Psycho Killer || Starrison

Chapter Four

And then Arthur disappeared. Disappeared, leaving George in the middle of the basement, covered in blood of his best friend. Harrison blinked quickly and looked around. He saw Paul, lying lifeless, still tied up to the table. He looked away. He couldn't watch the body full of still fresh wounds, body of the friend, and his eyes that weren't going to see the sun anymore, usually full of happiness.

"No..." the man whispered.

He headed towards the exit, feeling that if he won't leave, he'll vomit. Harrison slammed the basement's door and fell down on the floor. He didn't realize his eyes were full of tears until then.

"It's all my fault," he wept. "Why did I let this happen?"

George used to tell himself that it won't be any worse than always, that when everything will end, he'll just clean it up and come back to his everyday routine for the rest of the month, as if nothing happened behind those walls. That he will cope with this. He'll try to forget. How could Harrison forget Paul's death though? His best friend's.... How could the guitarist deal with the fact that he laid his own hand on this case? When he had McCartney's blood on his hands? Now he knew very well it wasn't possible. And doubted that he will ever stop blaming himself.

This way Harrison has spent the next half an hour. Sitting under the door, scared of what was inside, crying like a baby. Guilt was tearing him apart. Until he remembered it wasn't the end yet. He still had to work. If he didn't appear in the studio, someone would start to be suspicious, and that's the last he needed. George should have some alibi.

The young man got up and to the bathroom. He nearly screamed, seeing his reflection in the mirror; clothes and hands, still covered in dried blood. Dark circles under bloodshot, tired eyes, messy hair. He couldn't show up like that. Harrison took a shower and left the dirty clothes on the bathroom's floor — he'll do something about them later. After a moment he was ready to leave, not even thinking about eating. The guitarist haven't had time for this, not to mention his lack of appetite. He just wanted to get out of this house and, if he was lucky enough, never come back again.

Soon after that George reached his destination, parked the car and entered the studio.

"Hi," he greeted the rest of the guys.

Ringo was sitting behind his drum set, John reading the daily news and Paul... Paul of course was absent.

"How you doing?" the drummer asked casually.

"Pretty good," the guitarist answered, taking his coat off. He tried to sound naturally, when in fact he was fighting with himself deep down inside. Sadness mixed with anger and hatred he felt towards himself, towards what he has done. George couldn't erase the view he saw in his own basement, and he couldn't bear the thought of coming back there within a few hours. Although he really wished to. In this situation it was hard to focus on anything, especially on acting naturally.

"Are you sure? You're not looking good, mate."

"Huh? Oh, yeah... I just didn't sleep well..." It wasn't even a lie, in fact Harrison hasn't slept a wink last night.

His friend nodded in answer.

They were sitting in silence. The guitarist tried to ignore every single thought about Paul, given to him by subconscious. He took his guitar instead and started to play random tunes. When it failed as well, he laid his eyes on the drummer. Harrison stopped denying it long ago. He had feelings for this boy. For his big, blue eyes and for his childlike manner. Everything about him seemed just perfect. Except for one thing... Richard would beaver love him back.

George snapped back to the reality when Brian walked into the room, smiling.

"Can we start?"

"Paul is not here," answered John from above the newspaper.

The young man shuddered slightly. They didn't know that Macca wasn't going to show up today. He wasn't going to show up at all. The guilt was tearing him apart; he feared that at one point wouldn't handle it and tell them everything. Confess everything he had done through all those years, all those murders...

"I'll call him."

At the image, of the telephone, ringing in McCartney's house, with no one to answer, sent shivers down George's spine. He knew it's irrational, but all the time he had a feeling, that somehow his friends will discover that Macca didn't even come back home yesterday, that they will suspect him.

"Maybe it's a bad idea?" He asked quietly. "Maybe he's on his way and just stopped in traffic."

"But we can try." Eppy shrugged and began to dial.

No one answered.

They called once more.

No answer.

"Well... I guess you were right," Brian said to the guitarist.

After long time, when Paul still hasn't got there, the atmosphere started to become a little nervous. John was losing his mind, terrified by the lack of any signs of life from his friend.

"What if something really happened to him?"

Everyone tried to calm him somehow, nobody was sure about McCartney's fate though. All they could think about was one specific theory — but were too afraid to say it out loud. After all, what was the possibility of being caught by a serial killer? The Beatles were sitting just like that, in silence, the four of them lost in their own thoughts. Every now and then repeating that it couldn't be anything serious, and they had nothing to worry about. Until Lennon couldn't stand it anymore.

"What if this psycho kidnapped him? What if we're sitting here idly, when something's happening to Macca? What if he's dying right now?!" He screamed.

"John... John, calm down." Ringo came closer to him and wrapped his arm around the panicked man. "Everything will be alright. It's probably nothing serious..."

"How can you know?"

"Just like that... John, are you... crying?"

This scene broke Harrison's heart. He had no idea what to think any longer, not to mention doing anything. It was terrifying. He got up and headed towards the door.

"What are you doing?" The guitarist heard voice behind his back.

"I'm going home," he shrugged.

"You can't just leave like that! Don't you care about Paul at all?" Lennon shouted angrily.

"No, John... I'm just tired. And we won't help him sitting here anyway. There's no point."

"Leave him... it's nothing," Brian laid his hand on John's shoulder. "Let him go."

Lennon wanted to protest when he heard the sound of closing doors. He looked at the floor. The men couldn't be sure, but he had a distressing feeling, that something bad was going on.