Pandemic
Title: Pandemic (Chapter 47)
Time/Location: July 1965
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo. With Paul/Ringo and Paul/George here.
Warnings: More breakup of the boys, and Ringo's paranoia.
Previous Parts: HERE!
Summary: It's 1965, and a terrible virus is spreading. Those who get it turn violent, dangerous and even homicidal. Only trouble is, it's impossible to know who has the virus and who doesn't. So who can you trust?
That love again, the powerful bond that he shared between these boys, who were his brothers, and who he loved like mad
Authors Note: Just realised I only have 3 weeks to finish this and the Dark Horse. I hope I manage it, man!
Authors Note 2: Not proof-read yet. So bear with me if it sucks.
Ringo stirred awake to the sounds of hushed, soft voices. His back ached, and his skin shivered with cold from falling asleep in the back of the truck. The three hadn’t moved from their spot there; he and George had fallen into slumber, each at Pauls’ side, with all limbs and heads pressed close together in comfort. Paul hadn’t woken up, until now. And Ringos’ insides stirred in blissful relief to hear his voice again.
Only it wasn’t the usual early-morning whistle-like chime that Paul usually graced his voice with. The voices sounded tired, and both of them rasped in illness. Paul was doing most of the speaking, and George not so much. Not that that is so unusual; they’d all made good use of Georges’ listening skills, as their very own confidents, and Paul was no exception. But upon hearing the words, Ringo stopped himself from stirring. Instead he remained eyes-closed, feeling that perhaps the words Paul was uttering might not be spoken for an audience.
“I just… you know, like… before all this started I never thought of… that we were that serious or anythin’. Cos you know… YOU know… it’s a bit queer, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“But then like… you know, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? All that. Like, it’s pointless sayin’ you can ONLY be with girls and that. An’, I don’t really mind… that stuff. I just… I never told him that. I never said… cos I do love ‘im.”
“Yeah.”
“But you know he gets all like… insecure. He probably didn’t know that. He was like ‘oh, we’re not gonna be together anymore’. That’s what he said, you know, after all the stuff in the house. And then we had that fight and now he’s fucking gone and he’s jus’… he’s such a bastard.”
“Yeah, but he’s infected.”
“So?! He should’ve TOLD us. You know, if that bloody happens, then you at least let your best friends say goodbye to you! You don’t jus’ take off, man, that’s fucking selfish. It’s just decency to TELL us where he’s goin’. He has no common decency. Cos now we’re just sat ‘ere… and YOU miss him…”
“…yeah…”
“…so does Ritch. I mean, even if he was angry at me, he could’ve at least said goodbye to you two, couldn’t he? He’s such a bastard, George, he’s the biggest bastard. I dunno what he thinks he’s playin’ at, you know, when we need him here.”
“Hmm.”
“And if he doesn’t think I need ‘im…… you know, I shouldn’t HAVE to say it. I shouldn’t have to bloody spell it out to ‘im, I mean, I didn’t need to spell it out to YOU. Cos you actually pay attention. He’s jus’ too… he’s just…. He’s such a bastard.”
“I dunno, I think we’ll still find ‘im.”
“What, and then he’ll kill us all?”
“No, he won’t kill us all. He’ll only kill me and you, and Ringo will just get infected.”
Paul laughed. It was weak and tainted, and yet it still had glimpses of that spirited childishness Paul usually possessed in his giggle. Just like at that moment in time, Georges’ grin still spread across his whole facial features, and although his eyes held sadness, loss and tiredness, those old signs of wicked humour still shone through. There was still life in them yet.
“I told you you loved him.” George pointed out lightly.
“Yeah, I never argued with you.”
“Still. I said it first.”
“Hmm. Yeah.”
Paul slumped backwards, laying across his back with his thumbnail clenched tightly between his teeth. The two were silent for a moment, both lost in thought. Lost inside the gloomy atmosphere of the unknown. Should they keep looking for John? Should they keep moving towards the girls in Weybridge? They knew where Ringo needed to be; he needed to be with Maureen, seven-months-pregnant. And at the same time there was that looming fear of the approaching infected. How many sane people were there left? And how long could they keep going without being interrupted? There were no answers to any of these questions. And nobody would address them out loud. All they knew was that they had to keep going… they had to survive.
Ringo took advantage of the momentary silence to proclaim himself awake.
“Mornin’ fellas.” He mumbled
“Ringo, you’re driving.”
“Oh. Nice to see you too Paul.”
“Yeah. You’re drivin’.”
“Okay.” Ringo nodded. And then he swallowed, with every fibre of his body screaming at him not to ask the following question… and yet he had to. “Where… where am I driving to? I mean… what are we doing?”
The truck was filled with an uncomfortable silence. More than anything, all three of them wanted to look for John. But he was infected. He was gone. And to find him would do nothing but put them in danger, and prolong the process of getting home. And they needed to get home. They really did. They were so tired, so ill, so emotionally exhausted, physically hurt, mentally scarred. They didn’t know the welfare of their girlfriends… of John and Ringos’ kids. It had been over a month since George sat in the back of that ambulance, BEGGING to go home. He hadn’t said anything since, and yet it was still there, still powerful. Weeks…months of hiding in woods, and factories… and that God forsaken house that went from sanctuary to living hell. All they wanted was to be clean, warm… in familiar, safe surroundings.
