The Space Between Us All, part 1
This story uses a fictional incident to explore how the Beatles and the culture at that time might have responded. This novel-length work pursues my favorite type of Beatles fanfic: a possible alternative history. It also gives me an excuse to read everything I can about the band, which is always fun. :)
Content warning: Please be aware that this story contains elements that might be disturbing for some readers, including violence and distressing situations for the characters. Bad language is kept to a reasonable minimum, so my chief caution to readers concerns how they react to the notion of any of the Beatles being injured. I do not consider this an "Adult Concepts" work according to LJ's definition, but parents, please review the material in advance to determine if you feel it is suitable for very young children. Thank you.
Title: The Space Between Us All
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence and occasional strong language
Disclaimer: The events described in this story are purely imaginary. The real people mentioned in this story never did or said these things. The author intends no disrespect by using their names or likenesses.
Summary: A zealot attacks the Beatles in Memphis, Tennessee during their 1966 tour.
Notes: I have depopulated the Beatles' entourage for the purposes of this story. Therefore, we only glimpse a portion of their regular touring group. This included artists from the opening acts, technicians, assistants, and various deejays and reporters who usually traveled along for a concert or two before the Beatles landed in their town. I tried to confine the action to personalities the reader was more likely to know and care about. I have done my best to be accurate regarding dates, historical incidents, quotes, etc. In addition to the indispensable The Beatles Diary by Barry Miles, I highly recommend Larry Kane's Ticket To Ride and the thoroughly documented The Beatles In Cleveland by Dave Schwensen. For specifics about the Memphis concert, I relied heavily upon the fans' reports recorded here: http://beatlenews.blogspot.com/2006_08_01_archive.html
Thank you 749_penny_lane and hawkmoth for acting as beta readers for this evolving tale.
Copyright © 2008 / May not be reproduced without permission
George
"We'll be in and out in a day,
boys," Brian Epstein told his charges as their private jet set down at the
Memphis airport. "We'll be in Cincinnati just past midnight."
None of them had the energy to
respond. The Beatles merely stared gloomily out the windows, hoping to get
through what was probably the most worrying stop on their North American
itinerary.
The whole 1966 tour had been a
mixture of drag and disaster, to George's mind. The controversy that seemed to
dog them this year added an edge of hostility to a situation that was tense
enough to begin with-the American fans being as aggressive as they were and the
usual mania as wearing as ever. From George's vantage point, he couldn't see
any sign of The Beatles' supposedly sagging popularity. Apparently John's
recent remarks about religion were mostly a publicity stunt set up by certain
radio stations, just as George had suspected. It hadn't seemed to affect the
box office-or so Eppy had told him. All George ever saw on tour anyway was a series
of cars and rooms, most evenings culminating in a featureless stadium where he
once again played the same songs that he'd already played too many times. Night
after night he stared into the dark, where an endless shriek and the
ever-present popping of flashbulbs were often the only signs of an audience who
was held well at bay by the ever-present crash barriers.
Even so, he was slightly nervous to
be playing Memphis, as were the others. This was their only stop this year in
the so-called "Deep South", and it was here that they expected the
religious reaction to be the most severe. The demand for tickets had been such
that they had added an afternoon performance to their originally scheduled
evening show. The fans seemed happy to see them, but not everyone in town
shared their enthusiasm.
After being escorted directly to the
venue under guard, a new and peculiarly round-shaped building called the
Mid-South Coliseum, they gave their usual press conference. Because the
Fundamentalists had raised such a fuss, this one was well attended. Among the
same repetitive fare came yet more requests for John to clarify his now famous
"Jesus" statement. John, as usual when pressed, became more defiant
than ever. He even took a swing at the PM at one point, snarling into the
camera, "We've all got our rights, you know... Harold."
During the press session, they
learned from the local reporters that some bloke had announced on behalf of the
city that "The Beatles are not welcome in Memphis". The Ku Klux Klan
was now threatening to take action not only against John, but everyone in the
band. The Beatles’ own road managers, Neil and Mal, depressed them further by
reporting that some preacher had got up a mass "Jesus" rally at a
nearby auditorium to protest their appearance. Also according to Mal, several
costumed members of the KKK were outside the coliseum at this moment, picketing
the Beatles' performance. Dozens of citizens were lending them their vocal
support.
