Chapter Text
Prologue I
In Spite of All the Danger
February 1958 - George
My family had gone out for a picnic. I'd said I hadn't been feeling well and my mam made me stay at home in bed. It was the first sunny day in ages and I resented being stuck home in bed while everyone else was enjoying the good weather. At about lunchtime I was feeling well enough to get up and fetch my lunch.
I sat in the front room and picked up my guitar. I started running through the guitar part to That'll Be the Day. I was in a band and we were going to a recording of it in a few weeks and I wanted to get my part perfect. I didn't know what we were doing for the other side. One of Paul and John's songs, probably. I wondered if I would ever write a song. Probably no point if they were always going to think theirs were more important than mine.
There was a knock on the front door. I peeked round the curtains to see Paul standing on the front step with his guitar in his hand. The knocking became louder and more insistent. I opened the door.
“What do you want?”
Paul looked me up and down, obviously surprised to see me still in my dressing gown and slippers. “That's nice,” he said. “I come and see you and ask me what for.”
“Well, what have you come to see me for?”
“I've got a song that needs finishing.”
I scowled. “Why don't you go and ask John? I thought he was your new best mate.”
“George, it's not like that and you know it.” He shot me an apologetic look. “Listen, I know I've been spending a lot of time with John but you're in the band now, too. So it will be different now on, I promise.”
I nodded, not really believing him but feeling it wouldn't be fair to leave him out there. I could do with the company, anyway, I thought. “Alright, come in. But you have to leave before me mam gets home. I'm supposed to be resting.”
I let Paul in and we went through to the living room. My lunch was still sitting uneaten on the coffee table.
“You 'aving that?” Paul asked.
“Eventually. Let's hear your stuff, then.”
“Right, well I've got the music, already.”
Paul sat down on the sofa with his guitar, an upside down right-handed one, and started playing through the song slowly. I watched the chords he was using and translated them onto my own guitar. After going through it a few times, I had it right and we played through it again together.
“I need some words. Give me something that fits.”
“I don't know, Paul. In spite of the fact I'm sitting here playing with you, I'm actually quite sick, you know. Me mam'll kill me if see finds me here like this.”
“'In spite of',” Paul said to himself curiously. He played the opening again, singing. “In spite of all the ... something. Come on George, give me anything. Any word.”
“Danger,” I said plucking a word out of the air.
“Good. Interesting,” Paul said. He started to sing again, “In spite of all the danger. In spite of all that may be.”
I joined in now, getting the idea for another couple of lines. “I'll do anything for you, anything you want me to...”
“If-”
“-you'll be true to me.” I finished.
“Let's run that verse through now. You sing.”
Paul listened to me while I sang the verse uncertainly. He had a pleased expression on his face. “That's good. See, it's not so difficult, is it?”
“No, you're right, it isn't. So what's next? 'In spite of the danger' again?”
“No, we've got to change it on the second verse and go back to it later maybe.”
“Go on, you start off, then.”
“In spite of all the heartaches, that you may cause me. You.”
“ I'll do anything for you, anything you want me to, if you'll be true to me.”
Paul launched into a repeat of the first verse but I stopped him.
“I've got a better idea for the next bit.”
“Oh?”
“I'll look after you like I've never done before,” I sang, then nodded at Paul to finish it.
“I'll keep all the others from knocking at your door.”
We laughed, remembering Paul's desperate knocking on my door not that long ago.
“Now shall we repeat the first two?” Paul asked, still laughing.
“You can. I'm going to make myself a cuppa. Do you want one?”
From the kitchen I could hear Paul running through the song. As he reached the end I thought I should suggest adding another of my 'anything for you' bits to round the song off. The kettle started to whistle shrilly.
“George, have you got any paper?”
“There's an empty notebook on the bookshelf,” I called back to him, taking the kettle off the boil and pouring out the water.
When I came back through with the tea, I watched him finishing writing our thrown together lyrics. He wrote the title at the top of the page and scribbled something underneath it. He pushed it towards me and I read out loud.
“In Spite of All the Danger by George Harrison and Paul McCartney.”
