continues, “Do the names James Padget, Tucker Speed, Malcom Evans, Morgan Lewis, Derek Taylor, Mike Rosemand, Tony Barrow and Brian Epstein… mean ANYTHING to you?”
Paul swallows. His heart hammers, and he tries to push aside the startling revelation that those men… his family… are in prison. He just tries to focus on the events at hand.
“No.” he states.
“Really? All these men have been living, for the past 2-18 years, in a place called ‘The Cavern’.”
“Eighteen years?” Paul raises his eyebrows. “Blimey. You’ve taken your time finding THAT one out then, haven’t you!? If they’re pimps n’ whores and that. You probably should’ve gotten there quicker.”
The policeman glances upwards from his notes, his façade dropping and replacing with a momentary impatience as he growls, “Shut up.”
“Go on. Carry on.”
“These criminals have been living in the CAVERN, young man. The VERY Cavern, in fact, where YOUR body was found, in the night that you were attacked on October 28th. The Cavern that, as you so rightly stated, has been FILLED with pimps and whores. Now just what do you have to say about that then?!”
“Just WHAT are you implyin’?!” Paul snaps. “One of ‘em found me. And they took me there. So what!? I was unconscious, I couldn’t exactly DO anythin’ about it!!”
“So you’re saying you didn’t know of this ‘Cavern’ before the night in question?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“And you don’t know any of the men that I just stated to you?”
“No.”
“Really?” The policeman breathes dangerously. “Because THEY seem to think they know YOU very well.”
Paul freezes. His heart stops beating - everything stops moving - his blood stops pumping. He’s been betrayed. Those guys - his family - the ones who swore to him and each other to look out for one another, have tossed his name into the scrap heap. They’ve pointed the finger, shunned him in the limelight, and why? Because they blame him. They blame HIM for them getting caught. They blame HIM for their drug-stashes getting found. They blame HIM, for being stabbed, and nearly killed, and therefore blowing their cover.
Well he never chose to. He never chose for the ambulance to come. He never chose to survive. That night, he almost died three times. He almost let his head get smashed in by a baseball bat, and almost let a clear creep and paedophile take him forever to his home. He was on a mission of self-sabotage… he never CHOSE to wake from it. And while he’s glad he did, NONE of this is his fault!!
But those men think it is. And they’ve dropped him in it. Brian… him as well. The police will know everything now… all the dirty details. They’ll add up the facts, and even THEY aren’t stupid enough to get this one wrong. Paul has been revealed as the disgusting, orphaned whore that he is. And there’s nothing he can do about it.
And yet, even when George comes to visit him, the night before he takes off for Portsmouth… Paul manages to maintain the brave face, and the lie.
* * * * *
December comes, and snowflakes fall, and plaster the hospital windows in frozen ice. The coldness parades from the white walls… making Pauls’ tiny room frozen and unbearable. He’s wrapped in by the snow, and locked in by white walls. A blanket of cold that sections him off from poor, impressionable minds. John brings an extra blanket that he’s nicked off Mimi, and the nurses provide him with a hot water bottle, and this is all he has to see him through the Christmas season. That, and the nearly CONSTANT presence of police officers and psychologists and specialist doctors… all of whom ask him question after question after question until he feels mad and can bear it no longer.
On December 18th, he’s stripped of his clothes, made to stand in the centre of a frozen room, while some god forsaken medic does an examination of his body. Paul can’t even begin to think what they’re looking for - some knock to the head maybe… some sign of brain damage that could excuse him for being a queer. Whatever it is, they’re not going to find it. They’re not going to find anything other than the bruises and scars that never fade. Nothing apart from the three stitched-up knife-wounds in his belly.
But they’re forced to make these examinations. Those tramps they arrested INSIST that Paul is an underage prostitute - and a mighty fine one at that. And Paul… he continues to insist he’s not. He continues to insist that he lives with John… that he’s a normal lad. They examine his naked body for signs of his treacherous sham. They prod him and manoeuvre him, humiliate him until he feels he should just ADMIT it, and release himself of this shameful sceptical. Maybe that’s all they hope to achieve from this after all.
But he’s not going to back down. He’s not. He doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction. He doesn’t want to give those who betrayed him the satisfaction. Doesn’t want to give him who attacked him the satisfaction… or Allen. So he stands there and he takes it, as he’s examined like some fucking guinea-pig. And when he is escorted back to his bedroom, he rests knowing that he stood his ground, even if he does end up in prison for it.