"We've set up decoy cars to
fool the protesters when we leave," Mal reassured them. "We'll be all
right."
But Mal's soothing words didn't
sound so convincing when George could hear Brian on the telephone in the next
room, arranging for yet more police protection. George didn't speak of his
apprehension to the others; what would have been the point? John was smoking up
a storm and pacing like a caged animal, hollow-eyed and tense. Paul was
unusually quiet, polishing his bass with a concentration that rebuffed any
conversation. Ringo sat silently on a padded chair, blowing out smoke from an
endless stream of cigarettes, an unread comic book dangling from his fingers
and his expression more mournful than ever.
Despite the nerve-wracking
atmosphere, the afternoon show came off better than George expected. The
Memphis Coliseum turned out to be an improvement over their recent venues; at
least it had a roof. With 10,000 screaming fans, however, the ceiling just
captured the seagull-like wails of the girls and bounced them back, washing
over the band in strident waves. The promoters had sold the seats on the floor
of the arena, so the audience was actually quite close. The fans were held back
by a chain-link fence staffed with a row of bored, paternal-looking policemen.
While George normally preferred playing to a visible audience to a sea of
grass, the fans' proximity informed him that not all the protesters were
outside. A few concertgoers tossed rubbish onstage to make the point (in case
any of them could have missed it) that the Beatles were in enemy territory.
After a break, they changed into
their dark-green suits for the evening performance. The show was slightly
delayed due to the police conducting yet another bomb search of the building, a
precaution that didn't exactly help to settle the nerves. The 8:30 show was a sellout,
so George could expect at least 12,000 fans to add their screams to the
commotion. The audience was in good spirits, though, when the band finally hit
the stage.
The elevated stage was at one end of
the huge arena, with people quite close in the balcony behind them. Ringo was
near the rear wall. His drum riser was set atop the portable stage at the back,
so tonight he was only about two feet higher than the rest of the band. The
guitarists’ amps, perched on tall speakers, bracketed him on either side. The
setup made him more difficult to see-but that was probably to his liking, this
time. The band was businesslike about the final gig; thirty more minutes, and
they could put this town and its antagonism behind them.
Midway through the third number-George's
only self-authored song in the show-someone exploded a firecracker in one of
the balconies. The light flashed bright in the darkness, and dozens of people
near it screamed in surprise. George jumped at the boom, and then looked
quickly round at the others-to find them doing the same thing. But everyone was
still standing, so they just carried on. They were halfway through the set now,
their hair soaked and their clothes sticking to their bodies. It was a warm
evening, but George knew at least some of that sweat was from nerves, not
temperature.
They slogged their way through
"I Feel Fine". John stood slightly forward of the rest of them, on
the right as usual, bobbing in place as he delivered his virtually
indistinguishable vocal to the cheering mob. Behind them, Ringo doggedly
pounded out the beat. The pulse of the bass drum penetrated the noise, feebly
but enough to keep the rest of them together. George hung back, alert for his
next turn at backing vocal, counting the minutes until the concert would be
over.
A sudden clatter behind him made him
turn. He caught a glimpse of Ringo pitching backward off his stool over the
edge of the high riser. One instant he hung there, head tipped back and arms
extended. Then he hit the curtain that walled off the stage along the back,
disappearing into its folds. The whole section collapsed and fell into the
dark, swallowing Ringo with it. In front of the newly formed void, Ringo’s
cymbals tilted crazily around the vacant drum set.
Stunned, George’s gaze moved to
Paul. His bandmate's eyes were huge. Paul was already lifting the little Hofner
bass off his shoulder, half-turned as if prepared to run. Though the ongoing
din, he mouthed, "Ringo!" Bass in hand, he charged off the
back of the stage and over the riser, leaping down into the gap behind the
tottering drum kit.
George's stomach gave a lurch, even
as he released the strap of his guitar, preparing to flee. The thing they had
most feared had happened. Ringo had been shot-what else could have made him
fall backward like that to an eight-foot drop? They could easily have missed
the sound of a shot in this noise. Yet, why would a sniper go after Ringo, when
it was John who was the focus of their hatred?