“Come on, let's run it through together before we drink our tea. I want to hear what it sounds like with you singing too.”
We picked up our guitars again. I sat down next to Paul on the sofa. We played and sang together and I realised then that the song hadn't come out too badly after all.
In spite of all the danger,
in spite of all that may be
I'll do anything for you,
anything you want me to,
if you'll be true to me.
In spite of all the heartache,
that you may cause me,
I'll do anything for you,
anything you want me to,
if you'll be true to me.
I'll look after you
like I've never done before.
I'll keep all the others
from knocking at your door.
In spite of all the danger,
in spite of all that may be,
I'll do anything for you,
anything you want me to,
if you'll be true to me.
In spite of all the heartache
that you may cause me,
I'll do anything for you,
anything you want me to,
if you'll be true to me.
Paul looked up, assuming that we'd finished but I gave him a look to tell him not to speak just yet. I carried on singing my last bit on my own:
I'll do anything for you,
anything you want me to,
if you'll be true to me
Paul watched me and smiled, nodding approvingly. “Yes, you're right, you know. That is better.”
I smiled back at him. I loved the way his eyes were lit up with the excitement of having finished a new song. He looked very proud as he shook my hand a said in a posh voice. “Congratulations, Mr Harrison. You have just completed your very first song. How does that make you feel?”
“Very good.” It was all I could manage. I was so happy to have my best mate back after being relegated to second place in favour of John Lennon after Paul had discovered they could write good songs together.
Paul did something I never expected him to do. He hugged me tightly. “Thank you for helping me finish my – our – song. You're the best, you really are.”
“Thanks Paul.”
“I'm going to ask John if we can put it on the other side of the record to 'That'll Be The Day'.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yeah, I think it's good enough for it, you know. I reckon John'll like it.”
“You don't think John'll be mad you wrote it with me instead of him?”
“Maybe. Still,” Paul squeezed my hand, something that made me feel slightly uncomfortable, even more so for the fact that I discovered I didn't exactly mind holding Paul's hand as much as I would've thought. “I wouldn't mind writing songs with you more often.”
“God, McCartney, you'll be asking me to babysit with you next.” I laughed at the implications.
Paul laughed too. “Babysitting you, more like.”
“I am fifteen, you know. Well, just about.”
“Go on George.”
“Are you sure that's a good idea? John can get awfully possessive, you know. If he found out we were writing songs together.” I winked cheekily, implying that we might be getting up to more than writing songs if I had my way.
Paul shrugged. “Fuck John.”
“No, don't! That'll make it even more complicated.” I laughed self-consciously at the sudden note of squeaky panic that had entered into my voice.
“Tell you what, George,” Paul said in mock seriousness. “I do it in spite of all the danger.”
“I'll do anything for you,” I added, copying Paul's tone. “Anything you want me to.”
“If you'll be true to me!” We sang together operatically.
We both fell about in hysterics. I grabbed onto Paul's hand tighter to stop myself falling backwards off the sofa. I suddenly heard my mam and sister laughing outside. For the first time I panicked about what this might look light to anyone else, me sitting here holding hands with Paul.
“Me mam's back! I'm supposed to be in bed, resting.”
Thinking quick, Paul said, “Lie down on the sofa and I'll fetch you a blanket. We can pretend I was looking after you the whole time.”
“As opposed to you sending me running around making cups of tea and demanding song lyrics off me?”
“Gerron, George. Before your mum catches us.”
I stretched out on the sofa and Paul sprinted upstairs and back down again. He tucked the blanket around me and passed me my mug of tea and my sarnie. My mam's voice came from the hall.
“Are you alright, George?”
“I'm in here mam.”
“What are you doing in the living room? Oh, hello Paul.”
Paul returned my mam's warm smile as he finished writing down the last of the lyrics to our song. “Hello, Mrs Harrison.”
“Paul's been looking after me, mam.”
“I'm sure he has,” she said cynically. She was too sharp to fall for a downright lie like that. “I just hope you haven't worn my son out too much, at least.”
“You know I would never dream of such of thing, Mrs Harrison. Little Georgie 'ere has been helping me write a song,” he said, standing behind me and ruffling my hair with his hand.
