Psycho Killer || Starrison

Chapter One

The men were sitting at the studio, enjoying their temporary break from recording. They were looking through the window, watching snowflakes swirling in the sky.

"First snow," sighed Paul McCartney with a smile.

He looked around at his friends. George was playing some random notes, deep in thoughts. Ringo was smoking a cigarette and John was reading a newspaper, frowning. The bassist, annoyed by the lack of answer, sat next to the leader.

"Whatcha reading, Johnny?"

"Newspaper," was his reply.

Macca murmured something under his breath and pulled the lecture from John's hands.

"Still no clues in the mysterious murder's case," he read the headline out loud. The bassist cursed and kept on reading. "Sleight of the killer or ineptness of the police? The city has been terrorized by a wave of homicides for the past two years. They're happening every month, according to the same scheme: the victim goes missing without a trace, after a few days there comes a letter from anonymous address, consisting of a short note and a piece of victim's body, sometimes it's a nail, piece of skin, hair or an eye. Every time something different. Officially those people are considered missing, but they're never seen again. Kidnapped ones have absolutely nothing in common — they differ by age, gender, class. It may seem that the murderer is attacking on a freeway, but he never leaves any clues. He works with an absolute and cruel precision. The Londoners are terrified, the police is throwing their hands helplessly. Despite all the efforts the psycho stays untraceable. No one can feel safe. It is recommended to the citizens to not leave the home alone at night and inform the police about every suspicious events." There was silence after McCartney's words.

"Damn," Ringo broke it finally. "How could the police not caught this madman? It's been two years."

"I hope they'll finally get him and hang him. He deserved it," Lennon huffed.

"Agreed," said George, silent all this time. He felt an internal anxiety though and tried to fight it.

"Good that we have a special security. Maybe being a Beatle is useful sometimes."

"Say that again when you'll want to leave the hotel, but fans won't let you," Ringo mumbled, taking a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it.

They were talking for a while about the murderers, when the subject took a backseat.

"You know what? Let's leave today's recording for later and get drunk," John proposed, standing up. The bassist and the drummer nodded willingly, but Harrison hesitated.

"I can't... Not today..." he said quietly, avoiding their gazes, looking at the floor.

"You kidding?" John walked to him and put his arm around the guitarist. "Why not?"

"George, come on," Ringo looked at him with his deep, blue eyes which Harrison could barely insist. For a moment he was about to agree, but he felt something inside of him — something that wouldn't let him go.

"I'm sorry, I'm really busy," said Harrison, trying to sound as distant as he could, got up, put his guitar down and took his coat.

The rest of The Beatles groaned with disapproval, but shrugged, accepting the lack of friend's presence.

"Alright," the guitarist put his coat and scarf on.

He was already at the door, when Richard spoke worriedly: "George? Are you sure you wanna go all alone? It's dangerous."

His friend's concern made Harrison's heart melt. Oh, Ringo. No need to worry. Not a single bit. He faked a smile.

"No, it's okay, don't worry about me." After those words he went out to the autumn night.

***

George Harrison was sitting at a table, at his own, silent home. He didn't even bother to change. He just came, took old, thick phone book out of the cupboard and... waited. Looking mindlessly at the pages, fearing to begin, procrastinating what he knew he had to do. Finally, the man sighed. He couldn't delay, tried to forget about emotions, drawing the name, starting with the letter that he already chose.

M.

Think of nothing. Feel nothing. Stay numb. It's your duty.

He kept telling this to himself, not the first time, and started slow drawing former among the names written down on the piece of paper, according to his own, perfectly composed system. At one point the guitarist stopped. His heart begun to beat fast when he looked at the surname and sped up impossibly when he recognized it.

No.

It can't be.

From all the names in this world, not this. What was the chance of picking this very one. What was the possibility? Negligible. It was just unbelievable.

McCartney, James Paul.

He didn't even have to read the address. George knew it very well.

"No..." he whispered quietly, slumping over the floor, shocked.

Not Paul. He couldn't. Harrison groaned, thinking what to do now. He was panicking for a moment, until he heard grim, numb voice in his head:

You have to do it.

***

A/N:

'Ello! And welcome to the best Starrison we've written so far.

Seriously, it's worth reading.

TAKE IT AND READ IT.

PS. Arthur is the best character. 

~ ThreeGaysGrace

Eyy she god damn right

Have fun :')

~ Wii