The Certainty Of Chance (Beatles Fan Fiction)

8

May lay in her bed, desperately trying to concentrate her thoughts on George and the Beatles so that she wouldn’t have to think of less pleasant things. She had tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come and after a while she started to talk to George again.

“Oh, George, I wonder where you are now?” she asked him, dreamily, “Living it up somewhere, probably. Drinking champagne in a Mayfair nightclub…”

In the adjacent room, George relit his candle and listened. Perhaps he was more tired than he thought he was, he was hearing voices talking to him now. Or voice.

“…George?”

There it was again. Someone had definitely said his name. All kinds of illogical reasons streamed through George’s mind. Ghosts? The voice of his conscience calling him? Burglars? Burglars who knew his name?

Armed with the candle, and the broken chair leg as an improvised weapon, George crept out onto the landing. He paused. What am I going to do if I do find somebody?The nearest phone is in the town so I couldn’t even call the police.

“It just seems so unreal, George…”

The voice came out of nowhere again but on the landing it was clearer. It belonged to a girl. And she’d definitely said ‘George.’

How could she know I’m here? George thought, No one knows where I am. Images of the frenzied twelve-year-old girl following him from London danced in his mind.

“What am I going to do without him?”

It came from the room across from what had been George’s room. The door was slightly ajar so George tiptoed closer and gently eased it open a crack. The room was in darkness but he could make out a shape lying on the bed. The cheek! George thought, bloody squatters! He wondered if there might be more of them. Well, if there were, the game was up! He’d see that they were out of here by morning. He looked at the chair leg and tightened his grip on it.

“I just don’t understand,” the squatter continued. George couldn’t see whom she was talking to, there didn’t appear to be anyone else in the room, but he couldn’t be sure there wasn’t some six-foot heavyweight boxer standing behind the door.

“I have tried to do everything I thought I was supposed to do. I cooked all his meals, I kept the house clean, and as for money, I never spent a penny on myself. Well, ‘til today. I shouldn’t have bought that stupid record.”

Right, George thought, on three and I’ll burst in! The element of surprise!

“What did I do wrong? What’s wrong with me?” the girl half said, half wailed, and she began to cry.

What is it with women today? George thought, hesitating. Every one I come within six feet of bursts into tears.

I can hardly go in there screaming blue murder now; he reconsidered, as she began to properly sob. He ventured forward a little further, opening the door a crack further. As he peeped in something on the bedside table caught his eye.

“What was it he wanted from me?” the girl cried, “You’re a man George, what do you want?”

George pushed the door open wide and came in. “That buttie would be nice, for a start,” he said, pointing to the sandwich May had left on the side.

May screamed in fright. The candle cast eerie shadows disguising George’s face and she didn’t recognise him. All she saw was a menacing figure holding up a stick of wood. George came closer. May screamed again.