Chapter Text
John sighed as he stared out his shop’s fog-covered window at the city beyond. Liverpool had been pelted with rain showers for the better part of two weeks. That morning was the first time it had let up in a long while.
Still, he sighed.
Despite renting out three costumes that morning, John couldn’t force himself to feel content. Don’t get him wrong, on any normal day, he would. Clear skies and dry ground meant more parties, parties meant people needed costumes, and costumes meant more customers.
Basic business principles.
Unfortunately, today also meant John had the absolute misfortune of seeing him again.
Ringo had been a “patron” of John’s shop for nearly three years by now. They first met when Ringo had accidentally stumbled in while John was closing up for the night. The man had been too inebriated to realize that John’s store was over two kilometres away from his flat.
Ringo’d staggered into the store, his breath reeking of beer and smoke. His clothes were tousled and stained with various liquids, none of which John had ever been able to identify, though he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.
John had been sympathetic, assuming he had been a man down on his luck who just needed some assistance from a good Samaritan.
He’d welcomed him into the store and had let him sleep on an old couch he kept in the back of the store. The same couch John frequently used when Cynthia decided to kick him out of their flat. The next morning, he even bought Ringo food to cope with his horrific hangover.
He gritted his teeth at the memory, cursing himself for the kindness he’d shown the man. The the drunkard had become nothing more than a pest John ached to get rid of.
Since that day, Ringo would come into John’s store every couple of weeks and pester him for hours on end. Sometimes he’d be sober, though usually he’d be drunk or high on whatever substance that he was able to get his greedy paws on.
At first, Ringo would visit to ramble about music and different types of weed that he’d been smoking. One time, he even brought some drumsticks he had. Though they were splintered and covered with duct tape, he had played a solid tune on some old, small drums John had in the back when he used to rent out instruments.
He was a good drummer, John supposed, but bloody annoying at the time, especially since he had been trying to rent some poor sod a unicorn costume so he could surprise his daughter for her fifth birthday.
That was then, though.
Now, he was infinitely worse.
John could never remember how or when it started, but, like clockwork, Ringo’d come crawling on his hands and knees, decked out in piss-poor disguises to beg John to borrow a kangaroo costume he had.
It was an old, grimy number, held together by hundreds of hasty stitches and dark green patches from years of tears and poor care. When the shopkeeper would eventually lower his guard and acquiesce, Ringo would put it on and stay in the changing room for hours straight.
John had always wondered what the hell he did in there, though he swore to himself he didn’t really care as the suit always came back in decent shape, if only slightly more scuffed.
He swore he didn’t care, yet he couldn’t let one fact stop bothering him: Ringo’d always come out with a horde of porn magazines, weed, cigarettes, booze, and other vices.
John sighed to himself.
If only Ringo was half as good at functioning in society as he was getting his hands on that crap, he thought bitterly. Still…how does he get it?
There was no way for him to leave the building without John being able to see him from where he stood in the front counter, so that was out of the question. There were rarely other customers in the shop when Ringo would come in, so he couldn’t be buying it off of anyone. John even checked the fitting room and suit every so often, always finding that no one ever left behind booze or porno mags for Ringo to snatch when he came in. It was a complete mystery.
Maybe-, John started before he was suddenly shaken back to reality by his door chime.
He looked over, expecting to greet a new customer only for his face to fall into a grimace upon the sight of him.
Speak of the devil and he will appear, he thought sourly.
“Hello,” a stuffy voice rang out.
John briefly allowed himself the fantasy of slapping the drunk upside the head for thinking he could fool him with that get up.
Dressed in a tangled long blonde wig, cat eyes sunnies, and a red strapless sequined dress, was Ringo. He looked ridiculous. His greasy dark hair bunched up and stuck out the wig in odd angles. His gut was pushing on the tight dress, and it looked like it was about to burst open from stretching.
He hadn’t even bothered shaving his moustache or disgustingly hairy legs.
Not that that would’ve fooled John, let alone anybody else on the planet, but it would’ve helped John feel less insulted.
