Chapter Text
“Come on Georgie, you sure you want to do this by yourself?”
George could kill Paul if he wouldn’t end up in jail for it. Paul, who was only 2 years older than him but acted like George was just a baby that Paul must coddle and smother with care. George would strangle him if he could. It doesn’t help that Paul already had a successful solo album, and seemed intent on imparting his unwanted wisdom upon George. His anger simmered beneath the surface as Paul continued to lecture him.
“Making a solo album is a lot of work, y’know. It’s a lot of money too.”
“Paul, I know I can do it. I don’t need you hovering around me all the time. I’m not a baby, I’m only two years younger than you.”
“But Georgie-“
“Don’t call me Georgie. I'm 20 for Christ's sake, I’m an adult!”
Paul made a face, biting his lip with worry. George’s eyes narrowed, and he held the neck of his guitar with a white-knuckled grip.
“I can make my own album. I can.”
“But you do know it’s a lot of money, right? How are you going to pay for it?”
“I…I can figure something out.”
“Are you sure? I’d be more than happy to help you pay for it, I’ve got the money—“
“Were you not just listening to me? I told you I want to make this album on my own. That means no help from you, unless I ask you for it.”
“If you say so…”
Paul went back to fiddling with his bass, sitting on his bed, while George angrily tuned his guitar. How dare Paul not think he was up to the task? He absolutely could make his own solo album, and a good one at that. George would make a number one album, and he’d make barrels of money, and he’d make sure Paul ate his words.
The only problem was getting the money to make the album in the first place.
Now, George knew he’d need a sizable amount of money. It cost a lot to hire the session musicians, engineers, and not to mention the rental rates of a studio were quite costly. And George was a perfectionist, meaning he’d be spending a lot of time in the studio. Preferably speaking, George would need around £30,000 just to be safe. Now George didn’t exactly have £30,000 lying around in his house, and he’d rather chew his own leg off before asking Paul for money. He had a vague suspicion of someone he could ask, but he had to do it when he was alone; Paul would never approve.
“I’m bored, Paul. I’m going to go on a walk.”
“Alright then, I’ll see you when you get back.”
George packed up his guitar, depositing the case in his bedroom before leaving the house he shared with Paul. Walking down the street, George considered the option which had slowly been eating away at his mind for the past few weeks now. For the past few years, organized crime in Liverpool had been steadily rising, with one name at the front of it all.
Richard Starkey.
Known simply as Ringo, on account of his signature brass knuckle rings that he uses when fighting, the man had quickly risen to the highest position of power within Liverpool's crime industry. He’d manage to take control of the biggest gangs, unite them, and to George’s knowledge now operates as a sort of mob boss, overseeing his gang, The Hurricanes. He would definitely have 30,000 pounds lying around for George to borrow. There was just the problem that he was a mob boss, and George was a scrawny 20 year old with no real fighting abilities and no weapons to protect himself. Still, George was nothing if not determined. It also helped that George had a slight crush on Ringo. He’d only ever seen the man once, when he was leaving his house, but that was enough for George to become a little interested.
Reaching the off license at the end of the street, George turned around and started to walk back to the house, turning over his master plan in his head. First, he was going to wait until Paul fell asleep. Then, he was going to sneak out of the house and make his way down to Dingle, where Ringo’s house was. Then, he was going to (somehow) make his way inside the house without getting caught, and ask Ringo for the 30,000 pounds he needed to make his album. With any luck, Ringo would take kindly to his boldness and give him the money he needed. If not…George would deal with that later.
By now George had gotten back to the house, so he went inside. Passing by the kitchen, he noticed that the calendar was turned to the wrong month - it read May 1963 - so he turned it to the right month, June. Then, he went upstairs to his room to wait for night to fall, so he could enact his plan.
At around 8 o’clock, Paul turned in for the night. George could never understand exactly how Paul slept so early, but he wasn’t complaining about it right now. He silently crept down the hall and towards the front door, wincing at every creak of the floor. By some miracle he managed to leave the house without waking Paul, who was a very light sleeper. Closing the door behind him, George went to where his car was parked and got in, now focused only on driving to his destination.
The drive to Dingle was long and silent, and George constantly worried that someone would be following him. That was not the case however, and soon George had arrived at his destination. He parked far from the house in order to draw less suspicion, and then made his way closer, keeping a watchful eye out. Realistically speaking he knew he wouldn’t be able to spot a security guard before they spotted him, but one could only hope.
By some small miracle, George made it up to the side of the house. It was a grand house, really, and lovely to look at. Spotting a drainpipe that led to a slightly open window, George praised his lucky stars; this was turning out to be easier than he expected. Of course, George immediately fell the moment he tried to scale the drainpipe.