“Gerroff, Paul.”
“Careful what you say to me or I might promise your mum a rendition of our new song.”
“Don't-” I started but it was already too late. My mam had called everyone into the living room to hear the song. “-say that.”
As he passed me my guitar, Paul whispered apologetically, “Sorry, I really was only teasing. I'll do something to pay you back sometime.”
Once my family had gathered in the room, Paul announced that we were going to sing the song together. “Right. Ready, George? 1, 2, 3, 4...”
I wondered just how Paul planned to pay be back. I thought that it better be something good. Still, I enjoyed playing the song properly again. Though we were really performing for my family, it felt more like we were singing to each other. I knew Paul must be getting that vibe because he winked at me. It wasn't much of an acknowledgement but it was enough for me to wink back at him in reply. Luckily, no one else noticed.
Prologue II
Bloody Cold
It was nights like this that I started wondering what the whole point of this hitchhiking expedition was. We'd reached Paignton. It was getting dark and we were starting to grow a bit desperate. We had no money to spare for a kick off, so it looked like we were up for a rough night on the beach. Bloody cold. Fantastic. And I was hungry.
The Salvation Army girls we'd met were a small consolation. We shared that night's spaghetti bolognese with them and they'd kept us warm for a while.
“You disappointed that the girls couldn't stay?” I asked Paul once they'd gone, leaving us shivering on the beach.
He considered. “You know, not as much as I'd thought I'd be.”
He curled up under his coat with a yawn. I sat next to him, tired but not quite ready to try for sleep. Paul grabbed my arm and pulled me closer, for warmth. His head was all but in my lap. I wasn't sure If I would've minded too much.
“Paul, why are we doing this?” I asked suddenly, embarrassed into talking by the strange thought.
“Doing what?”
Paul's head was down, resting on his arm but his eyes were open. I lay next to him mirroring his position. We might as well have been cuddling we were so dangerously close. If one of us was a girl we might have. Maybe we'd doing even more. Not that I really wanted to think about that.
Until recently I hadn't really thought about the whole sex thing beyond the 'when two people who love each other' talk. But these days I kept wondering about it. I hadn't actually done anything about this curiosity, though I knew Paul and John had satisfied theirs more than once. Not with each other, obviously. That would be disgusting. Mind you ... No.
“This whole hitchhiking thing.” I said finally.
"To spend time together. Being friends."
His eyes were staring into mine intently, probably waiting for my next question. Distracted, I found myself just enjoying that. He gave me a strange look. Maybe he was imagining I was one of the girls. Or maybe not. Because if he and John had...
No, that was a thought I really didn't want to follow through. Yet, for some reason, I was unable to stop myself thinking about Paul and sex. And the thought managed to disturb and somehow thrill me at the same time. Or maybe, hopefully, that was just any thought about sex.
"You're not going to suddenly declare your undying love for me are you?" I asked, not entirely joking.
Paul looked a little flustered. "Why would I do that?"
"Just checking." I laughed and he smiled at me. "What?"
"You," Paul muttered sleepily.
He shifted even closer and I didn't mind. I more than didn't mind. In fact I was enjoying everything. The trip, having a laugh together without John, eating out of tins. All of it. Even this.
Prologue III
The Fugitve
Hamburg 1960
I run, my footsteps echoing around the dark alleyways. It's hard to breathe in the cold November air but still I run. Until...
I lose my footing on a patch of black ice. In brief moment before I hit the ground my breath catches and I know this is the end. I'm sprawled on the ground without remembering the fall itself, just the horrible moment before and the stillness after. My eyes water with pain but I don't dare blink in case it they think I've been crying.
I stand up slowly, steadying myself against a wall. My breath comes in short bursts as I try catching it. I double over, counting the heartbeat pounding through my head, feeling the stitch in my side.
There's a rule to this sort of thing: never give in and never stop running. Too late now.
Though the air still has its chilly bite, my lungs are on fire. Time to cut down on the ciggies. Sod it. I light one anyway.
I can hear them getting closer. Any second now. My name is called down the dark alley. They've caught me. I don't care. I've forsaken the challenge in the hope of living to see my eighteenth birthday.