“Can I try on the kangaroo costume, please?” Ringo asked, somewhat attempting to add a feminine lilt to his voice.
John crossed his arms. “I know it’s you.”
He opened his mouth to continue with his spiel about not wanting or being able to rent him the costume, but Ringo had beaten him to the punch.
“Please, I need it,” he begged, dropping the act. “Thomas Thursby is hosting a birthday party for his little girl and her favorite animal is a kangaroo, so I need a costume.”
John sighed in agitation, pinching the bridge of his nose.
He knew it was a lie, he wasn’t stupid, but he didn't really have any reason to turn him away. He was weird, rude, and rank, but not a real problem after he got the costume. If he didn’t get it, though, he’d just get more and more insistent and crass.
John had learned his lesson plenty of times before.
“Fine, but this is the last time. I can’t keep letting you use the costume without charging you. It’s not good for business.”
Ringo nodded, but John could see the look of “you wish" in his dark eyes.
As Ringo stalked off into the left hallway, heading straight for the rack with the costume. John pushed his specs up and rubbed a hand over his face.
Made himself at home, hasn’t he, John thought bitterly. Hadn’t even bothered to wait for me to pull the costume down.
He turned to look back outside, watching dewdrops coalesce and race down the window in an attempt to stave off a rapidly growing headache when he suddenly heard a loud grunt and a pained curse coming from the direction of the fitting room.
He groaned and joined Ringo in the back of the hallway with the fitting room.
Squatting down and peering in the small opening under the door, he found Ringo collapsed on the floor, hugging his knee as he muttered curses under his breath.
In front of the stall door was an old, crappy chair propped on its back two legs and leaning against the door. Precariously balanced on top had been a small wooden stool which now lay sideways.
“Bloody hell,” John groaned in disbelief at Ringo’s stupidity.
His headache was quickly starting to get worse.
“Since when did you need a key to get into the room?” Ringo moaned.
“Since about two weeks ago. Some drunk bastard waltzed in here when I was busy and christened that room as a bathroom,” he answered. “I changed it to a key lock so I have control over which stupid git could get into the room. Or, at least, I did,” he finished pointedly, tilting his head toward the chair contraption in front of the door.
Ringo responded with a huff.
“Why would you try to jump over it instead of just asking me for the keys? Did you break something?” he asked, briefly wondering where he went wrong in life for this to be the situation he was in.
“Nah, just landed on my shin weirdly. Hurts like hell,” he said, still in his position on the floor.
John sighed again and began to move the chair and stool back to the corner they belonged. “Do you need me to get help?”
“Nah, not worth the trouble,” Ringo responded, starting to straighten himself and peel off his disguise.
It took a couple of minutes, with plenty of groaning and struggling from Ringo, but eventually John could hear the telltale zip of the kangaroo’s zipper.
“Are you going to be in there for another couple of hours?”
Ringo responded with a hum, neither confirming or denying.
John shook his head, halfway down the hallway before stopping in his tracks as an idea popped into his head.
He had no other customers, so he could stay and finally see what Ringo did in there.
The logical side of his mind screamed at him to leave, to not be involved with any illegal or perverted escapades Ringo likely was getting into, but his curiosity was slowly overwhelming his logic by the second.
It had been one of his largest concerns for a while now, that along with how he planned to pay rent this month and if Cyn was feeding his cats after kicking him out last.
He just had to know.
John huffed, cursing himself and his curiosity though he still silently stalked toward the end of the hallway, grabbing a small, thin measuring tape out of the pocket of his blue vest.
He found a spot against the left wall near the end of the hallway where he’d be mostly concealed by a couple of mannequins in various extravagant garments. He positioned himself so the fitting room door was visible if he glanced across the hall, but oriented himself to look like he was measuring a mannequin just in case he walked in on it.
He shuddered at the thought of being caught spying on a customer changing.
Ten minutes. I’ll stay here for ten minutes. A waste of time, but I need to see what this stupid git does, he thought bitterly, trying to defend his own actions from his logic’s scrutiny.