But to do that without John? Ringo didn’t know if that was something he could stomach.
“Do what you want.” Paul muttered, with his voice tingling sourly off the walls. “Go to your wife, man.”
“Yeah, but Paul…”
“Look, she needs you. What if they all turn into lesbians over there, and start doing each other?! C’mon lets just go home.”
“Are…… are you sure?”
Paul shrugged, and turned dismissively. He’d said what he needed to say. And when Ringo caught eye with George, the youngest member of their entourage looked just as helpless… he too was speechless. So Ringo swallowed, hard. He didn’t want to make this decision, he just didn’t. He couldn’t bear to drive away, knowing that he’d left his brother, John, behind somewhere.
But he swore to himself last night that he’d watch out for them both. And he was a father now; he had a duty to his unborn baby; that's how it worked!
So he took a deep breath, and tried to evaporate all the overwhelming guilt and depression that submerged his body.
He started the engine, and listened with drooping heart as the truck revved into movement.
And the next eight hours of driving, was a living hell.
From here, they could walk to their houses in around five hours, so long as they took the main roads. And yet, in their truck and under their circumstances, their journey was destined to take twelve hours at least, down the back roads - and that was if they were undisturbed.
For ages, the truck was just enveloped in an accountable and grieving silence. And it was torture. Having nobody speak just emphasised their isolation… it just emphasised Johns’ plaguing absence. And when there wasn’t silence, it was because Paul and George had found something to gripe each other about. It seemed every time Ringo turned round he was entering different universes. Sometimes they’d be asleep, resting on each others shoulders in the unbreakable united bond and familiarity that came from a decade long friendship and such extremity of their circumstances. The sight of them sleeping like that would warm any heart. But the next time he turned there would be petty jibes, and “look, can you just STOP going on!?”
“I’m only trying to help!”
“Yeah, but you saying that is making it more painful!”
“Well fine, I’ll shut my mouth then!”
“Oh, finally!”
“Jesus Christ, you don’t need to be so moody.”
“Well you’re pissing me off.”
“Well YOU’RE pissing ME off!”
And all of this choreographed to rolling eyes, and irritable tuts and exasperated sighs, usually over-dramatised for good measure. For fuck sake, Ringo couldn’t take this shit. He preferred the silences. And then he’d turn around again and they’d be in the middle of some intimate conversation or other, and the drummer didn't know whether he was coming or going… whether he was fluctuating between heaven and hell, or between past and present. All he knew was they needed to get home.
Following their next argument, George moved into the front seat with Ringo.
“How are you?” Ringo asked softly, with eyes trailing over Georges’ bruised neck, the worn-out and dirty face, the long scraggly hair.
“I’m good.” is all George muttered shortly in return. He raised his bandaged fingers, and trailed them softly across the dashboard, with eyes glazed over as he studied his broken remains.
“Does it hurt? That?”
George shrugged. “A bit. Them pills help.”
“Yeah.”
“They’re running out.”
A silence. Ringo didn't know what to say to that. It was a miracle they’d managed to get the pills in the first place, let alone hold onto them for so long. It was a miracle that Keith bloke had managed to properly bandage and work on Georges’ ankle… to keep him conscious and stable… even if he had turned out to be a psychopath after that.
“D’you think I’ll be able to play guitar again?”
“Yeah. Course.”
“Hmm.” George bought his fingers up, holding them close before his eyes, studying the bandaged mess doubtfully. Ringo didn't even want to watch him. He didn't want to see anymore of the diabolical aftermath of those mens actions. He didn't want to see Paul breakdown, John get infected and he didn't want to see George forever impaired by their sick, sick games. If he thought about it any more then he’d be inclined to turn this truck around and kill those fuckers with his bare hands… for this and everything else they did to his brothers.
But the impact of those mens actions, was about to take a turn for the worse.
Because after the eight hours of driving, Ringo found Paul leaning forward into the drivers seat, and his voice raised high with emotion and desperation.
“Ringo, stop the car, I’m gettin’ out.”
“Hu…Huh?? What?!”
“I need to go. Stop, stop the car.”
“Wait… Paul……… WHAT??”
“I need to find John - I’m sorry.”
“Paul, NO!” George cried in frustration. “You’re not gonna find ‘im if you’re walking, you’ll just get killed!”
“No, but I have to try, I can’t just LEAVE!”
“Paul… whoa, whoa, whoa!!!” Ringo cried out in panic as Pauls’ hands reached for the door handle, “Jesus, I’m stopping, I’m stopping!! Fuck!”
“Paul, what the hell is WRONG with you?!”
“I jus’ need to go, George… Ringo STOP!”
“I’m finding somewhere to stop!! Just GIVE ME A SECOND!”
“Just pull over! There’s nobody around!”
“No, don’t pull over Rings; he’s being stupid!”
“George, I’m not being stupid, I’ve been thinkin’ about it.”