* * * * *
Richard and George spend Christmas Day there. December 25th, when even the most dedicated of policemen wouldn’t spend their time chasing up some dirty prostitute and his mates. Elsie helps them to make a Christmas cake, which they take down with them and serve in a plastic tupperware box. They also manage to hijack a few crackers from the table, and some tinsel, which they all drape around their heads and the hospital ceiling. And for the main part, the day passes joyously with no talk of policemen or crime. Johns’ Aunt Mimi refuses to let him spend Christmas Day away from home, but that’s okay, they make do without him.
Paul is animated and lively as he opens his presents: Georges’ neatly wrapped-up seashells, and from both of them, a packet of cigarettes, and a pair of trainers, which Paul puts on right away. George too gets to open his; from Richard is a red blouse, a kaleidoscope, a Magic 8 Ball, a spiritual pebble-like thing (which Richard doesn’t really understand, but figured George would like anyway), and some deep-red silk underwear. George also gets a present from Elsie; some ‘My-First-Time-Reading’ books, and from Paul, a slice of chocolate fudge cake wrapped in newspaper, and Pauls self-portrait, which he’s kindly autographed. Even Richard gets a present; a beaker full of sand from George, which George has decorated the outside of with glass-paints that Elsie bought for him. The glass is now painted with swirls and clouds and a sunshine, with the sand filled to the top. A major surprise for Richard, that George put such effort into the thing, and secretly too, while Richard was at work.
Even more surprising, is his gift from Paul. It’s a book of scrap paper, tied together by shoelaces, and filled with poems and drawings, cartoon strips and limericks, collages and funny letters to presidents and suchlike. Richard can’t imagine for a second why such a thoughtful and time-consuming gift has landed inside HIS hands… and he doesn’t know what to make of it.
“Wh… is this really for me?”
“Yeah.” Paul shrugs. “I got bored.”
“Oh… well… thanks. Thanks Paul.”
He means it as well. He’s stunned… flattered. He doesn’t care when Paul refers to it as ‘rubbish’, because it’s not, it’s actually very good. The drawings are funny and the poems expert. And Richard folds it out carefully, anxious not to crease it or do any damage, because somehow… this is one of the nicest presents he’s ever gotten. And it’s from Paul McCartney. Who’d have thought?
“Paul,” George sighs, as the moonlight begins to drift upwards from its sleepy meander. “What do you rate this Christmas, out of ten?”
The two of them are slumped back against the bed headrest, George flicking through his new reading books, and Paul quietly muttering letters to him that George can’t recognise. Richard has just been sat silently on the end of the bed, saying little, but enjoying it all immensely.
“I dunno.” Paul mutters
“Better or worse than last year?”
“Well……” Paul considers. “I’ve got three holes in my stomach…”
“Hmm.”
“But I got presents and food.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So I’d say… 9 out of 10.”
George nods. “Same as last year then.”
“Yeah.”
Richard laughs inwardly. Boy, these lads really are easily pleased. But actually, he reflects, this must have been one of Richards’ favourite Christmas’s too. Sure, they’re locked inside some freezing cold hospital room, and sure, he may be deprived of his usual turkey dinner and Christmas tree. But the company here is unbeatable. And the gifts he has received from both of them, have more heart than he’s ever gotten before.
Right now, George shakes his magic 8-ball and recites, “Can George make this Christmas better than last Christmas?”
And when the answer shows up, he hands it to Paul, who reads; “My Sources Say No.”
“No!?”
“That’s what it says.”
“What SOURCES!?” George scoffs. “Balls can’t have SOURCES.”
“No, they can’t.”
“Idiot.”
“It’s only bitter, cos it’s just a ball. It doesn’t have eyes and ears and now it’s bitter about it and trying to spoil everyone else’s Christmas.”
“Yeah.”
“Shake it again, George.”
George shakes the magic 8-ball, asking “Is Paul disgustingly ugly?”, before handing it to Richard to read out the answer.
“It Is Certain." Richard reads
“HA!” George laughs joyously
“What?! Let me see that!” Paul orders, and stares angrily into the little fortune-telling present. “Agh, it doesn’t work properly!”
“Seems in perfect working order to me.” Richard sniggers
“Yeah right. Maybe it got us mixed up, Ringo.”
George giggles, pulling the ball from Pauls’ hands and asking the same question again, “Is RICHARD disgusting and ugly?”
“Ah - it says ‘yes’!” Paul cheers
“No it doesn’t!” George laughs, “It doesn’t! What does that say?”
“It says ‘yes’.”
“No! It’s too long to say ‘yes’.”
“No,” Paul argues, “That’s how you spell ‘yes’.”
“It isn’t! YOU look Ritch.”
George hands the ball across to Richard, who smirks.
