Nobody Wants To Know Him

XLIX - Help!

Saturday 14th July 1973
Silverstone, England
3.13pm

"I've received word that the two drivers remaining inside their vehicles are Andrea de Adamich, and George Harrison."

From where I was stood, I could see Pattie's face drop, and she froze for no longer than three seconds before pushing her way past the security guard and making her way towards the track.

Paul's children were still crying. Ringo's children were still crying. Maureen was trying to hush them, but it was in vain, yet I had somehow blocked them all out. It was as though I was watching the moment replay in my mind over and over, as though I was sat at home watching the news coverage of it. I wasn't really there, I hadn't watched it in person, I was simply spectating.

Movement ceased around us, and it was like we all froze simultaneously. Noise was drowned out from around us, and my ears were ringing.

George? In a crash?

And not just that, he was still in the car. He hadn't gotten out like the other drivers did.

What if...

"Oh my God," I heard Paul say from behind me, shuffling out of our row of seats and following Pattie. I heard him mutter a few words to Linda, to which she nodded back, face expressing concern, then with a ruffle of Heather's hair, he headed down.

John had sat back down on his plastic seat beside me, elbows leant on his knees, body hunched over, eyes fixed on some point on the floor. It was as though he was trying to coil up on himself. He hadn't been as talkative today, and I was already slightly concerned, although I hadn't wanted to say anything. The way he was reacting to this wasn't making me feel any better either.

What could we even do? We were just about fifty metres from the track, fifty metres from the entire incident, but we couldn't do anything. We knew George was still in his car, we knew he had been involved in the crash, but we had to just watch and wait. There was nothing we could do besides wait and hope.

There were two fire engines on the track now, and I could feel my blood chill within my veins at the sight. Two teams of firemen were working on both vehicles seperately, one focused on George, and the other on the Italian driver. Formula 1 managers were huddled in little clusters along with the drivers that had exited their cars, and security guards were on standby.

Yet my eyes were fixed on car number thirty-three, the yellow hats of the firemen rushing about as they tried to get the trapped men out of the car.

So many things could've happened to him in there.

He might've just not been able to climb out.

Maybe he'd passed out.

Perhaps he'd broken a bone.

Or... what if...

"______?" Ringo's voice sounded from behind me. "Are ye okay? Ye look really, really pale."

I was still standing, staring out at the track. The children's crying had subsided somewhat, but it was still so loud. I hadn't even noticed how light-headed I was until Ringo mentioned how pale I looked.

"Here, sit down," he said calmly, composed in such a way that I couldn't quite grasp given the situation. He ushered me to sit beside John, who was now looking at me with a slightly concerned but distant expression.

Ringo was saying something to me, and the commentator was speaking again, and I was hyper-aware of Mary's hands tapping on the back of my plastic blue chair, and Stella was crying again, and Maureen's shoes were clicking against the stands as she walked up and down them tending to the children, and the crowd was shouting, and the sun was scorchingly hot on my skin, and the fire engines' sirens were blaring, and the two cars were still smoking, and John was still watching me, and George was still inside his car, and Ringo was still saying something to me and I was still not listening-