All Those Years Ago - Lennison Fan Fiction - Beatles Slash Fan Fiction

Chapter twenty-four: 1972, To Love is Divine, to Err is Human

John sprawled in the back-seat of the cab, stifling a yawn and pushing his glasses back up his nose, ignoring the interested look the cab driver was giving him. The man had obviously recognised him the second he'd hopped into the car, a few blocks down the street, but he'd been polite (or shy) enough not to bother him so far. Perhaps he didn't have any wife who'd been a Beatle fan in her youth and would swoon over his autograph. Or perhaps he did, and couldn't stand the real size poster of Paul that had been behind the door of the loo for the past ten years anymore. John muffled a cackle against the palm of his hand, pretending to be very interested by what was going on outside the window, in the near-deserted avenue.

It was late and the few people still out in the cold were hurrying back home, shuffling along bent against the biting wind, or staggering up and down the pavement, drunk. John'd stayed way too late in the small club, so late that both Yoko and his PA had given up, going home and leaving him alone, to attend the rest of the 'meeting', fascinated if not convinced by what was being said. Hoffman and Rubin had talked a good part of the evening about political reform and the need for social revolution. They'd talked about John Sinclair, about how he was still imprisoned, officially because he'd owned a few joints but in reality because his left-wing 'propaganda' bothered the government. What kind of country did that?

It made John's blood boil and, though he didn't agree with the idea of a violent reprisal, it filled his body with angry energy and his head with songs. He slipped Hoffman's book, Steal This Book! (he'd followed the advice and almost gotten caught. He'd lost his touch, since Hamburg. Then again, back in those days people wouldn't recognise him at a single glance.) onto his knees, lighting himself a cigarette one-handedly. The driver didn't comment, just turning on the radio.

He was engrossed in the last part of the book when the music softly playing from the car radio drifted away to a newsflash. "... amendments are still being discussed." The speaker got his breath back, before going on. "Former Beatle George Harrison was involved in a serious car crash tonight, along with his wife. He reportedly hit a post in a roundabout during a black out. Upon arrival at the hospital, Harrison was bleeding heavily from the head, while wife Pattie remained unconscious. No further details are known at the time, but we will of course keep you informed in our morning edition. The baseball matches today..."

John very nearly leaped at the driver's throat. "Stop the car, stop the car!" It came to an abrupt halt in the thankfully sparse traffic and John threw a couple of bills at the bemused man, forgetting his book in the back-seat. John's mind was blank and his heart was racing, running towards the telephone booth they'd passed only a few seconds before. When he pushed the door open the certitude that George was dead hit him as if he'd walked into a wall. He couldn't breathe.

His head spun as he had to lean heavily against the filthy panes of the booth, fumbling for his change, hands shaky. bleeding heavily from the head, bleeding heavily from the head, bleeding heavily from the head... the voice looped in his mind. No, no, it couldn't be. He managed to dial the number of Friar Park, panting agonisingly into the receiver for a few long seconds before one of George's assistants replied, reassuring him. "He's fine," the man said. "Just badly rattled. Mrs Harrison is much worse, though. She's still unconscious." John unapologetically did not care. He asked to be put in relation with the hospital George was staying at, and was put through after a few, never-ending, minutes.

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