Maybe this wasn’t going to be easy after all.
Taking a deep breath, George grabbed onto the drainpipe and attempted once more to scale it. He had more success this time, although he slipped and almost fell while trying to grab onto the windowsill. Legs dangling wildly in the air, George somehow managed to pull himself through the window and flop unceremoniously onto the floor. For a moment George simply lay on his back, trying to catch his breath, before getting up and trying to assess his surroundings. It was dark in the room, but George could just barely make out a little side table and some furniture towards the middle of the room. Moving further in, George cautiously put his hands out until they came into contact with something soft. As George felt around some more, he realized that he was touching a blanket, and that he was in a bedroom.
A bedroom. Was it Ringo’s bedroom? George didn’t know.
Feeling around some more, George eventually bumped into a side table that had a lamp on it. When George turned it on to have more light, two things happened. One, the light showed him that he really was in a bedroom, and a big one at that. Two, he was being grabbed and shoved against the wall, one hand at his neck while the other held a gun to his head, and was now staring straight into the face of a very angry Richard Starkey.
George immediately started screaming.
“Shut up! Who the fuck are you?”
“I - I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
“Shut up and answer my fucking question.”
George tried to catch his breath, but it was hard with the hand around his neck. Ringo seemed to notice this and took the hand around his neck away, but kept the gun pressed to the side of George's head. George hiccupped, trying not to cry, and attempted to explain himself.
“I - my name is G-George Harrison and - and I - I was really hoping that you could give me 30,000 pounds pleaseandthankyou!”
“The fuck?”
Ringo took a step back, inadvertently pulling the gun away, and George tried to make a break for it. He was immediately grabbed and thrown onto the bed, the gun now trained on his head. George started crying.
“Please don’t kill me please don’t kill me I'm really sorry, I-I’ll leave, y-you could just forget you ever s-saw me…”
“Could you just stop crying for one damn second?”
George immediately slapped a hand over his mouth, trying to quiet his sobbing. Ringo sighed and put the gun down again, one hand resting on his hip. He was wearing blue star patterned pajamas. George focused on them; it was the only thing keeping him from crying once more.
“So let me get this straight. You broke into my house so that you could ask me for 30,000 pounds.”
“Uh…yes?”
“…do you know who I am?”
“You’re - you’re Richard Starkey. Or Ringo, as some call you.”
Ringo stared at George as if analyzing him, and George squirmed under his sharp gaze. Then, Ringo cocked his head to the side, as if realizing something,
“Are you…are you McCartney's kid?”
“I’m not a kid,” George bristled indignantly, before coming to his own realization. “Wait - you know about Paul?”
“Yeah I do, his album’s everywhere. You can’t escape him.”
“Well - well I’m a musician too! And I’m going to be just as good as Paul, maybe even better! Which is why I need 30,000 pounds so I can go make an album.”
Ringo stared at George, and George simply blushed.
“How old are you?”
“25.”
It was a lie. George wasn’t really sure why he said that; he regretted it as soon as the number left his mouth. Still, he couldn’t back down now.
“Are you sure you’re 25?”
“Wha - yes I’m sure!”
There was silence. For a moment George thought that Ringo could see right through his lies, that he would see George not as the young, confident adult he wanted to be perceived at and instead see George as what he truly was: just a scared, lonely boy who just wanted to be taken seriously for once in his life.
“Alright. I’ll give you the 30,000 pounds you need.”
“You will?”
George was stunned. He didn’t think he would be able to convince Ringo to give him the money, let alone have him give in so easily. Just as George was about to say something, the gun was trained upon him once more, and he froze.
“You have to promise me something though.”
“I - I do?”
George’s voice wavered ever so slightly.
“Mate, this is the mob you’re dealing with. If you wanted a clean transaction you should’ve just gone to the bank.”
“Okay…what’s the promise?”
“It’s a simple one. I’ll give you the 30,000 pounds, and whatever more you may need, and all you have to do is just pay me back in a month. I’m sure your album will have made enough money by then.”
George, perhaps feeling too confident for a man with a gun currently pointed at him, opened his mouth and spoke the words he would come to regret sorely in the near future.
“I’ll pay you back in a week, swear on my life.”
“Is that true?”
Ringo had an incredulous sort of smile on his face, eyebrow raised and eyes gleaming.
“You’re that confident in your album?”
“I’m more than confident. I’m absolutely certain that the album will do so well, I’ll be able to pay you back in a week. Maybe even in less than a week.”
