Psycho Killer || Starrison

Chapter Fifteen

John woke up early in the morning, long before Cynthia and Julian. The past night couldn't qualify as a good one. Most of the time he spent lying in the sheets motionless, worrying about his friend's fate and blaming himself for putting him in such a danger. He was haunted by nightmares. Uncountable number of theories about everything that could happen in Harrison's mansion were breaking through the musician's consciousness, resulting in pictures so realistic and terrifying that he couldn't shake them off even after waking up.

He sat on the edge of his bed, wiping his tired eyes. In spite of the clouds unlacing the sky, Lennon guessed that it's still long before dawn. Lights of all the houses were still off and the street — completely silent. He noticed only one car passing the empty street slowly. The city was asleep. John had a long day to face ahead.

The man got up and went to the kitchen as quiet as he could. He didn't want to wake up anyone nor to worry his wife, but he knew that he simply can't lay helplessly in his bed. The Beatle wanted to call Ringo once again. He still hoped that his friend will finally answer the call, smile at the other side and tell there's nothing to worry about. He will excuse his silence by late hours he came back home at, and, above all, he'll tell that Lennon's suspicions are only a projection of his depressed mind. They had no chance to be real. Although this hope was dying with every passing hour, making John panic more.

The musician looked at the clock, it was half past four. He must be crazy, hoping that anyone will be up at this hour. No way, he'll spend the time worrying and organizing everything he already knew in his mind. Everything the police should know if Ringo won't show up. Deep down in his thoughts, he sat as the table and lit the first cigarette of today.

***

The previous night wasn't tough for John only. Just when Harrison has left the basement, he realized how exhausted he was. He dreamed only of lying down and falling asleep. He wanted not to feel anything and not to think about anything for a while, slip into a slumber, begging his own mind to spare him nightmares this time.

But dreams weren't the ones to ruin his plans. When he headed to the bedroom, Arthur spoke again.

What are you doing. He never emphasized questions.

""I'm going to sleep..."

You can't. Not now. There was something forceful in his voice, showing that he knows, what he's doing. George wasn't so sure about it though.

"What are you talking about? I'm tired. I have no time for your..."

The Police.

Harrison stopped abruptly in the middle of the stairs. No, not now. Anytime but now. Visions of armed cops visiting his house flew through man's mind. They had only one purpose — to take him. This time forever.

He hears knocking at the door. No, not knocking. No, the policemen is banging at the door with his fist. There's no point in resisting, Mr. Harrison. The doors open loudly, group of people burst straight into the living room. Please remain calm, Mr. Harrison. They're coming for him, there's no way to escape. He stands like paralyzed, not being able to move anyhow. George breathes nervously, it's over now. He won't excuse himself this time, they'll find Ringo in the basement, they will know. A pair of policemen approaches, one takes his hand, second pulls out handcuffs. You have the right to remain silent, Mr. Harrison.

He shivered or rather jumped on his feet. The policemen were gone, they disappeared. It was only his harmed mind, his fate wasn't sealed, there's surely a way to get out of it, to slip between the justice's fingers one last time. The solution could be found and Arthur certainly was capable of doing it.

"What police? What can we do?"

This kid never came back home. Someone has told the police. As long as you keep him here, we're not safe. Let me get rid of him...

"No! No, no, no! I'll take care of it. It doesn't have to end like this."

So we have to escape.

"This house..." George has been there twice so far. First when he was watching it before the purchase, and second on the day of receiving the keys. Honestly, he hoped to never have a proper reason to use them.

The house was tiny, not drawing much attention to itself. It has been standing there, in the middle of nowhere for a long time. Far from the city's border. It was made of red brick, never plastered because there's no point if nobody lived there. Harrison had no idea what condition he will find the house in, but when he had seen it last time, its better years had already been behind. A small garden looking pretty decent was probably overgrown with weeds by now. Borders of the parcel most likely weren't visible at all.

The owner has never been happier when he finally managed to get rid of it. Especially because George had no time for bargains. He just wanted to take care of formalities as quick as possible, because he knew the destiny of this place. And that finding another parcel this convenient could be impossible. It could remain nearly invisible from the lifeless road. The guitarist had guaranteed that no feet will land there, not the kids skipping school, not the homeless from the neighborhood.

He had no will to appear there himself and treated the old house as some kind of backup plan. But now the times have changed, and he couldn't anything but pack his suitcase and go there. Harrison knew it's only a matter of time, and he had to act quickly, rather instinctively than logically, so he said goodbye to the warm, safe bed and at least few hours of sleep again. The preparations had to begin.

***

Time stretched, elongated mercilessly until the clock struck five, and then half past five, and then six. Cynthia was sleeping calmly in their bedroom while her husband was nervously walking around the living room. John couldn't find his place and sit down, he was too worried. He kept telling himself not to panic; if he wants to get to know something, he has to calm down, keep his mind focused. But how could he not panic? In this situation the one couldn't simply sleep with sweet dreams. It was all about his friend's life!

Right when the clock said it's seven, he reached the telephone. The man didn't care about waking someone up or not. He was ready to burn the entire city to the ground to finally gain some information. To confirm his theories or, if God existed and looked after him, to learn that he was wrong ever since the beginning, that his worries were senseless and that he can finally lie down and rest. Thanks for caring, everything is at its finest. But the common sense told him to prepare for the worst scenario. And Lennon was ready. The late night thoughts convinced him that Harrison is a murderer.

He slowly started to believe that the guitarist probably slaughtered two of his friends.

Even though the idea seemed cruel, it was clearly possible. And that was the worst part about it. It stopped being only a hearsay, projection of his paranoid consciousness. It was true, reasonable, having a little sense, likely to exist, supported by some evidence theory. Something that John Lennon will definitely tell the police, unless he will hear the cheerful voice of Richard at the end of the line.

He dialed once more.