“So you’re gonna go hunt down someone who might kill you?? An’ he could be anywhere in London!”
“Yeah but I have to try……. RINGO, for fuck sake!!”
“I’m STOPPING!”
The truck reared into the shaded corner of the street, protected only by the shadow of an oak tree, and the fact they hadn’t seen a living soul in hours.
“Paul, really, this is crazy.” Ringo muttered anxiously.
“You were gonna do it yesterday.”
“Yeah, but I came back, because it’s CRAZY! We need to stay together. We need to get back to the girls.”
“Yeah!”
“No.” Paul shook his head adamantly. “Jane’s not gonna be there. C’mon, don’t be thick. You KNOW she’s not. She was in London, Rings, and everyone in London is dead or diseased.”
“You don’t know that. She might’ve gone to Patti…”
“Why would she?! She’d go to her parents or somethin’.”
“Please just come with us, Paul. You’re not gonna find John, not now! And… he’s… he’s infected.” Ringo croaked, and tears sparkled inside his eyes. Tears from his own admission, his own words that have been spoken out loud; John isn’t coming back. He’s gone; infected. And it only seemed real now; now that he himself was ruling out the idea of reuniting with him. “He’s infected, Paul.” He cried miserably. “We lost ‘im.”
“No, I have to find him Ringo, I’m sorry, I jus’… I jus’ can’t, and there’s nothin’ at Johns’ house for me…”
“There’s US!!” George cried out, almost furiously. “What about US, Paul?!”
A rocking silence once more consumed the insides of their refuge. George glared at Paul; his eyes fierce with challenge and disbelief. And as Paul stared back, his own eyes filled up with guilt-ridden tears. He shook his head, eyes never leaving George, as he confessed to his oldest friend; “I just have to find John.”
And in that moment, it was like the whole atmosphere intensified. Pauls’ words dropped down on them with such profundity; one that Ringo really couldn’t put his finger on. But George was looking at him differently. An expression of hurt… of disillusion and abandon.
And Ringo realised…… George DID feel abandoned. It was all there, in his face. He felt that if John left, and if Paul left, then he was left out and deserted. Even if Ringo was there… it didn’t make any difference. Because……… because it had always been those three. Ringo understood now… it all made sense. It was those three all the way, a tight pack, who had survived a lot of things together of smaller magnitudes, but still as a collective group. Ringo, he’d just come along later; he hadn’t survived any chops or any deaths or any of the things they had. He wasn’t part of that forever united assembly, like he thought he was. If he left instead of Paul, George wouldn’t feel abandoned. But he did now, because he was being shunned by the two people he considered to be his cohorts. Ringo… he was just along for the ride, he was just there to pick up the pieces. He understood now. And he’d never felt so small. Never felt so insignificant.
“So that’s it?” George croaked, “You’re just gonna go?”
“… I have to, George. Sorry.” Pauls’ voice was small. It was wracked with genuine remorse, because he too believed - like George and probably like John - that their precious threesome was sacred, and now ending. He was guilty because he believed he was leaving George alone, even if Ringo was there, he was still alone.
Ringos’ stomach and chest and heart ached so much now… and yet he still couldn’t let Paul leave. He felt betrayed by him, and yet he still loved him, and for John he couldn’t let Paul put himself in danger.
“Paul, stay in the truck.” He whispered weakly. “Just stay with us.”
“No, I really have to go…” Paul hurried, and his eyeline finally dropped from that intense stare, and he reached for the doorhandle, scurrying from the truck.
“Paul, it’s too dangerous!” Ringo cried, and he too fell from the vehicle, and followed Paul round to the back of the truck.
Paul pulled open the doors, and began hunting through all the armymens possessions, no doubt looking for protection or missionary… Ringo didn’t know what. All Ringo knew was that Paul was serious. This wasn’t a freaked-out whim like Ringos’ near-escape yesterday. This was emotive, but thought-out and calculated. Paul really wanted to leave, and there was next to nothing Ringo could do to stop him.
“Please, Paul!” he begged, “Just come back to the house with us… people love you there, okay!? You can’t go out on your own.”
“I can’t… I can’t just leave it like this, Ringo.”
“What do you mean? You mean with John?! Paul… John isn’t in his right mind now! Remember Brian, when he was infected!? That’s what John’ll be like… come on, please, think clearly.”
“I am thinking clearly.”
“No you’re not. You had a breakdown yesterday; you’re NOT thinking clearly!”
“Ringo…” Paul zipped up a bag; a backpack belonging to one of the soldiers. “I am.”
And true, Pauls’ voice was steady, and calm. His movements were precise and premeditated. The only thing that gave away any doubt was the hovering signs of teardrops inside Pauls’ eyes, as he faced the recognition that he was leaving his two greatest friends.
“You don’t have to do this.” Ringo breathed, seriously. “It’s cos you feel guilty, isn’t it? But please… this is so stupid.”
“No, but I’ll be okay. An’ so will you. You got a truck, n’ George.”
“Oh God, Paul please!”