Ringo grinned, sharp and knowing, and lowered the gun.
“Famous last words. Well George Harrison, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
He held his hand out for George to shake, and so George took it, and they shook on the deal. George felt good, better than he had in weeks. His plan was going perfectly. Soon, he was going to make a record so great, Paul would never call him his baby brother ever again.
Everything was going to be fine
***************
Everything was not going to be fine.
In the end, George had to borrow 60,000 pounds from Ringo so he could make the album. It was a complex album, Gone Troppo, and a lot of extra work had to be put into it that George hadn’t foreseen. Combined with George’s perfectionism streak, and it turned out to be the perfect storm that put George 30,000 pounds further into debt. To make matters even worse, it was not performing well at all. About a week had passed and it had yet to chart in the UK, making George extremely nervous. He had missed the deadline to repay Ringo, and it was growing on his mind with every second. God, how could he have been so stupid as to swear on his life that he’d have the money a week after Gone Troppo released? What little money he’d made didn’t even come close to making a dent in his debt.
Of course it didn’t help that Paul had mistaken his anxiety over his debt for anxiety over the album, and was doing a very bad job at comforting George. George couldn’t even tell Paul about the debt, because he knew Paul would help in a heartbeat and simultaneously chew him out for being so stupid. But George had been stupid, and he really needed help, but he had nowhere and no way to get any.
Currently George was once more pacing in his room, trying to figure out what to do, while Paul sat on the bed and tried to counsel him.
“Really George, it’ll be okay. Every musician has bad albums at some point in their career. Yours just…happens to be your debut album.”
“No Paul, it’s not okay. Nothing is okay, and I - I really just want to be alone right now. I just…god, the money…”
“Where did you get the money anyways?”
“I…I borrowed it, and now I have to pay them back and I can’t, and I…god I can’t do this right now…”
“Who did you–”
“Paul, please. I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
“Okay then.”
Paul got up, leaving without another word. George sat on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands, and cried. He didn’t know what to do, he was exhausted, and he still had a 60,000 pound debt to repay. Laying down on the bed, George hugged a pillow and cried himself to sleep.
*******************
George woke up to a sound at night.
Confused, he got up and looked out the window, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. He heard another sound outside, near where the cars were, and panicked. If someone messed with the cars - especially Paul’s car - it would not be good. Assuming that it was just some neighborhood vandal, George left his room and went outside, going around to where the cars were to see if he could spot anyone. Seeing no one near the cars, George went up to the sidewalk to see if he could spot anyone in the road. There was only a car coming up the road, which was nothing out of the ordinary. He had just turned around and started back to the house when the car behind him sped up. George turned around, took one good look at the car (expensive, too expensive), cursed, and started running down the sidewalk for dear life.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
George tripped, one of his slippers flying off. He kicked off the other one and continued to run barefoot, desperately hoping to find somewhere, anywhere, that he could hide. Unfortunately George could not run faster than a car, and it quickly caught up to him. The rear passenger door opened as it drove by, and George was practically yanked from the street and thrown into the backseat of the car, the door shutting and instantly locking. George looked up and locked eyes with Ringo, who sat with a gun in his lap and a smile on his face.
“George Harrison. We finally meet again.”
“Oh god, oh fuck…”
George could barely breathe. He had started to cry when he was running, and the tears flowed freely now. Ringo adjusted the rings on his hands, acting as if he was almost bored.
“You know, we had an agreement Georgie. You were supposed to pay me back about 3 days ago.”
George whimpered, curling in on himself in fear. Ringo simply leaned back in his seat, tapping his gun on his leg.
“I don’t take kindly to people going back on their word. And you swore on your life, didn’t you George?”
George couldn’t answer. He was convinced that he was going to die in this car, that Ringo would kill him and dump his body somewhere and he’d never be seen again.
“Here’s what you’re going to do for me. Since your little album did poorly, and you clearly don’t have my 60,000 pounds, I'll make another deal with you. Either I go after everything you own, or you can come and work for me until you can pay off your debt. It’s your call.”
It was a simple decision, really. If Ringo went after all his belongings, he could take the house. If he took the house, he might also do something to Paul, and George couldn’t have that. For all of his anger at Paul, he did truly care about the other and would loathe to see him hurt because of his mistakes. George sniffled, wiping his eyes furiously.
“I…I’ll go with you. I’ll work off my debt.”
Ringo smiled as if he knew the answer all along. George simply sat miserably on the seat, burying his face in his knees and willing himself back to sleep.
“I knew you’d make the smart choice. Welcome to the family, Georgie boy.”