On the thought, George looked
towards their unacknowledged leader. John was still standing alone at his mic,
strumming and facing the crowd. Even as George swung down his guitar and took a
step towards him, to warn him, John glanced over his shoulder. Despite the
noise in the room, he could not have failed to miss the fact that the rest of
the band suddenly had stopped playing.
Their eyes met. George saw him take
in the situation at once: Paul gone, Ringo gone, the gap in the curtain, George
with his guitar off coming in his direction. John started to turn, lifting his
guitar as if to sling it over his shoulder.
The next moment John was jerked off
his feet, punched backwards by an unseen force. George watched in horror as
John slid on his back towards his amplifier, arms flung wide.
George gaped. John had been shot,
right in front of his eyes. Time slowed down; John's slide towards the amp took
place in seeming slow-motion-even the sound was slow, the now fear-filled
shrieks of the fans turning into a distant mewling, distorted and dim.
George was at John's side with no
clear memory of how he'd got there. John's strap was off and his guitar flung
aside in one motion. George could see a spot of blood in the center of John's
chest. It looked as if John had been shot in the heart, but he couldn't have
been, could he? There wasn't enough blood. There was only a tiny splotch
staining his damp yellow shirt, just above the top button of his jacket. George
caught John under the shoulders and started to drag him towards the space
beside the rightmost amps, the closest spot to jump off the stage and get
behind cover.
He actually heard the next shot.
Between the now frantic yells of the fans, he caught the muffled report of a
rifle. Something whizzed past his face close enough for him to feel the breeze.
It hit the side of John's amp, the impact spraying shrapnel of wood and
plastic. George cried out as particles burned into the side of his face, but he
didn't let go. John wasn't that heavy, and he slid easily across the polished
wooden floor.
Someone picked that moment to bring
up the houselights. In the improved illumination, George could see they were
almost to the edge of the stage. He could drop down between the stage and the
curtain. He would make it.
The next instant his right leg went
out from under him. George found himself briefly airborne before he crashed
down to the stage chest-first. The next moment he was writhing in agony. He'd
been got in the leg, partway down his inner thigh. He felt blood gushing from
the wound as he seized it in an instinctive reaction. He went light-headed,
feeling hot and cold and sick at the same time, as if he had fever. For a
second the world pulsed white and sound went away. Then it came back, but
everything was fainter than it had been before, and a roar filled his ears.
Another crack and a spatter of wood
against his lips recalled him to his situation. He looked up, hands still
clasped tight about his leg, left cheek resting against the stage. There was a
jagged hole in the floor about eight inches in front of him, doubtless a pockmark
from another bullet. They were still under fire. John lay beside him,
lengthwise along the stage in front of the last amp, while George's head faced
the audience. John lay where George had dropped him, his head nearly touching
George's middle. The bullet had struck midway between them.
George's vision was rapidly going
white. He felt cold and ill, but his duty was clear. As long as they lay
side-by-side like this, the gunman could pick off both of them at his leisure.
There was no question of George leaving John; John was alive, George knew he
was. But George was conscious and John was not.
George wrenched his hands away from
the wound. He felt so terribly weak. He dragged himself forward, his
blood-slobbered hands slipping on the slick wooden stage. One foot, two feet.
He pulled himself in front of John, so John's head and chest were blocked by
George's body. Then he crawled partway onto John, draping himself across John's
chest, covering his own head with his gore-smeared arms.
John's head moved slightly, as if he
were coming round; that was a relief. Everything grew more remote. Sound faded,
and George could feel nothing beyond John's chest rising and falling with his
breath, and a sense of gripping cold. Somewhere close at hand, Paul was
screaming. It was strangely reassuring to George, to know that Paul was unhurt.
That wasn't a scream of pain, it was a worried scream; he seemed to be calling
for them. So Paul was okay and John would be okay. He hoped Ringo was all
right, but there was nothing more he could do. George had done his best, and he
had to be content with that.
Everything faded to white.
Continued in Part 2.