“I’ll see ye when all this is over.” He chimed, and for a moment, he almost sounded like the old high-spirited, optimistic and whistle-tuned Paul. Only with blood stains and bruises and scratches and traumas.
And now he walked to the front of the truck once more, and pulled open the passenger door to where George was seated. His younger bandmate was unresponsive, staring adamantly at the dashboard in front of him. His face was stony, attitude one of suppressed fury.
“’m sorry George.” Paul whispered
“You’re actually such a prick. I dunno why the fuck you’re actin’ like this.”
“Cos. I love John.”
Again, George didn’t respond. His teeth grit together in forced silence, and he continued to stare immovably at the window in front of him, and not Pauls’ hovering figure in the doorway. But Paul slid into the seat, perched beside him, and whispered sadly; “So what, are you gonna hate me forever?”
“Yes.” George declared. But his voice broke halfway through; cracking with suppressed tears, and he grasped hold of Pauls’ figure; an embrace that was fierce and fervent. They stood their, arms wrapped tightly around one another, rocking slightly with the intensity of that hold. With his head buried in Pauls’ shoulder, Georges' cries came out muffled and weak. They stirred those hesitant tears to drip from Pauls’ eyes too, but he quickly brushed his away.
"Please don't go."
"N...no I have to."
"No, you're being so stupid. Don't go, just don't."
Ringo could only stand and watch, as the two guys he loved so much said goodbye to each other in such a heartbreaking way. There was nothing he could do. Paul was going. He knew it, George knew it, Paul knew it. There was nothing they could do to stop him. Paul had cracked, and probably a long time ago. He needed John… more than he needed safety it seemed, and more than he needed Ringo. Ringo had failed to keep him safe; just like he failed at most jobs that required a brain and common-sense, he scolded himself.
“Say ‘ello to Patti for me.” Paul smiled weakly, as he pulled himself away from that embrace.
Georges’ eyes were soaked and tear-stained, his voice cracking sadly as he reminisced on the decision they’d made, all that time ago in the woods;
“But you’re meant to be my best man.”
“So,” Paul shrugged, “Postpone the wedding.”
“You’re jokin’. You’re not that special.”
A laugh. Ringo was pretty sure it was Paul who laughed, but he couldn’t tell through the haze of his own tears, and the mad buzzing in his ears. Wedding? George? Well……… when was THIS decided??
But before he had time to ask, Paul was at his side, and his hand clamped heartily onto Ringos’ shoulder.
“See ye soon then.”
“Hm.” Ringo muttered flatly. He couldn’t comprehend this… it was too much. It was too sudden. All happening so fast; so rashly. “Uh… yeah.”
It was only as Paul began walking off that something stirred inside the drummer. That love again, the powerful bond that he shared between these boys, who were his brothers, and who he loved like mad…
“Paul!” he cried.
And then his arms were wrapped around him, and Pauls’ touched lightly to Ringo’s back, as the drummer pressed one last hard kiss to Pauls’ neck.
“I love you, man.” He whispered
“Eurrhh…” Paul moaned, “Bit queer.”
“Shut up.”
“I love ya too Rings!” Paul spoke. He said it in his over-exaggerated scouser accent, with a playful flutter of the eyelids thrown in for good-measure and jest. All these defences to hide the reality of his words and the magnitude of his departure; and Ringo knew him well enough to know that.
“Be careful.” Was the last thing he could think of to say to the bassist. Stupid, understated words. Words that were too simple to explain the pain and the fear of watching Paul walk away like that. But that’s what Ringo was - bloody simple. He couldn’t even keep hold of his two greatest friends.
He couldn't muster anything more to say. Just simple, plain-spoken words, from the cold pit of his stomach.
“He’s……… he’s gone.” He muttered emptily, as he slumped back into the seat beside George.
And now, the whole truck was empty. It TORTURED them with its emptiness. No griping, no playful voices, no comedy sketches and no singing. Just George and Ringo sat, dull and lifeless and stunned and guilty and stupid and afraid, and lost on their own.
Until George pressed a kiss lightly to the side of Ringos’ lip. And Ringo could taste the guitarists salty tears on his mouth. He could see the droplets of teardrops on his eyelashes. The pained physical souvenirs of all the loss and the breakage and trauma.
“I love you.” Ringo breathed. Because that was the only thing he could say right now with ANY serious meaning.
George didn’t say anything. He just nodded.
“So…” Ringo continued, with rasped and strained voice. “What’s all this about a weddin’?”
“It’s nothin’. Jus’… somethin’ I was thinkin’ about.”
“O…oh.”
They stayed there, in that parked vehicle, for about three hours. Nothing was said, but they didn’t dare move in case Paul came back again.
But he didn’t.
So much so, that Ringo was forced to tears when he started the engine again. The significance of those exhaust-sounds was just too much for him.
“Just us then, eh?” He whispered, as the droplets ran smoothly from his eyes to his cheeks.
“Yeah.” George replied. His voice too was shaken, but Ringo didn’t want to look at him. He wouldn’t be able to handle it if he saw George was crying too.
All he felt, was Georges’ hand grasp hold of his.
And he knew they wouldn’t let go, until they reached home. Alone.