“It says ‘very doubtful’.”
“AHA!” George laughs triumphantly. “I KNEW you were lying!”
“Yeah well,” Paul pouts, “Like I said, it’s broken.”
“Richard IS good looking.”
“Oh I’m sure he is George. Whatever you say.”
“Urr, I am HERE, you know, Paul.” Richard chuckles
“Oh I know Ringo, you’re not ugly, you’re just……. quirky.”
“Quirky?!”
“Yeah.” Paul smirks. “You know, you have that quality where you SHOULD be hideous but in fact, you can pull it off.”
“Oh… cheers.”
“Any time.”
“He’s joking, Ringo.” George explains, in case for whatever reason Richard has lost his sense of humour in the last few seconds.
“No it’s fine. You have a quality too, Paul.”
“Oh, do I?”
“Yeah. You know, one where you SHOULD look like a girl, and in fact - you do. But somehow, you can pull it off.”
“Oh, ha ha.”
“Any time, mate.”
The evening wears on with such similar banter, and regular intervals of calm and blissful silence, where each attends to their own new gifts. George stares down at those reading books so hard, it’s surprising he doesn’t burn holes in them, and perseveres with each word until he’s sure he’s nailed it perfectly.
“A - d…do-g… dog, s-a… sat o…on a … what is that letter?”
“M”
“M… m-at. Mat. A dog sat on a mat.”
And in all these hours they delight in one anothers company, they’re not visited by a single doctor. Only at about 7.30 are they interrupted, when a Japanese nurse barges into the room, and scores herself a very bitter, “Oh fuckin’ hell…” from Paul, who eyes her up with such uncharacteristic viciousness, even Richard can’t help feel slightly intimidated. She barks at George to get off the bed, before whisking away the Christmas Cake and demanding such food is not good for Pauls’ sensitive stomach. She even pulls the tinsel off the ceiling, muttering some ridiculous words about ‘racism’ and ‘vandalism’, which Richard can’t quite function given how perturbed he is by her sudden unwelcome appearance. She seems to bear no care whatsoever that Paul glares at her so angrily, nor the sudden tension that fills to room, nor that the cake she confiscates is in fact GEORGES’ and therefore not hers to take. And she bears little sympathy when she orders that ‘visiting time is over’, and therefore George and Richard have to go.
“It’s… but, come on, it’s Christmas!” Richard gasps
“Rules are rules. This gathering is over.” she hisses
And then she storms from the room, leaving behind her both a stunned and angry silence - that free and joyous atmosphere well and truly stinted.
“Jap tart.” Paul mutters fiercely under his breath.
“Why do we ‘ave to go now?” George mumbles, “That’s not fair.”
“We… we can come back tomorrow, Paul. If you want.”
“Mm. If you like. John’ll be here tomorrow, so…”
“We’ll come back too.” Richard decides adamantly. “Early. Won’t we George?”
George doesn’t answer, but crawls back to the bed and wraps his arms warmly around his old friends shoulders, squeezing with the intense neediness of he who is missing Paul so much. It’s still hard for him. It’s been months, and George has been adapting well, but Richard knows it won’t ever be truly right without Paul there.
“Guess what, Georgie?” Paul whispers softly
“Hm?”
“I got kissed on the lips, you know.”
George blinks, pulling away from the embrace and eyes locking questioningly onto Pauls’ as he cries, “By who?!”
Paul rolls his eyes. “Who’d you think!?”
“John?”
“Yeah.”
“Really??”
“Yeah.”
“Are you serious, though??"
"YES!"
Richard watches, part confused and part mesmerised by the way they view a simple kiss on the lips as gossip and awe-worthy. These boys, with more sexual experience than Richard would have thought humanly possible, still find such simple gestures so news-worthy… and it’s almost beautiful, if not sad.
“And what?” George asks, “Did you like it?”
“Yeah. It was good, you know. You were right - for once.”
“Yeah.” George nods excitedly, and adds, “Paul! You could live with John, then! You could live with ‘im… when you come out of here!”
But a hard, heavy silence falls down after his words.
Richard shuffles uncomfortably in the doorway, watching as Pauls’ eyes waver slightly, and then fix themselves silently onto Georges’. He watches as Paul, without words, dismisses that beautiful idea, and inflicts George with the truth. The truth that George has known deep down really, since the police first started sniffing around, but never admitted to himself. The truth that was too unfair to bear, and so George hid away from himself, pretending he thought all was fine, until he really believed that. But that's not true, and George knows it. Paul won’t be leaving this hospital a free man. And now, with this heavy, piecing eye contact, there’s no way of denying it to himself any longer.