I lean one shoulder against the wall, facing away from them so they don't see my flushed face. It's too uncomfortable to stay like that. I try placing my hand on the wall and resting on that. No use. Swearing under my breath I squint at it to see why it hurts so much. It's scraped and bleeding from when I used it to break my fall. I wipe it on my jeans. They're already filthy as it is.
I sigh heavily. My breath condenses in front of me. I take a drag on my ciggie. I watch as the smoke fills the air, looking like my breath but thicker, more dense. It takes longer to disappear. It clouds my view of the neon lit sign that marks my destination. I'll kill John. Shortcut my arse.
I add more smoke. It has a bluish tinge to it. I wait for it to disperse, listen to the footsteps. 3-2-1...
John claps his hand on my shoulder. Right on cue. I've learnt not to jump when he does that. I don't want to give him the satisfaction.
“You nearly did it this time, Georgie. It's only round the corner.”
“I don't know why I let you talk me into this.”
“You've got to earn your keep somehow, even if it's just by giving us a laugh. Good idea adding the trip to your routine. I've not seen that one before. And there I was thinking you were getting predictable.”
“There's no way I'm doing that again.”
“You only say that because you know you can't do it.”
“I can! I will do it next time.”
“We'll see.”
I shake my head disbelievingly. “Every single bloody time.”
The rest catch up with us now. Paul passes me my guitar case. I take it in my good hand, throwing my half smoked fag on the floor and stamping on it.
“Alright George?” Paul asks.
“I've 'urt me 'and.”
Paul takes my hand and examines it closely. “It looks nastier than it is. It'll be right once you've washed the blood off. Mind you, we should make sure it doesn't get infected. We don't want yer mum thinking we've not been looking after you right.”
“Yeah,” John adds. “We can't have mummy thinking her precious little boy's being mistreated, can we?”
“I'm not little. I'm seventeen. And I'm taller than Stu.”
“That's little enough. Strictly speaking you're not old enough to play with us grownups.”
“Fuck off, John. I'm more mature than you, not that that's saying much.” I lower my voice.
“Anyway, don't go shouting that I'm underage. It's meant to be a secret, remember? Or do you want me to get chucked out of the country?”
John tries to say something clever but Stu interrupts. “Listen, you lot. Are we getting to the Top Ten before Tony finishes or are going to stand here talking all night?”
“I'm going,” I say. “But once we've finished, I'm going back to the room. I need an early night.”
As we move off down the street, John says, “Still, Paul's right you know. You should do something about that hand. Like I said, you've got to earn your keep and a lead guitarist's no good with a bad hand. If you can't play, you might as well be carted back toLiverpool tonight.”
“Ay, well hopefully that won't happen.”
“Well don't keep your hopes up. Bruno's gonna be mad when he finds out we've been playing at another club. Getting you in trouble for being underage would be the perfect revenge.”
I smile wryly. “Paul McCartney, harbinger of doom.”
“Just saying, like.”
“Well, until then it looks like you're stuck with me.”
“You know we love you really, George.”
“Ta, John. I don't know if I could stand to go back now. I've grown used to playing for six hours straight and been woken up by the first showing.”
“You should feel privileged. You're not legally allowed to see those films back home but here you get to listen to repeat showings.”
“Good old Bruno, sticking us at the back of his movie theatre.” Paul grabs my arm and drags me along to make me walk faster. I'm not really keen on being manhandled like that but as it's Paul I let him. As we leave the alley, I watch as the red light washes over his face. I swear though he's older than me, he looks more baby faced at times. Not that it matters. Girls seem to like that about him and I sort of see why. He’s not bad looking, that’s for sure.
“It's just I feel like such fugitive sometimes.”
John puts his arm around my shoulders, sandwiching me between him and Paul, so there’s no escape. The smell of beer, ciggie smoke and Paul’s newly bought leather jacket fills my nostrils. I know I shouldn't enjoy being squashed against him this much but being this close to has become a thrill nearly as strong as the one I get from going up on stage. I’ve learned just to enjoy the feeing, and try not to question it. Paul smiles at me cheekily, completely oblivious to the odd thoughts racing through my head.