Time/Location: July 1965
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo. With Paul/Ringo and Paul/George here.
Warnings: More breakup of the boys, and Ringo's paranoia.
Previous Parts: HERE!
Summary: It's 1965, and a terrible virus is spreading. Those who get it turn violent, dangerous and even homicidal. Only trouble is, it's impossible to know who has the virus and who doesn't. So who can you trust?
That love again, the powerful bond that he shared between these boys, who were his brothers, and who he loved like mad
Authors Note: Just realised I only have 3 weeks to finish this and the Dark Horse. I hope I manage it, man!
Authors Note 2: Not proof-read yet. So bear with me if it sucks.
Ringo stirred awake to the sounds of hushed, soft voices. His back ached, and his skin shivered with cold from falling asleep in the back of the truck. The three hadn’t moved from their spot there; he and George had fallen into slumber, each at Pauls’ side, with all limbs and heads pressed close together in comfort. Paul hadn’t woken up, until now. And Ringos’ insides stirred in blissful relief to hear his voice again.
Only it wasn’t the usual early-morning whistle-like chime that Paul usually graced his voice with. The voices sounded tired, and both of them rasped in illness. Paul was doing most of the speaking, and George not so much. Not that that is so unusual; they’d all made good use of Georges’ listening skills, as their very own confidents, and Paul was no exception. But upon hearing the words, Ringo stopped himself from stirring. Instead he remained eyes-closed, feeling that perhaps the words Paul was uttering might not be spoken for an audience.
“I just… you know, like… before all this started I never thought of… that we were that serious or anythin’. Cos you know… YOU know… it’s a bit queer, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“But then like… you know, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? All that. Like, it’s pointless sayin’ you can ONLY be with girls and that. An’, I don’t really mind… that stuff. I just… I never told him that. I never said… cos I do love ‘im.”
“Yeah.”
“But you know he gets all like… insecure. He probably didn’t know that. He was like ‘oh, we’re not gonna be together anymore’. That’s what he said, you know, after all the stuff in the house. And then we had that fight and now he’s fucking gone and he’s jus’… he’s such a bastard.”
“Yeah, but he’s infected.”
“So?! He should’ve TOLD us. You know, if that bloody happens, then you at least let your best friends say goodbye to you! You don’t jus’ take off, man, that’s fucking selfish. It’s just decency to TELL us where he’s goin’. He has no common decency. Cos now we’re just sat ‘ere… and YOU miss him…”
“…yeah…”
“…so does Ritch. I mean, even if he was angry at me, he could’ve at least said goodbye to you two, couldn’t he? He’s such a bastard, George, he’s the biggest bastard. I dunno what he thinks he’s playin’ at, you know, when we need him here.”
“Hmm.”
“And if he doesn’t think I need ‘im…… you know, I shouldn’t HAVE to say it. I shouldn’t have to bloody spell it out to ‘im, I mean, I didn’t need to spell it out to YOU. Cos you actually pay attention. He’s jus’ too… he’s just…. He’s such a bastard.”
“I dunno, I think we’ll still find ‘im.”
“What, and then he’ll kill us all?”
“No, he won’t kill us all. He’ll only kill me and you, and Ringo will just get infected.”
Paul laughed. It was weak and tainted, and yet it still had glimpses of that spirited childishness Paul usually possessed in his giggle. Just like at that moment in time, Georges’ grin still spread across his whole facial features, and although his eyes held sadness, loss and tiredness, those old signs of wicked humour still shone through. There was still life in them yet.
“I told you you loved him.” George pointed out lightly.
“Yeah, I never argued with you.”
“Still. I said it first.”
“Hmm. Yeah.”
Paul slumped backwards, laying across his back with his thumbnail clenched tightly between his teeth. The two were silent for a moment, both lost in thought. Lost inside the gloomy atmosphere of the unknown. Should they keep looking for John? Should they keep moving towards the girls in Weybridge? They knew where Ringo needed to be; he needed to be with Maureen, seven-months-pregnant. And at the same time there was that looming fear of the approaching infected. How many sane people were there left? And how long could they keep going without being interrupted? There were no answers to any of these questions. And nobody would address them out loud. All they knew was that they had to keep going… they had to survive.
Ringo took advantage of the momentary silence to proclaim himself awake.
“Mornin’ fellas.” He mumbled
“Ringo, you’re driving.”
“Oh. Nice to see you too Paul.”
“Yeah. You’re drivin’.”
“Okay.” Ringo nodded. And then he swallowed, with every fibre of his body screaming at him not to ask the following question… and yet he had to. “Where… where am I driving to? I mean… what are we doing?”
The truck was filled with an uncomfortable silence. More than anything, all three of them wanted to look for John. But he was infected. He was gone. And to find him would do nothing but put them in danger, and prolong the process of getting home. And they needed to get home. They really did. They were so tired, so ill, so emotionally exhausted, physically hurt, mentally scarred. They didn’t know the welfare of their girlfriends… of John and Ringos’ kids. It had been over a month since George sat in the back of that ambulance, BEGGING to go home. He hadn’t said anything since, and yet it was still there, still powerful. Weeks…months of hiding in woods, and factories… and that God forsaken house that went from sanctuary to living hell. All they wanted was to be clean, warm… in familiar, safe surroundings.