The Beatles performing at the evening show in Memphis, Tennessee, August 19, 1966.
For a complete list of entries, see the The Space Between Us All - chapter listing.
Content warning: Please be aware that this story contains elements that might be disturbing for some readers, including violence and distressing situations for the characters. Bad language is kept to a reasonable minimum, so my chief caution to readers concerns how they react to the notion of any of the Beatles being injured. I do not consider this an "Adult Concepts" work according to LJ's definition, but parents, please review the material in advance to determine if you feel it is suitable for very young children. Thank you.
Title: The Space Between Us All
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence and occasional strong language
Disclaimer: The events described in this story are purely imaginary. The real people mentioned in this story never did or said these things. The author intends no disrespect by using their names or likenesses.
Summary: A zealot attacks the Beatles in Memphis, Tennessee during their 1966 tour.
Notes: I have depopulated the Beatles' entourage for the purposes of this story. Therefore, we only glimpse a portion of their regular touring group. This included artists from the opening acts, technicians, assistants, and various deejays and reporters who usually traveled along for a concert or two before the Beatles landed in their town. I tried to confine the action to personalities the reader was more likely to know and care about. I have done my best to be accurate regarding dates, historical incidents, quotes, etc. In addition to the indispensable The Beatles Diary by Barry Miles, I highly recommend Larry Kane's Ticket To Ride and the thoroughly documented The Beatles In Cleveland by Dave Schwensen. For specifics about the Memphis concert, I relied heavily upon the fans' reports recorded here: http://beatlenews.blogspot.com/2006_08_01_archive.html
Thank you 749_penny_lane and hawkmoth for acting as beta readers for this evolving tale.
Copyright © 2008 / May not be reproduced without permission
George
"We'll be in and out in a day,
boys," Brian Epstein told his charges as their private jet set down at the
Memphis airport. "We'll be in Cincinnati just past midnight."
None of them had the energy to
respond. The Beatles merely stared gloomily out the windows, hoping to get
through what was probably the most worrying stop on their North American
itinerary.
The whole 1966 tour had been a
mixture of drag and disaster, to George's mind. The controversy that seemed to
dog them this year added an edge of hostility to a situation that was tense
enough to begin with-the American fans being as aggressive as they were and the
usual mania as wearing as ever. From George's vantage point, he couldn't see
any sign of The Beatles' supposedly sagging popularity. Apparently John's
recent remarks about religion were mostly a publicity stunt set up by certain
radio stations, just as George had suspected. It hadn't seemed to affect the
box office-or so Eppy had told him. All George ever saw on tour anyway was a series
of cars and rooms, most evenings culminating in a featureless stadium where he
once again played the same songs that he'd already played too many times. Night
after night he stared into the dark, where an endless shriek and the
ever-present popping of flashbulbs were often the only signs of an audience who
was held well at bay by the ever-present crash barriers.
Even so, he was slightly nervous to
be playing Memphis, as were the others. This was their only stop this year in
the so-called "Deep South", and it was here that they expected the
religious reaction to be the most severe. The demand for tickets had been such
that they had added an afternoon performance to their originally scheduled
evening show. The fans seemed happy to see them, but not everyone in town
shared their enthusiasm.
After being escorted directly to the
venue under guard, a new and peculiarly round-shaped building called the
Mid-South Coliseum, they gave their usual press conference. Because the
Fundamentalists had raised such a fuss, this one was well attended. Among the
same repetitive fare came yet more requests for John to clarify his now famous
"Jesus" statement. John, as usual when pressed, became more defiant
than ever. He even took a swing at the PM at one point, snarling into the
camera, "We've all got our rights, you know... Harold."
During the press session, they
learned from the local reporters that some bloke had announced on behalf of the
city that "The Beatles are not welcome in Memphis". The Ku Klux Klan
was now threatening to take action not only against John, but everyone in the
band. The Beatles’ own road managers, Neil and Mal, depressed them further by
reporting that some preacher had got up a mass "Jesus" rally at a
nearby auditorium to protest their appearance. Also according to Mal, several
costumed members of the KKK were outside the coliseum at this moment, picketing
the Beatles' performance. Dozens of citizens were lending them their vocal
support.