He quieted, trying to make it seem like he had walked back to the front, but stayed tucked against the wall, feeling more apprehensive as minutes ticked on. There was no sound coming from the dressing room – no grunts, moans, or puffs. He hadn’t even heard the kangaroo suit jostle as if Ringo hadn’t moved at all.
Is he asleep? John thought. Has he seriously been sleeping every time he gets into the costume?
His cheeks suddenly went red at the thought of stalking a sleeping man.
He slowly lowered himself to the floor to get a better view through the bottom of the stall, just to confirm, only to find Ringo staring out from under the stall door right at him.
John nearly shouted in surprise, freezing halfway down, a hand flying on top of his rapidly beating heart. Ringo continued staring for a few seconds longer, and John actually felt like a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar.
Mortified, he was about to clear his throat, ready to explain that he was measuring a mannequin before Ringo’s eyes kept sweeping around the room, making no mention of seeing John.
He watched, still frozen, as Ringo apparently finished his search and straightened himself.
Ringo muttered to himself quickly and John unconsciously held his breath as he waited to see what Ringo did next.
It wasn't until he walked father into the changing room, next to the wall, his foot impatiently tapping against the ground that John exhaled in relief.
Thank God.
He had a silver tongue but being caught looking under a fitting room stall wasn't something he was sure he could come back from.
John quietly dropped fully on his knees, bending down, his hands still clutching the measuring tape. He was fairly certain he looked insane being on his knees, his hands above his head, measuring the hip of a mannequin, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. He was in too deep now.
“Now where the hell is it?” Ringo suddenly grumbled. He had a quieter, deeper voice, but the room was so quiet, the words seemed to ring out. “Bloody kid probably had something to do with it.”
The shopkeeper squinted in confusion.
What was “it”? What “kid”?
There was nothing to be seen in the fitting room save for a poster, some metal hooks, and a small mirror. There were also never any children in his store – usually they got too scared of the costume heads in the front, thinking John had decapitated their favorite cartoon characters.
John was becoming increasingly unnerved and irritated with Ringo’s behavior more than he usually got when it came to the man. He had always felt that Ringo lived on a different planet, but at least he’d been able to understand him in some ways. But John was completely confused now. He had no clue what he was talking about.
Again, Ringo had always been a rude, awkward man, but at least he had some semblance of a brain and was still able to function in the real world.
John wasn’t too sure about that now.
Still, taking a deep breath, he kept watching.
He felt somewhat vindicated when, less than a minute later, Ringo finally spoke again.
“‘Bout time.”
John leaned in, tilting his head up to see better inside the fitting room. He could see Ringo walk to the back of the fitting room, though he was too far to see exactly what he was doing. John leaned in even further, abandoning his fake task of measuring in favor of getting on his hands to lean even farther, his face now mere millimetres from the carpet.
Then he heard the faint rattle of a doorknob.
If he hadn’t been confused before, he was absolutely lost.
There were only three doors in the entire shop: the front entrance, the locked “Employees Only” door in the back of the tailoring room, and the door next to the rubbish bins outside, which led into the restricted "Employee Only" room. None of the doors were even in that hallway.
What the hell is he opening?
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he heard the sound of hinges squeaking. he squinted his eyes only to suddenly be blinded by light.
He slammed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth as a bright light flooded the hallway. When the initial light seemed to die off, John blinked his eyes open in an effort to adjust to the new sensations, only to gasp as he was met with a kaleidoscope of colours covering the hallway.
The colourful lights snuck out of any space the fitting room stall had, covering the hallway and any surface within it it could reach. Pinks, blues, and oranges swirled and snaked together, dancing across fabrics and making any metal in the room shine brightly like Christmas lights.
John, who had since moved to sit on his knees, watched in amazement and fear.
His nose slightly twitched as the faint smell of weed and smoke emanated from the door, blanketing the store.
The shopkeeper suddenly wondered if he had been drugged, or died, his mind unable to process the scene before him.
That is, until he heard a thump.