George swallows. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t look upset. He’s just blank, and understanding… resigning, as he falls against Pauls’ shoulder again.
“Do they know about the orphanage?” he croaks
Paul shakes his head solemnly. “No.”
And George nods, with equal graveness. “That’s good.”
Those are the only words exchanged on the matter. No more needs to be said after that. No more wants to be said, and no more can be said. And Richard and George have to leave. It’s Christmas Day, and Richards’ heart aches sadly as they leave Paul sitting alone in this blank and frozen room… with the tinsel still wrapped around his mop of hair. It’s unfair to leave him so lonely on this day, but ‘rules are rules’. Paul is smiling and expressing charm as he waves them off, which really just makes it all feel that much worse. Richard knows that he and George will go home together, have dinner together, sit by the fire and make love together, like should be done on this festive occasion. Paul will sit alone, and hated by all the doctors that surround him, and just continue to count the hours till his destiny.
But they’ll come back tomorrow. Them, and John, who has provided with Paul with a new, fresh excitement, and sense of being wanted… which must have been so sorely missing of late. And, of course, a treasured kiss on the lips. Finally.
And on December 26th, John turns up just on time, as he always does when visiting Paul. He bears presents like guitar picks, records and a record player.
But he never gets to hand them over.
He’s not allowed to.
As soon as he arrives, a police drags him in for questioning.
The FINAL interview. The final one to secure Paul’s fate.
Pairing: George/Ringo, Paul/George (plantonic), John/Paul
Warnings: Hospitals and policemen
Previous Parts: Here
Summary: Richard, an ambitious seventeen-year-old, has his life turned upside down by the wickedly devious, yet deeply endearing, street urchins- George Harrison and Paul McCartney. (AU)
Their first glimpse at Pauls’ sudden turn of fate happens on the day of their return. They decide to stop by the hospital on their journey back from Portsmouth… George armed with a rucksack full of sand, a few seashells, a postcard, and a spliff. Richard warns him that Paul won’t be able to smoke that around the nurses, but George wants to bring it anyway - realising that perhaps Paul will appreciate marijuana more than the symbolic mementos.
He wants to go on his own, and orders Richard to join him in an hour or so, which is fine by Richard. George has a good memory, and can remember the route to Pauls’ ward without having to try and read the directions.
Only when he gets there, he realises he is not the only visitor.
When he bursts into Pauls’ room, face shining in a massive grin, and seashells clustered in his palms… Paul is not alone. He’s sat up in his bed, and is unsmiling… even when the door bursts open and he sees George standing there, he’s STILL unsmiling. It’s unnerving, And before him, stand two police officers. And their faces are so serious… so STERN… and they turn to George… the law-enforcers who he has grown up to despise, and see as enemies. Their uniforms and their postures constructed to intimidate, and the eyes that piece into George threateningly, studying his shocked and uneasy expression.
“What’s going on?” George croaks.
They don’t answer him. They turn to Paul, and one of them points to George with a long, fierce finger.
“Who the hell is this?!” He barks
And Pauls’ face…… it’s…… pale. And expressionless. And he blinks, as he views George standing in that doorway. There’s no spark… none of his usual chirpy charisma… nothing.
“I dunno.” He speaks. His voice is cold… empty. “I’ve never seen ‘im before in my life.”
And in that moment, it is like all of Georges’ blood has run cold. Because Pauls’ expression reflects every word that comes from his mouth. There’s no recognition there at all… no sign that Paul even knows of Georges’ existence… no sign that they spent every breathing hour together for the last six years of their life… nothing. There’s no mischievous glint in his eye that tells George, and George only, that he’s in on some kind of childish prank. In fact, the very eyes that watch him now seem lifeless and cold… bearing nothing familiar. And Georges’ heart sinks, and pounds, and he doesn’t know what to do… doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what’s going on here. All he knows is that if Paul is acting… it’s the best performance of dumbness he’s ever seen him do. And he’s scared. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
“What’s goin’ on?” He asks again, “Why are you talkin’ to him? He hasn’t done anything wrong. What’s happening?!”
“What’s your name, son?”
“George.”
“Hey!” Paul barks, “I told you I don’t know this guy! You’re s’posed to be talking to me!”
But the policeman ignores him. He withdraws a pad, and writes something down. “George.” He mutters, “George who?”
“H…huh?”
“What’s your surname?”