“Ay, well a fugitive you may be, George.” John’s voice breaks through my confusion and I turn my head sharply, grateful for the distraction. “But at least you're our fugitive.”
Part 1
Hamburg, Late 1960, George
Hamburg could get very cold in the winter. We'd been warned about that. We'd been told to wrap up warm and not to catch any bugs that might stop us working. Mind you, we didn't care much at the time. In the middle of August you really didn't want to think about the cold of winter.
So we were taken a little by surprise when the weather went quickly from summer to winter, pretty much bypassing autumn. We counted up our German version of pennies to see if we had enough money to afford warmer clothes. Turns out we did, luckily enough, but that didn't help much with half the group coming down with bad colds.
We hadn't really expected to last to winter. We expected to get kicked out of the country not long after we arrived. We honestly thought it would be a real tooth and nails job just to keep our contract, but before we knew it three months had passed and we were still there. The authorities hadn't even found out about me being underage, which could only be a good thing.
I didn't realise at the time but the night I came down with my cold was the end of an era for me. Not only because I was about to be chucked out of the country and the next time I met up with my bandmates we would see the results of our long nights in Hamburg on the teenagers of Liverpool, but because the confused thoughts I'd had about Paul two years before resurfaced and brought about several surprising results.
I think It'll take me more than a few stiff drinks to forget my thoughts that night.
~
The others are out finishing the evening with a bender and probably won't be back until the pills are wearing off and they're ready to collapse. When they took me with them the other night, I ended up making a bit of a mess. I really don't feel up to it tonight. I've decided to come back and try and get some sleep.
I don't fancy the sofa much tonight. I've never really fancied it much. It's lumpy and'll probably give me a bad back before I even reach eighteen.
I wander blindly down the corridor towards the Black Holes of Calcutta, and the 25 yards begins to feel more like 25 miles. I've never liked the dark. I wish Paul or someone was here so I wouldn't feel so alone.
I stumble into Paul's tiny room, trying not to look at the garish wallpaper. I feel a bit jealous about it. It might be so small that it's a miracle the bed actually fits, but at least he gets it to himself. I have to share with John and Stu and they make me sleep on the sofa. I've never slept properly on it and I need to get a decent bit of kip tonight. Until they turn up and Paul tells me to get out of his bed.
I sit on Paul's bed, feeling a bit disorientated from all that feeling around in the dark and bumping off grimy walls. I start to cough. No wonder I feel so shit, I've come down with something. It can't be anything too terrible, just a bad cold. I try to stop coughing but it just gets worse. Time to cut down on the ciggies, probably.
I climb under the blankets with my clothes still on an curl up in a tight ball. If I don't get any sleep, at least I should get warmer after a while. Three sneezes in a row make me feel sure I've got a cold. It's the right time of year for it and exactly the wrong time to get one. I think that maybe I can sleep it off but I know I probably can't. Still, I wouldn't mind if I could stop thinking and actually sleep.
The light flickers on. I groan and pull the blanket over my head. It's stuffy under the blanket and there's no way I can pretend I'm not here for much longer.
“George?” a voice asks. It's Paul.
“Don't ask me to move,” I beg, ripping the blanket off my head and turning over so he can't see me. I start coughing again. I try to sit up so I can clear my lungs better but I just flop back onto the pillow.
“Steady on, mate,” Paul says. He leaves the room and I hear a tap running. Moments later he's sat on the bed behind me, propping up and passing me a glass of cold water.
He's rubbing my back gently. Normally I'd think that was a bit funny and tell him to stop, but it'd be too much effort to try to push him away. Besides, it seems to be helping me get my breath back and it's nice to have someone here to look after me. It's like having me mam look after me when I'm sick. Only not quite the same. I take a long drink of water and let the empty glass drop on the bed. I rest my head back on Paul's shoulder, feeling a bit embarrassed but too tired and weak to do anything about it. I'm still breathing funny and a bit dizzy but at least I've stopped coughing.