But to do that without John? Ringo didn’t know if that was something he could stomach.
“Do what you want.” Paul muttered, with his voice tingling sourly off the walls. “Go to your wife, man.”
“Yeah, but Paul…”
“Look, she needs you. What if they all turn into lesbians over there, and start doing each other?! C’mon lets just go home.”
“Are…… are you sure?”
Paul shrugged, and turned dismissively. He’d said what he needed to say. And when Ringo caught eye with George, the youngest member of their entourage looked just as helpless… he too was speechless. So Ringo swallowed, hard. He didn’t want to make this decision, he just didn’t. He couldn’t bear to drive away, knowing that he’d left his brother, John, behind somewhere.
But he swore to himself last night that he’d watch out for them both. And he was a father now; he had a duty to his unborn baby; that's how it worked!
So he took a deep breath, and tried to evaporate all the overwhelming guilt and depression that submerged his body.
He started the engine, and listened with drooping heart as the truck revved into movement.
And the next eight hours of driving, was a living hell.
From here, they could walk to their houses in around five hours, so long as they took the main roads. And yet, in their truck and under their circumstances, their journey was destined to take twelve hours at least, down the back roads - and that was if they were undisturbed.
For ages, the truck was just enveloped in an accountable and grieving silence. And it was torture. Having nobody speak just emphasised their isolation… it just emphasised Johns’ plaguing absence. And when there wasn’t silence, it was because Paul and George had found something to gripe each other about. It seemed every time Ringo turned round he was entering different universes. Sometimes they’d be asleep, resting on each others shoulders in the unbreakable united bond and familiarity that came from a decade long friendship and such extremity of their circumstances. The sight of them sleeping like that would warm any heart. But the next time he turned there would be petty jibes, and “look, can you just STOP going on!?”
“I’m only trying to help!”
“Yeah, but you saying that is making it more painful!”
“Well fine, I’ll shut my mouth then!”
“Oh, finally!”
“Jesus Christ, you don’t need to be so moody.”
“Well you’re pissing me off.”
“Well YOU’RE pissing ME off!”
And all of this choreographed to rolling eyes, and irritable tuts and exasperated sighs, usually over-dramatised for good measure. For fuck sake, Ringo couldn’t take this shit. He preferred the silences. And then he’d turn around again and they’d be in the middle of some intimate conversation or other, and the drummer didn't know whether he was coming or going… whether he was fluctuating between heaven and hell, or between past and present. All he knew was they needed to get home.
Following their next argument, George moved into the front seat with Ringo.
“How are you?” Ringo asked softly, with eyes trailing over Georges’ bruised neck, the worn-out and dirty face, the long scraggly hair.
“I’m good.” is all George muttered shortly in return. He raised his bandaged fingers, and trailed them softly across the dashboard, with eyes glazed over as he studied his broken remains.
“Does it hurt? That?”
George shrugged. “A bit. Them pills help.”
“Yeah.”
“They’re running out.”
A silence. Ringo didn't know what to say to that. It was a miracle they’d managed to get the pills in the first place, let alone hold onto them for so long. It was a miracle that Keith bloke had managed to properly bandage and work on Georges’ ankle… to keep him conscious and stable… even if he had turned out to be a psychopath after that.
“D’you think I’ll be able to play guitar again?”
“Yeah. Course.”
“Hmm.” George bought his fingers up, holding them close before his eyes, studying the bandaged mess doubtfully. Ringo didn't even want to watch him. He didn't want to see anymore of the diabolical aftermath of those mens actions. He didn't want to see Paul breakdown, John get infected and he didn't want to see George forever impaired by their sick, sick games. If he thought about it any more then he’d be inclined to turn this truck around and kill those fuckers with his bare hands… for this and everything else they did to his brothers.
But the impact of those mens actions, was about to take a turn for the worse.
Because after the eight hours of driving, Ringo found Paul leaning forward into the drivers seat, and his voice raised high with emotion and desperation.
“Ringo, stop the car, I’m gettin’ out.”
“Hu…Huh?? What?!”
“I need to go. Stop, stop the car.”
“Wait… Paul……… WHAT??”
“I need to find John - I’m sorry.”
“Paul, NO!” George cried in frustration. “You’re not gonna find ‘im if you’re walking, you’ll just get killed!”
“No, but I have to try, I can’t just LEAVE!”
“Paul… whoa, whoa, whoa!!!” Ringo cried out in panic as Pauls’ hands reached for the door handle, “Jesus, I’m stopping, I’m stopping!! Fuck!”
“Paul, what the hell is WRONG with you?!”
“I jus’ need to go, George… Ringo STOP!”
“I’m finding somewhere to stop!! Just GIVE ME A SECOND!”
“Just pull over! There’s nobody around!”
“No, don’t pull over Rings; he’s being stupid!”
“George, I’m not being stupid, I’ve been thinkin’ about it.”