George is struck - confused. He hates policeman - HATES them. He’s run from them his whole fucking life. He doesn’t want to talk to them, doesn’t want them to talk to him. He doesn’t feel comfortable standing so close to them, when he’s tried so hard to get away all this time. More than anything, he doesn’t like them being here… in this room. And when he glances back to Paul… his face says it all. It’s not empty anymore… but fierce - warning. He’s staring at George, eyes like daggers, threatening him not to talk… but also pleading. Silently pleading with him and George hates it.
“S…Starkey.” George stammers. “George Starkey.”
The policeman writes it down. And when George glances back to his friend, Paul is no longer looking at him, but straight down at his duvet cover - unwavering. George just wants eye contact, that’s all. He wants to know what’s going on and if Pauls’ okay, and … he just wants to say hello. But Paul doesn’t look. George can’t reach him.
“How do you know this boy?!” The policeman orders.
“I…” George swallows. He doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t even want to pretend. But he has to.
“I don’t.” he mutters. “Sorry… wrong room.”
Again, he looks at Paul, and again Paul doesn’t look back. Paul glances upwards, watching the policemen… studying their reaction.
“Well you better get going then. George.” One of them growls.
And that’s it. He can’t do anything else. And his stomach drops miserably, and the seashells sit heavily inside his hands, and he can’t say anything… can’t even smile. He just has to go. He just has to LEAVE Paul there… again. Unable to do anything for him, after all Paul has done for George over the years. He doesn’t even know what’s going on in there. But he saw how pale Paul was. He saw that look in his eye. Paul’s in trouble.
And there’s nothing they can do about it.
The police had started snooping around ages ago. At first it was just stupid questions: “Who did this to you?”, “Why were you in Blue Jay Way?”. Paul answered with the basics, “I dunno who he is.”, “I was just there.” But then, the questions became fiercer, and more interrogative. “How would you get a sexually transmitted infection?”, “Where are your parents?”, “Where do you live?”. John had pre-warned him on those ones. He said “Probably from my girlfriend.”, “Mum’s dead I dunno about Dad.” And “I live with Mimi at Mendips.”
But Paul knew they were closing in on him. And he tried to ignore it. He played his guitar, made up songs. When George came to visit, he made out it was minor… just “nosing around” he said. And somehow Richard clocked on… but that didn’t matter. When the police came, he fobbed them off with tiredness or flippancy. Either worked.
But then he started getting better… and yet they wouldn’t let him leave. The nurses hated him anyway; when he was polite they thought he was being fake. They didn’t trust him, and suspected him of all sorts. And yet they wouldn’t let him leave the bed, they said he needed to stay there while the police were investigating.
And then they came.
“Hello McCartney.” He says. He sits down on the end of Pauls’ bed, which pisses him off somewhat, though he hides it. He greets the policeman with a quick smile for good-measure… and an expectant silence.
“How are you today?” The policeman asks.
“Have you found the bloke that did it to me yet?”
“Actually…” The policeman sighs, “We’ve found some other rather interesting information.”
Paul raises his eyebrows. His calm façade is nothing like the nervous heartbeat that torments and that sinks inside his body. “Oh?”
“We’ve arrested eight men today. Arrested eight men under the charges of drugs, theft, pornography…… and procuring.”
Paul says nothing. His expression unreadable, as always. It’s a trait of his that these coppers find most infuriating, and possibly does him no favours.
“Tell me.” The officer continues, “Do the names James Padget, Tucker Speed, Malcom Evans, Morgan Lewis, Derek Taylor, Mike Rosemand, Tony Barrow and Brian Epstein… mean ANYTHING to you?”
Paul swallows. His heart hammers, and he tries to push aside the startling revelation that those men… his family… are in prison. He just tries to focus on the events at hand.
“No.” he states.
“Really? All these men have been living, for the past 2-18 years, in a place called ‘The Cavern’.”
“Eighteen years?” Paul raises his eyebrows. “Blimey. You’ve taken your time finding THAT one out then, haven’t you!? If they’re pimps n’ whores and that. You probably should’ve gotten there quicker.”
The policeman glances upwards from his notes, his façade dropping and replacing with a momentary impatience as he growls, “Shut up.”
“Go on. Carry on.”
“These criminals have been living in the CAVERN, young man. The VERY Cavern, in fact, where YOUR body was found, in the night that you were attacked on October 28th. The Cavern that, as you so rightly stated, has been FILLED with pimps and whores. Now just what do you have to say about that then?!”
“Just WHAT are you implyin’?!” Paul snaps. “One of ‘em found me. And they took me there. So what!? I was unconscious, I couldn’t exactly DO anythin’ about it!!”
“So you’re saying you didn’t know of this ‘Cavern’ before the night in question?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“And you don’t know any of the men that I just stated to you?”
“No.”