Paul puts his arm around me, keeping me right where I am. I don't really mind. It's better than lying down, hacking my lungs up. Paul brushes my sweaty hair out of the way and feels my forehead.
His hands feel cold and I finally complain. “Gerroff, Paul.”
“You must be really out it if it's taken you this long to tell me to stop," he jokes but quickly becomes serious. "I can't imagine how rough you must be feeling, your temperature's right up. I better go and get you something for it.”
Paul helps me sit up against the wall and covers me with the blanket. I watch him cross the room. He promises that he'll only be a few minutes. Before I even realise that he's gone, he's shaking back awake. For a second I'm confused, thinking I'm at home and expecting to see my mam's concerned face. Instead I find Paul hovering over me looking worried. I give him a pained smile, trying to tell him I'm alright really without having to say anything.
Paul backs away and screws the lid off a brown bottle. He pours out something gloopy and shoves a couple of spoonfuls of it into my gob before I can object. It tastes foul and I pull an exaggerated face of disgust. But it clears my head a little and makes my chest feel a bit looser, so I suppose it can't be that bad. It's the spoon feeding that I'm not too sure about.
Paul sits down on the bed next to me, knees drawn up to his chest, and asks, “Better?”
“I s'pose.”
“I expect it would be asking too much to want my bed back?”
“Yeah.” I look over at him. “What you doing back so early anyway?”
Paul shrugs. “Decided I didn't really want to go back out. Besides, I was worried about yer. You said you were feeling off and so I thought I'd check on yer. At first I thought you only said it so you could sneak off with some bird but when I heard you hacking I thought you might need someone to look after you.”
“You didn't really think that. You thought I had a bird in 'ere so you thought you'd ruin me fun. You're jealous and selfish, that's what you are, Paul McCartney!”
“Jealous?” He laughs without humour. “Why should I be jealous of some bird I've never met?”
I look at him sharply and he opens his mouth. Perhaps he's going to say that came out wrong, or perhaps he's just waiting to see how I react. I'll never find out because at that moment I look at him. Now I'm on top of him, pinning him to the wall with my dead weight. I kiss him lightly, just for a second or so. Then I'm sat back down next to him as if nothing happened.
What made me do that, I wonder. I blame my fevered brain for my sudden madness, then I blame the side effects of that foul concoction Paul gave me. Then I blame Paul himself for being too cute. Cute? That was a word I've never used to describe Paul. I know birds call him cute, they even call me cute when Paul's already picked someone else up, but why should I think of Paul that way?
“George?”
“What?” I look up at him. His fingers are on his lips, exactly where my lips had been half a minute ago.
“What was that?”
“I dunno,” I say truthfully. A part of me was trying to pass the kiss off as a joke to pay him back for saying something wrong. Another part is wondering if I should do it again. Yet another part is wondering what it would be like if it had been the other way round, if Paul had kissed me. What would I have done? Shouted at him and called him a queer, probably.
He laughed. “It's hard to stop thinking about why you did it, isn't it?”
“Yeah.” I sighed. I shift closer to him and put my hand on his, tracing his knuckles with my fingers. The skin's split and they're red and raw where he'd washed dried blood off but there's still some there. I wonder what's made him so frustrated to go around punching walls. “We both think too much for our own good. It's all what if this and what if that. And every time we think too much about something, we manage to talk ourselves out of it.”
“I propose we both agree to stop thinking,” Paul says, tipping my head up so that I'm looking into his eyes. “What do you reckon?”
I smile despite myself. “If you stop thinking about how I'll react, I stop thinking about why you're doing it and wondering why I'm not fighting. How's that sound?”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
Paul cups the side of my face with his free hand and I lean up towards him. At first I look into his eyes but as we draw closer, I close my eyes. I can hear Paul's breathing in my ear. We're only ever really this close to each other when one of us is legless and one of us has to carry the other back. Neither of us is especially drunk right now, though. I can't smell any more beer than normal on Paul's breath. We're so close, I know that he's about to kiss me but I keep the promise and stop thinking about it. I'm about ready to lunge forward and do it myself, just to get that first moment of doubt over with.