“So you’re gonna go hunt down someone who might kill you?? An’ he could be anywhere in London!”
“Yeah but I have to try……. RINGO, for fuck sake!!”
“I’m STOPPING!”
The truck reared into the shaded corner of the street, protected only by the shadow of an oak tree, and the fact they hadn’t seen a living soul in hours.
“Paul, really, this is crazy.” Ringo muttered anxiously.
“You were gonna do it yesterday.”
“Yeah, but I came back, because it’s CRAZY! We need to stay together. We need to get back to the girls.”
“Yeah!”
“No.” Paul shook his head adamantly. “Jane’s not gonna be there. C’mon, don’t be thick. You KNOW she’s not. She was in London, Rings, and everyone in London is dead or diseased.”
“You don’t know that. She might’ve gone to Patti…”
“Why would she?! She’d go to her parents or somethin’.”
“Please just come with us, Paul. You’re not gonna find John, not now! And… he’s… he’s infected.” Ringo croaked, and tears sparkled inside his eyes. Tears from his own admission, his own words that have been spoken out loud; John isn’t coming back. He’s gone; infected. And it only seemed real now; now that he himself was ruling out the idea of reuniting with him. “He’s infected, Paul.” He cried miserably. “We lost ‘im.”
“No, I have to find him Ringo, I’m sorry, I jus’… I jus’ can’t, and there’s nothin’ at Johns’ house for me…”
“There’s US!!” George cried out, almost furiously. “What about US, Paul?!”
A rocking silence once more consumed the insides of their refuge. George glared at Paul; his eyes fierce with challenge and disbelief. And as Paul stared back, his own eyes filled up with guilt-ridden tears. He shook his head, eyes never leaving George, as he confessed to his oldest friend; “I just have to find John.”
And in that moment, it was like the whole atmosphere intensified. Pauls’ words dropped down on them with such profundity; one that Ringo really couldn’t put his finger on. But George was looking at him differently. An expression of hurt… of disillusion and abandon.
And Ringo realised…… George DID feel abandoned. It was all there, in his face. He felt that if John left, and if Paul left, then he was left out and deserted. Even if Ringo was there… it didn’t make any difference. Because……… because it had always been those three. Ringo understood now… it all made sense. It was those three all the way, a tight pack, who had survived a lot of things together of smaller magnitudes, but still as a collective group. Ringo, he’d just come along later; he hadn’t survived any chops or any deaths or any of the things they had. He wasn’t part of that forever united assembly, like he thought he was. If he left instead of Paul, George wouldn’t feel abandoned. But he did now, because he was being shunned by the two people he considered to be his cohorts. Ringo… he was just along for the ride, he was just there to pick up the pieces. He understood now. And he’d never felt so small. Never felt so insignificant.
“So that’s it?” George croaked, “You’re just gonna go?”
“… I have to, George. Sorry.” Pauls’ voice was small. It was wracked with genuine remorse, because he too believed - like George and probably like John - that their precious threesome was sacred, and now ending. He was guilty because he believed he was leaving George alone, even if Ringo was there, he was still alone.
Ringos’ stomach and chest and heart ached so much now… and yet he still couldn’t let Paul leave. He felt betrayed by him, and yet he still loved him, and for John he couldn’t let Paul put himself in danger.
“Paul, stay in the truck.” He whispered weakly. “Just stay with us.”
“No, I really have to go…” Paul hurried, and his eyeline finally dropped from that intense stare, and he reached for the doorhandle, scurrying from the truck.
“Paul, it’s too dangerous!” Ringo cried, and he too fell from the vehicle, and followed Paul round to the back of the truck.
Paul pulled open the doors, and began hunting through all the armymens possessions, no doubt looking for protection or missionary… Ringo didn’t know what. All Ringo knew was that Paul was serious. This wasn’t a freaked-out whim like Ringos’ near-escape yesterday. This was emotive, but thought-out and calculated. Paul really wanted to leave, and there was next to nothing Ringo could do to stop him.
“Please, Paul!” he begged, “Just come back to the house with us… people love you there, okay!? You can’t go out on your own.”
“I can’t… I can’t just leave it like this, Ringo.”
“What do you mean? You mean with John?! Paul… John isn’t in his right mind now! Remember Brian, when he was infected!? That’s what John’ll be like… come on, please, think clearly.”
“I am thinking clearly.”
“No you’re not. You had a breakdown yesterday; you’re NOT thinking clearly!”
“Ringo…” Paul zipped up a bag; a backpack belonging to one of the soldiers. “I am.”
And true, Pauls’ voice was steady, and calm. His movements were precise and premeditated. The only thing that gave away any doubt was the hovering signs of teardrops inside Pauls’ eyes, as he faced the recognition that he was leaving his two greatest friends.
“You don’t have to do this.” Ringo breathed, seriously. “It’s cos you feel guilty, isn’t it? But please… this is so stupid.”
“No, but I’ll be okay. An’ so will you. You got a truck, n’ George.”
“Oh God, Paul please!”
