Chapter Two: 21st August 1959 - 8 Days Earlier

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'What about

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'What about... Kim Novak? Or... Gina Lollo-- Lollobrigida, however you say it. She's gorgeous. Those fuckin' tits, eh?!'

It didn't matter which way George turned, it hurt. Lying on his side made his hip hurt with a weirdly sharp pain. On his back was marginally better, but the cold hardness of the stone still seeped into his spine and echoed all around his body until he ached with it.

'Gina, George. Wouldn't you love to shag her?'

But at least on his back he could watch the sky. It was a deep, dark navy scattered with bright pinpricks of stars that stretched on into eternity. It was startling how much you could see out in the countryside compared to the city. Back in Liverpool, the night sky was just a solid black expanse. It was hypnotic, in a way. If he stared deep into it, it eventually gave him a sensation of vertigo, like he was moving towards it.

'George? Are you listening?'

'Hmm?'

'I said Gina Lollo-- Have you already..?'

'What?'

'You haven't... finished already, have you?'

George shifted and took his hand from inside the waistband of his jeans. 'No,' he said. 'It's not working. It's too bloody cold.'

And add to that, his jeans were too tight to get a proper hold on anything down there. No room to get a grip, never mind a stroke, but he's not taking them off. Not even undoing the button on the waistband. It's August, but it's freezing. It's been like this the last couple of nights. Warm and sunny during the day, but like December when the sun goes down. George is still wearing his jeans beneath his rag of a blanket in an attempt to stave off hyperthermia. Jeans, and his shoes, toes cramped in there because he's got two pairs of socks on, as well as a vest, a shirt and two jumpers under his jacket, but still the cold invades every ounce of him.

'It's so fucking cold, Paul. I think we're going to die out here.'

Lying somewhere behind him, with his head near George's, Paul sighed. 'We should have saved some money.'

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