“Really?” The policeman breathes dangerously. “Because THEY seem to think they know YOU very well.”
Paul freezes. His heart stops beating - everything stops moving - his blood stops pumping. He’s been betrayed. Those guys - his family - the ones who swore to him and each other to look out for one another, have tossed his name into the scrap heap. They’ve pointed the finger, shunned him in the limelight, and why? Because they blame him. They blame HIM for them getting caught. They blame HIM for their drug-stashes getting found. They blame HIM, for being stabbed, and nearly killed, and therefore blowing their cover.
Well he never chose to. He never chose for the ambulance to come. He never chose to survive. That night, he almost died three times. He almost let his head get smashed in by a baseball bat, and almost let a clear creep and paedophile take him forever to his home. He was on a mission of self-sabotage… he never CHOSE to wake from it. And while he’s glad he did, NONE of this is his fault!!
But those men think it is. And they’ve dropped him in it. Brian… him as well. The police will know everything now… all the dirty details. They’ll add up the facts, and even THEY aren’t stupid enough to get this one wrong. Paul has been revealed as the disgusting, orphaned whore that he is. And there’s nothing he can do about it.
And yet, even when George comes to visit him, the night before he takes off for Portsmouth… Paul manages to maintain the brave face, and the lie.
* * * * *
December comes, and snowflakes fall, and plaster the hospital windows in frozen ice. The coldness parades from the white walls… making Pauls’ tiny room frozen and unbearable. He’s wrapped in by the snow, and locked in by white walls. A blanket of cold that sections him off from poor, impressionable minds. John brings an extra blanket that he’s nicked off Mimi, and the nurses provide him with a hot water bottle, and this is all he has to see him through the Christmas season. That, and the nearly CONSTANT presence of police officers and psychologists and specialist doctors… all of whom ask him question after question after question until he feels mad and can bear it no longer.
On December 18th, he’s stripped of his clothes, made to stand in the centre of a frozen room, while some god forsaken medic does an examination of his body. Paul can’t even begin to think what they’re looking for - some knock to the head maybe… some sign of brain damage that could excuse him for being a queer. Whatever it is, they’re not going to find it. They’re not going to find anything other than the bruises and scars that never fade. Nothing apart from the three stitched-up knife-wounds in his belly.
But they’re forced to make these examinations. Those tramps they arrested INSIST that Paul is an underage prostitute - and a mighty fine one at that. And Paul… he continues to insist he’s not. He continues to insist that he lives with John… that he’s a normal lad. They examine his naked body for signs of his treacherous sham. They prod him and manoeuvre him, humiliate him until he feels he should just ADMIT it, and release himself of this shameful sceptical. Maybe that’s all they hope to achieve from this after all.
But he’s not going to back down. He’s not. He doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction. He doesn’t want to give those who betrayed him the satisfaction. Doesn’t want to give him who attacked him the satisfaction… or Allen. So he stands there and he takes it, as he’s examined like some fucking guinea-pig. And when he is escorted back to his bedroom, he rests knowing that he stood his ground, even if he does end up in prison for it.
* * * * *
Richard and George spend Christmas Day there. December 25th, when even the most dedicated of policemen wouldn’t spend their time chasing up some dirty prostitute and his mates. Elsie helps them to make a Christmas cake, which they take down with them and serve in a plastic tupperware box. They also manage to hijack a few crackers from the table, and some tinsel, which they all drape around their heads and the hospital ceiling. And for the main part, the day passes joyously with no talk of policemen or crime. Johns’ Aunt Mimi refuses to let him spend Christmas Day away from home, but that’s okay, they make do without him.
Paul is animated and lively as he opens his presents: Georges’ neatly wrapped-up seashells, and from both of them, a packet of cigarettes, and a pair of trainers, which Paul puts on right away. George too gets to open his; from Richard is a red blouse, a kaleidoscope, a Magic 8 Ball, a spiritual pebble-like thing (which Richard doesn’t really understand, but figured George would like anyway), and some deep-red silk underwear. George also gets a present from Elsie; some ‘My-First-Time-Reading’ books, and from Paul, a slice of chocolate fudge cake wrapped in newspaper, and Pauls self-portrait, which he’s kindly autographed. Even Richard gets a present; a beaker full of sand from George, which George has decorated the outside of with glass-paints that Elsie bought for him. The glass is now painted with swirls and clouds and a sunshine, with the sand filled to the top. A major surprise for Richard, that George put such effort into the thing, and secretly too, while Richard was at work.