Paul draws me towards him. My nose bumps into his and this makes us laugh a little, until our lips meet again. This is a real kiss, I suppose, because both of us want it and it's going on longer than the first. I feel like I could do this all night, or longer, except there are sounds outside the door. Footsteps, drunken singing, someone laughing, John shouting.
“Paulie! Paulie! You're not in bed already on a fine night like this are you? Gawd, even George is still out.”
Quick off the mark, Paul leaps off the bed and I scramble to get the blankets back on top of me. Paul lands awkwardly and swears loudly as his ankle rolls under him and sends him sprawling. He grabs the blanket off my bed and shoves it on me to stop me laughing.
“You're meant to be sick,” he hisses. Seeing me struggling, he sits on the bed and helps me get the blankets straight.
I turn my laughs into fake coughs. These turn into real ones, feeling worse than before even though I've only recently been dosed up with what I hope was cough medicine and not something that Paul picked off the shelf at random. At that moment John, Stu and Pete burst into the room. John's singing loudly and slurring badly. He seems to be having trouble remembering all the words and substituted his own lines, making the song more surreal with every verse.
He suddenly stops and looks at Paul's guilty face. “'Allo, 'allo, 'allo. What's going on here then? Someone looks like they've been doing something naughty. Our boy's haven't been getting up to anything untoward, have they?”
I close my eyes and try to look ill. I'm lucky my face is already red from the exertion of coughing. For some values of lucky.
“What's that supposed to mean?” Paul demands on my behalf.
“Just tell him where you've hidden the girls and he'll leave you alone,” Stu says as he sits down on the bed and takes his boots off.
Looking up at John, Paul says, “If that's the only thing on your mind, Lennon, then you'll be extremely disappointed. George's sick and I've had to look after him while you've been off 'aving fun. You've seen more girls than I have tonight and I notice none of you lot are rushing to help the invalid.”
I groan but I know I can't object even though I would if we'd been alone. I'm supposed to be sicker than I feel at this moment. Apparently I have to be dying for it to plausible for Paul to fuss over me. Maybe he is drunk after all.
So, what does John do? He sits down on the bed and leans over me, leering. “You alright, Geogie boy?'”he shouts. “You still hangin' in there or do we 'ave to call the undertakers. 'Cause, you know their more expensive during off hours.”
“Sod off, John,' I groan from the depths of Paul's fetid pit.
I realise that I've been groaning a lot to day, so I moan for good measure, you know, just to even things out, like. I cough again, trying for sympathy but lapse into an all too real and painful coughing fit. At least I get sympathy from some people, with my convulsions sending Pete and Stu running off to return with water, a wet flannel and drugs of every description. I decide not to ask where the flannel's come from, or where its been for that matter, and pull faces as I get a face full of water and flannel.
The part of sick patient isn't that hard to play as it turns out I am that ill after all, probably worse. When I start coughing again, Paul does his back rubbing thing again. At least I hope it's Paul. It's too dark to tell but If John tries that on, I'll murder him. One by one the others feel they've done their part and crawl to the other rooms and into bed, except John who announces loudly that he's going back out just as I'm drifting off to sleep, leaves without his shoes and comes back to put them on noisily.
This just leaves me with Paul, still playing nurse, talking at me in that way he does when he knows other people have switched off and don't give a toss what he's saying. Something about some girl he knows that he's in love with but won't say anything because he's Paul and that's the sort of stupid thing that Paul does.
He hasn't said anything about his ankle, so either it was nothing or it's killing him. At one point when he thinks I'm asleep, he gets of the bed and stumbles across the room. I hear him get a glass of water and open a bottle of something that rattles.
When he's done instead of sitting back down he crawls under the blanket with me. I don't do anything, I'm supposed to be asleep. He lies on his side, that's the only way two of us can fit in these beds, and he lays a protective arm over me. I don't know why I immediately assume it's protective, he might have just needed somewhere to put his arm. All the same, I pull the arm round more and he comes closer. This feels nice and by the sounds of it, Paul is already asleep. Listening to his rhythmic breathing, I finally feel myself drifting off. Whatever the morning brings, it won't matter as long as Paul's still there when I wake up.