“I’ll see ye when all this is over.” He chimed, and for a moment, he almost sounded like the old high-spirited, optimistic and whistle-tuned Paul. Only with blood stains and bruises and scratches and traumas.
And now he walked to the front of the truck once more, and pulled open the passenger door to where George was seated. His younger bandmate was unresponsive, staring adamantly at the dashboard in front of him. His face was stony, attitude one of suppressed fury.
“’m sorry George.” Paul whispered
“You’re actually such a prick. I dunno why the fuck you’re actin’ like this.”
“Cos. I love John.”
Again, George didn’t respond. His teeth grit together in forced silence, and he continued to stare immovably at the window in front of him, and not Pauls’ hovering figure in the doorway. But Paul slid into the seat, perched beside him, and whispered sadly; “So what, are you gonna hate me forever?”
“Yes.” George declared. But his voice broke halfway through; cracking with suppressed tears, and he grasped hold of Pauls’ figure; an embrace that was fierce and fervent. They stood their, arms wrapped tightly around one another, rocking slightly with the intensity of that hold. With his head buried in Pauls’ shoulder, Georges' cries came out muffled and weak. They stirred those hesitant tears to drip from Pauls’ eyes too, but he quickly brushed his away.
"Please don't go."
"N...no I have to."
"No, you're being so stupid. Don't go, just don't."
Ringo could only stand and watch, as the two guys he loved so much said goodbye to each other in such a heartbreaking way. There was nothing he could do. Paul was going. He knew it, George knew it, Paul knew it. There was nothing they could do to stop him. Paul had cracked, and probably a long time ago. He needed John… more than he needed safety it seemed, and more than he needed Ringo. Ringo had failed to keep him safe; just like he failed at most jobs that required a brain and common-sense, he scolded himself.
“Say ‘ello to Patti for me.” Paul smiled weakly, as he pulled himself away from that embrace.
Georges’ eyes were soaked and tear-stained, his voice cracking sadly as he reminisced on the decision they’d made, all that time ago in the woods;
“But you’re meant to be my best man.”
“So,” Paul shrugged, “Postpone the wedding.”
“You’re jokin’. You’re not that special.”
A laugh. Ringo was pretty sure it was Paul who laughed, but he couldn’t tell through the haze of his own tears, and the mad buzzing in his ears. Wedding? George? Well……… when was THIS decided??
But before he had time to ask, Paul was at his side, and his hand clamped heartily onto Ringos’ shoulder.
“See ye soon then.”
“Hm.” Ringo muttered flatly. He couldn’t comprehend this… it was too much. It was too sudden. All happening so fast; so rashly. “Uh… yeah.”
It was only as Paul began walking off that something stirred inside the drummer. That love again, the powerful bond that he shared between these boys, who were his brothers, and who he loved like mad…
“Paul!” he cried.
And then his arms were wrapped around him, and Pauls’ touched lightly to Ringo’s back, as the drummer pressed one last hard kiss to Pauls’ neck.
“I love you, man.” He whispered
“Eurrhh…” Paul moaned, “Bit queer.”
“Shut up.”
“I love ya too Rings!” Paul spoke. He said it in his over-exaggerated scouser accent, with a playful flutter of the eyelids thrown in for good-measure and jest. All these defences to hide the reality of his words and the magnitude of his departure; and Ringo knew him well enough to know that.
“Be careful.” Was the last thing he could think of to say to the bassist. Stupid, understated words. Words that were too simple to explain the pain and the fear of watching Paul walk away like that. But that’s what Ringo was - bloody simple. He couldn’t even keep hold of his two greatest friends.
He couldn't muster anything more to say. Just simple, plain-spoken words, from the cold pit of his stomach.
“He’s……… he’s gone.” He muttered emptily, as he slumped back into the seat beside George.
And now, the whole truck was empty. It TORTURED them with its emptiness. No griping, no playful voices, no comedy sketches and no singing. Just George and Ringo sat, dull and lifeless and stunned and guilty and stupid and afraid, and lost on their own.
Until George pressed a kiss lightly to the side of Ringos’ lip. And Ringo could taste the guitarists salty tears on his mouth. He could see the droplets of teardrops on his eyelashes. The pained physical souvenirs of all the loss and the breakage and trauma.
“I love you.” Ringo breathed. Because that was the only thing he could say right now with ANY serious meaning.
George didn’t say anything. He just nodded.
“So…” Ringo continued, with rasped and strained voice. “What’s all this about a weddin’?”
“It’s nothin’. Jus’… somethin’ I was thinkin’ about.”
“O…oh.”
They stayed there, in that parked vehicle, for about three hours. Nothing was said, but they didn’t dare move in case Paul came back again.
But he didn’t.
So much so, that Ringo was forced to tears when he started the engine again. The significance of those exhaust-sounds was just too much for him.
“Just us then, eh?” He whispered, as the droplets ran smoothly from his eyes to his cheeks.
“Yeah.” George replied. His voice too was shaken, but Ringo didn’t want to look at him. He wouldn’t be able to handle it if he saw George was crying too.
All he felt, was Georges’ hand grasp hold of his.
And he knew they wouldn’t let go, until they reached home. Alone.