Even more surprising, is his gift from Paul. It’s a book of scrap paper, tied together by shoelaces, and filled with poems and drawings, cartoon strips and limericks, collages and funny letters to presidents and suchlike. Richard can’t imagine for a second why such a thoughtful and time-consuming gift has landed inside HIS hands… and he doesn’t know what to make of it.
“Wh… is this really for me?”
“Yeah.” Paul shrugs. “I got bored.”
“Oh… well… thanks. Thanks Paul.”
He means it as well. He’s stunned… flattered. He doesn’t care when Paul refers to it as ‘rubbish’, because it’s not, it’s actually very good. The drawings are funny and the poems expert. And Richard folds it out carefully, anxious not to crease it or do any damage, because somehow… this is one of the nicest presents he’s ever gotten. And it’s from Paul McCartney. Who’d have thought?
“Paul,” George sighs, as the moonlight begins to drift upwards from its sleepy meander. “What do you rate this Christmas, out of ten?”
The two of them are slumped back against the bed headrest, George flicking through his new reading books, and Paul quietly muttering letters to him that George can’t recognise. Richard has just been sat silently on the end of the bed, saying little, but enjoying it all immensely.
“I dunno.” Paul mutters
“Better or worse than last year?”
“Well……” Paul considers. “I’ve got three holes in my stomach…”
“Hmm.”
“But I got presents and food.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So I’d say… 9 out of 10.”
George nods. “Same as last year then.”
“Yeah.”
Richard laughs inwardly. Boy, these lads really are easily pleased. But actually, he reflects, this must have been one of Richards’ favourite Christmas’s too. Sure, they’re locked inside some freezing cold hospital room, and sure, he may be deprived of his usual turkey dinner and Christmas tree. But the company here is unbeatable. And the gifts he has received from both of them, have more heart than he’s ever gotten before.
Right now, George shakes his magic 8-ball and recites, “Can George make this Christmas better than last Christmas?”
And when the answer shows up, he hands it to Paul, who reads; “My Sources Say No.”
“No!?”
“That’s what it says.”
“What SOURCES!?” George scoffs. “Balls can’t have SOURCES.”
“No, they can’t.”
“Idiot.”
“It’s only bitter, cos it’s just a ball. It doesn’t have eyes and ears and now it’s bitter about it and trying to spoil everyone else’s Christmas.”
“Yeah.”
“Shake it again, George.”
George shakes the magic 8-ball, asking “Is Paul disgustingly ugly?”, before handing it to Richard to read out the answer.
“It Is Certain." Richard reads
“HA!” George laughs joyously
“What?! Let me see that!” Paul orders, and stares angrily into the little fortune-telling present. “Agh, it doesn’t work properly!”
“Seems in perfect working order to me.” Richard sniggers
“Yeah right. Maybe it got us mixed up, Ringo.”
George giggles, pulling the ball from Pauls’ hands and asking the same question again, “Is RICHARD disgusting and ugly?”
“Ah - it says ‘yes’!” Paul cheers
“No it doesn’t!” George laughs, “It doesn’t! What does that say?”
“It says ‘yes’.”
“No! It’s too long to say ‘yes’.”
“No,” Paul argues, “That’s how you spell ‘yes’.”
“It isn’t! YOU look Ritch.”
George hands the ball across to Richard, who smirks.
“It says ‘very doubtful’.”
“AHA!” George laughs triumphantly. “I KNEW you were lying!”
“Yeah well,” Paul pouts, “Like I said, it’s broken.”
“Richard IS good looking.”
“Oh I’m sure he is George. Whatever you say.”
“Urr, I am HERE, you know, Paul.” Richard chuckles
“Oh I know Ringo, you’re not ugly, you’re just……. quirky.”
“Quirky?!”
“Yeah.” Paul smirks. “You know, you have that quality where you SHOULD be hideous but in fact, you can pull it off.”
“Oh… cheers.”
“Any time.”
“He’s joking, Ringo.” George explains, in case for whatever reason Richard has lost his sense of humour in the last few seconds.
“No it’s fine. You have a quality too, Paul.”
“Oh, do I?”
“Yeah. You know, one where you SHOULD look like a girl, and in fact - you do. But somehow, you can pull it off.”
“Oh, ha ha.”
“Any time, mate.”
The evening wears on with such similar banter, and regular intervals of calm and blissful silence, where each attends to their own new gifts. George stares down at those reading books so hard, it’s surprising he doesn’t burn holes in them, and perseveres with each word until he’s sure he’s nailed it perfectly.
“A - d…do-g… dog, s-a… sat o…on a … what is that letter?”
“M”
“M… m-at. Mat. A dog sat on a mat.”