"We've set up decoy cars to
fool the protesters when we leave," Mal reassured them. "We'll be all
right."
But Mal's soothing words didn't
sound so convincing when George could hear Brian on the telephone in the next
room, arranging for yet more police protection. George didn't speak of his
apprehension to the others; what would have been the point? John was smoking up
a storm and pacing like a caged animal, hollow-eyed and tense. Paul was
unusually quiet, polishing his bass with a concentration that rebuffed any
conversation. Ringo sat silently on a padded chair, blowing out smoke from an
endless stream of cigarettes, an unread comic book dangling from his fingers
and his expression more mournful than ever.
Despite the nerve-wracking
atmosphere, the afternoon show came off better than George expected. The
Memphis Coliseum turned out to be an improvement over their recent venues; at
least it had a roof. With 10,000 screaming fans, however, the ceiling just
captured the seagull-like wails of the girls and bounced them back, washing
over the band in strident waves. The promoters had sold the seats on the floor
of the arena, so the audience was actually quite close. The fans were held back
by a chain-link fence staffed with a row of bored, paternal-looking policemen.
While George normally preferred playing to a visible audience to a sea of
grass, the fans' proximity informed him that not all the protesters were
outside. A few concertgoers tossed rubbish onstage to make the point (in case
any of them could have missed it) that the Beatles were in enemy territory.
After a break, they changed into
their dark-green suits for the evening performance. The show was slightly
delayed due to the police conducting yet another bomb search of the building, a
precaution that didn't exactly help to settle the nerves. The 8:30 show was a sellout,
so George could expect at least 12,000 fans to add their screams to the
commotion. The audience was in good spirits, though, when the band finally hit
the stage.
The elevated stage was at one end of
the huge arena, with people quite close in the balcony behind them. Ringo was
near the rear wall. His drum riser was set atop the portable stage at the back,
so tonight he was only about two feet higher than the rest of the band. The
guitarists’ amps, perched on tall speakers, bracketed him on either side. The
setup made him more difficult to see-but that was probably to his liking, this
time. The band was businesslike about the final gig; thirty more minutes, and
they could put this town and its antagonism behind them.
Midway through the third number-George's
only self-authored song in the show-someone exploded a firecracker in one of
the balconies. The light flashed bright in the darkness, and dozens of people
near it screamed in surprise. George jumped at the boom, and then looked
quickly round at the others-to find them doing the same thing. But everyone was
still standing, so they just carried on. They were halfway through the set now,
their hair soaked and their clothes sticking to their bodies. It was a warm
evening, but George knew at least some of that sweat was from nerves, not
temperature.
They slogged their way through
"I Feel Fine". John stood slightly forward of the rest of them, on
the right as usual, bobbing in place as he delivered his virtually
indistinguishable vocal to the cheering mob. Behind them, Ringo doggedly
pounded out the beat. The pulse of the bass drum penetrated the noise, feebly
but enough to keep the rest of them together. George hung back, alert for his
next turn at backing vocal, counting the minutes until the concert would be
over.
A sudden clatter behind him made him
turn. He caught a glimpse of Ringo pitching backward off his stool over the
edge of the high riser. One instant he hung there, head tipped back and arms
extended. Then he hit the curtain that walled off the stage along the back,
disappearing into its folds. The whole section collapsed and fell into the
dark, swallowing Ringo with it. In front of the newly formed void, Ringo’s
cymbals tilted crazily around the vacant drum set.
Stunned, George’s gaze moved to
Paul. His bandmate's eyes were huge. Paul was already lifting the little Hofner
bass off his shoulder, half-turned as if prepared to run. Though the ongoing
din, he mouthed, "Ringo!" Bass in hand, he charged off the
back of the stage and over the riser, leaping down into the gap behind the
tottering drum kit.
George's stomach gave a lurch, even
as he released the strap of his guitar, preparing to flee. The thing they had
most feared had happened. Ringo had been shot-what else could have made him
fall backward like that to an eight-foot drop? They could easily have missed
the sound of a shot in this noise. Yet, why would a sniper go after Ringo, when
it was John who was the focus of their hatred?