John threw his head back toward the ground to see Ringo begin to hop into an opening, his body slowly becoming enveloped in the tie dyed light as a high pitched shrieking chorus of Ringo’s name welcomed him.
He found himself jumping up and rushing to find his keys in his pockets, almost dropping them in his haste. When he finally managed to get a grasp on them, he ran to the door, stumbling and tripping over the mannequins that had fallen in his hurry. Closing the small distance, he flung the door wide open.
He stopped dead, positive he had been drugged but was quickly shaken out of his haze.
In the middle of the fitting room was a large wooden door, the source of the chaos. Ringo was gone, the only trace of him being there at all was the tail end of the kangaroo tail that kept slowly hopping into the light.
As he got farther in, the chorus began to play softer, like a hum, until it vanished. The smoke slowly dissipated, as if seeping through a widow into the sky. Following it was the gorgeous kaleidoscope of colors, which shrunk inwards, the strange lights quickly snaking back into the door just as quick as they came out.
As soon as the tail fully disappeared with a final small hop, the door suddenly slammed closed behind him.
John dashed toward it, hands clenching on the knob as he desperately tried to force it open, though it wouldn’t budge.
“Ringo?!”
No answer.
John yanked the handle again. He pushed against the wooden door with his shoulder, then kicked the bottom of it for good measure.
Still nothing.
Suddenly, before his eyes, the door began to change.
The door’s frame began to blur, melting back into the wall like wet paint. The knob slowly melted into the wall behind it, as if it had been made of wax.
John stumbled back when the door had completely vanished, looking at the room in disbelief, his eyes wide and his hands clutching his hair, his fez falling off.
For several seconds, he just stared at a wall. A normal fitting room wall.
He reached out, his hands tracing where the frame had been.
Nothing. It was solid.
He knocked.
Solid.
He kicked the wall again, ignoring the sharp pain that burst in his foot.
“Ringo?”
There was no answer.
He walked about the fitting room and hallway, taking in the scene, and it was as if nothing happened.
Ringo’s wig and dress were still discarded on a metal hook inside the room, and the poster John had kept in there stayed plastered on the wall, untouched. Each scuff in the carpet and scratch in the plastic fitting room stall remained the same.
Everything was exactly as it had been.
Everything except for Ringo.
John stared at the wall for another few seconds before rubbing both hands over his face and pacing around the room.
He checked the wall again. He searched the clothing racks. He looked under his counter. He even looked underneath the chair and stool, despite knowing perfectly well that Ringo couldn't possibly be hiding there or anywhere. John had seen him vanish, after all.
Still, nothing.
He returned to the wall and stared at it.
He was beginning to believe this was a nightmare or even Purgatory, though the screaming pain in his foot told him he was awake and alive. Or maybe he had imagined it all in a sleep-deprived haze, but he knew he had slept well enough. A good seven hours at least. Or he had been drugged by something worse than he had originally thought, though he knew it wasn’t possible. But any theory seemed infinitely more plausible than what he had just seen.
John reached for the wall again.
Solid.
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
Right.
Some time passed before he forced himself to migrate to the front of the shop, though he kept glancing toward the fitting room as if the wall might suddenly open again.
For the next hour, John did absolutely nothing.
He considered calling the police which was quickly marked as a horrible idea when he imagined trying to explain what had happened.
Hello, officer. One of my customers has disappeared through a magical door inside my costume shop.
No, he shook his head. Wouldn’t work.
He even briefly considered calling Cynthia.
That was an even worse idea.
Eventually, John convinced himself that the only reasonable thing to do was wait.
If Ringo could disappear through that door, then he could presumably come back through it. He had every other time he went missing during the last three years. Then again, that line of reasoning required John to believe Ringo would walk through a magical door into some sort of different dimension each time he put on that kangaroo costume.
He groaned, clutching his head, which had become a full-blown migraine by now. He couldn’t stand there all day like a lost dog, but he couldn’t not think about what had just occurred.
He huffed, suddenly resolute. He only knew one thing for certain.
He was going to find out who the hell Ringo was and where the hell he had been going all these years.