And in all these hours they delight in one anothers company, they’re not visited by a single doctor. Only at about 7.30 are they interrupted, when a Japanese nurse barges into the room, and scores herself a very bitter, “Oh fuckin’ hell…” from Paul, who eyes her up with such uncharacteristic viciousness, even Richard can’t help feel slightly intimidated. She barks at George to get off the bed, before whisking away the Christmas Cake and demanding such food is not good for Pauls’ sensitive stomach. She even pulls the tinsel off the ceiling, muttering some ridiculous words about ‘racism’ and ‘vandalism’, which Richard can’t quite function given how perturbed he is by her sudden unwelcome appearance. She seems to bear no care whatsoever that Paul glares at her so angrily, nor the sudden tension that fills to room, nor that the cake she confiscates is in fact GEORGES’ and therefore not hers to take. And she bears little sympathy when she orders that ‘visiting time is over’, and therefore George and Richard have to go.
“It’s… but, come on, it’s Christmas!” Richard gasps
“Rules are rules. This gathering is over.” she hisses
And then she storms from the room, leaving behind her both a stunned and angry silence - that free and joyous atmosphere well and truly stinted.
“Jap tart.” Paul mutters fiercely under his breath.
“Why do we ‘ave to go now?” George mumbles, “That’s not fair.”
“We… we can come back tomorrow, Paul. If you want.”
“Mm. If you like. John’ll be here tomorrow, so…”
“We’ll come back too.” Richard decides adamantly. “Early. Won’t we George?”
George doesn’t answer, but crawls back to the bed and wraps his arms warmly around his old friends shoulders, squeezing with the intense neediness of he who is missing Paul so much. It’s still hard for him. It’s been months, and George has been adapting well, but Richard knows it won’t ever be truly right without Paul there.
“Guess what, Georgie?” Paul whispers softly
“Hm?”
“I got kissed on the lips, you know.”
George blinks, pulling away from the embrace and eyes locking questioningly onto Pauls’ as he cries, “By who?!”
Paul rolls his eyes. “Who’d you think!?”
“John?”
“Yeah.”
“Really??”
“Yeah.”
“Are you serious, though??"
"YES!"
Richard watches, part confused and part mesmerised by the way they view a simple kiss on the lips as gossip and awe-worthy. These boys, with more sexual experience than Richard would have thought humanly possible, still find such simple gestures so news-worthy… and it’s almost beautiful, if not sad.
“And what?” George asks, “Did you like it?”
“Yeah. It was good, you know. You were right - for once.”
“Yeah.” George nods excitedly, and adds, “Paul! You could live with John, then! You could live with ‘im… when you come out of here!”
But a hard, heavy silence falls down after his words.
Richard shuffles uncomfortably in the doorway, watching as Pauls’ eyes waver slightly, and then fix themselves silently onto Georges’. He watches as Paul, without words, dismisses that beautiful idea, and inflicts George with the truth. The truth that George has known deep down really, since the police first started sniffing around, but never admitted to himself. The truth that was too unfair to bear, and so George hid away from himself, pretending he thought all was fine, until he really believed that. But that's not true, and George knows it. Paul won’t be leaving this hospital a free man. And now, with this heavy, piecing eye contact, there’s no way of denying it to himself any longer.
George swallows. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t look upset. He’s just blank, and understanding… resigning, as he falls against Pauls’ shoulder again.
“Do they know about the orphanage?” he croaks
Paul shakes his head solemnly. “No.”
And George nods, with equal graveness. “That’s good.”
Those are the only words exchanged on the matter. No more needs to be said after that. No more wants to be said, and no more can be said. And Richard and George have to leave. It’s Christmas Day, and Richards’ heart aches sadly as they leave Paul sitting alone in this blank and frozen room… with the tinsel still wrapped around his mop of hair. It’s unfair to leave him so lonely on this day, but ‘rules are rules’. Paul is smiling and expressing charm as he waves them off, which really just makes it all feel that much worse. Richard knows that he and George will go home together, have dinner together, sit by the fire and make love together, like should be done on this festive occasion. Paul will sit alone, and hated by all the doctors that surround him, and just continue to count the hours till his destiny.
But they’ll come back tomorrow. Them, and John, who has provided with Paul with a new, fresh excitement, and sense of being wanted… which must have been so sorely missing of late. And, of course, a treasured kiss on the lips. Finally.
And on December 26th, John turns up just on time, as he always does when visiting Paul. He bears presents like guitar picks, records and a record player.
But he never gets to hand them over.
He’s not allowed to.
As soon as he arrives, a police drags him in for questioning.
The FINAL interview. The final one to secure Paul’s fate.