On the thought, George looked
towards their unacknowledged leader. John was still standing alone at his mic,
strumming and facing the crowd. Even as George swung down his guitar and took a
step towards him, to warn him, John glanced over his shoulder. Despite the
noise in the room, he could not have failed to miss the fact that the rest of
the band suddenly had stopped playing.
Their eyes met. George saw him take
in the situation at once: Paul gone, Ringo gone, the gap in the curtain, George
with his guitar off coming in his direction. John started to turn, lifting his
guitar as if to sling it over his shoulder.
The next moment John was jerked off
his feet, punched backwards by an unseen force. George watched in horror as
John slid on his back towards his amplifier, arms flung wide.
George gaped. John had been shot,
right in front of his eyes. Time slowed down; John's slide towards the amp took
place in seeming slow-motion-even the sound was slow, the now fear-filled
shrieks of the fans turning into a distant mewling, distorted and dim.
George was at John's side with no
clear memory of how he'd got there. John's strap was off and his guitar flung
aside in one motion. George could see a spot of blood in the center of John's
chest. It looked as if John had been shot in the heart, but he couldn't have
been, could he? There wasn't enough blood. There was only a tiny splotch
staining his damp yellow shirt, just above the top button of his jacket. George
caught John under the shoulders and started to drag him towards the space
beside the rightmost amps, the closest spot to jump off the stage and get
behind cover.
He actually heard the next shot.
Between the now frantic yells of the fans, he caught the muffled report of a
rifle. Something whizzed past his face close enough for him to feel the breeze.
It hit the side of John's amp, the impact spraying shrapnel of wood and
plastic. George cried out as particles burned into the side of his face, but he
didn't let go. John wasn't that heavy, and he slid easily across the polished
wooden floor.
Someone picked that moment to bring
up the houselights. In the improved illumination, George could see they were
almost to the edge of the stage. He could drop down between the stage and the
curtain. He would make it.
The next instant his right leg went
out from under him. George found himself briefly airborne before he crashed
down to the stage chest-first. The next moment he was writhing in agony. He'd
been got in the leg, partway down his inner thigh. He felt blood gushing from
the wound as he seized it in an instinctive reaction. He went light-headed,
feeling hot and cold and sick at the same time, as if he had fever. For a
second the world pulsed white and sound went away. Then it came back, but
everything was fainter than it had been before, and a roar filled his ears.
Another crack and a spatter of wood
against his lips recalled him to his situation. He looked up, hands still
clasped tight about his leg, left cheek resting against the stage. There was a
jagged hole in the floor about eight inches in front of him, doubtless a pockmark
from another bullet. They were still under fire. John lay beside him,
lengthwise along the stage in front of the last amp, while George's head faced
the audience. John lay where George had dropped him, his head nearly touching
George's middle. The bullet had struck midway between them.
George's vision was rapidly going
white. He felt cold and ill, but his duty was clear. As long as they lay
side-by-side like this, the gunman could pick off both of them at his leisure.
There was no question of George leaving John; John was alive, George knew he
was. But George was conscious and John was not.
George wrenched his hands away from
the wound. He felt so terribly weak. He dragged himself forward, his
blood-slobbered hands slipping on the slick wooden stage. One foot, two feet.
He pulled himself in front of John, so John's head and chest were blocked by
George's body. Then he crawled partway onto John, draping himself across John's
chest, covering his own head with his gore-smeared arms.
John's head moved slightly, as if he
were coming round; that was a relief. Everything grew more remote. Sound faded,
and George could feel nothing beyond John's chest rising and falling with his
breath, and a sense of gripping cold. Somewhere close at hand, Paul was
screaming. It was strangely reassuring to George, to know that Paul was unhurt.
That wasn't a scream of pain, it was a worried scream; he seemed to be calling
for them. So Paul was okay and John would be okay. He hoped Ringo was all
right, but there was nothing more he could do. George had done his best, and he
had to be content with that.
Everything faded to white.
Continued in Part 2.
The Beatles performing at the evening show in Memphis, Tennessee, August 19, 1966.
For a complete list of entries, see the The Space Between Us All - chapter listing.