Psycho Killer || Starrison

Chapter Twelve

Seconds after John was in a police car. He had no will to visit the police station, he had no will to leave house in fact. The man had no power to do so, after Paul's death he completely fell apart. No one could make him eat or drink, thinking rationally wasn't an option either. The only thing to cross his mind from time to time were his memories of Paul. Those didn't seem to go anywhere.

Years of friendship, playing together, everything. But still sometimes there was something more. One, wicked thought that didn't let to stifle, no matter how hard he tried. This thought has kept on coming back to him for so long that he managed to get used to it. Lennon tried everything to escape it, he pushed it to the back of his mind so no one ever found out about it. It was terrifying, gross and unbelievable. Some time later he learned to accept it. But only not so long ago he got tired of hiding, he decided to put it into practice. It's been a year, it took a year for John Lennon to admit that he fell in love...

The musician was looking at the world through police car's closed window. He observed all the buildings passing by, places he knew very well. He spent a big part of his life in this very city, still John gave no sign of recognizing any of them. Everything he could think of was his hidden sympathy, his best friend and the latest victim of a serial killer. Lennon didn't remember when exactly he realized his feelings towards McCartney, mainly because he spent the majority of time trying to repress them. He kept telling himself that there's a wife and a child, and he loved them very much. It's only a phase and will pass eventually. Most important John was afraid and didn't dare to say a word. He was scared to ruin not only this long friendship but also his marriage and probably the entire band. He couldn't let this happen.

But now John decided to finish this game. He knew it's impossible to take it anymore, that he has to confess it. "I'll do this," he repeated over and over again in his head, and finally planned to break the painful silence one day before Christmas Eve. The Beatle was looking forward to this day as a child waiting for their Christmas gifts to be unwrapped. Now when November was over and there wasn't much time until late Christmas he had to face the most surreal vision that he could think of. All this time Lennon had a feeling that he's in a terrible dream, that all of it will be over soon, and he will wake up. But instead of appearing in a safe bedroom he's found himself in a hearing room at the police station. Probably the last place he wanted to spend time in.

There was nothing really specific about this room at all. White, empty walls easily reflected the light. No windows could be found there, nothing to distract him. There was only a simple desk in the middle of the room with three chairs at it. John noticed a clock next to the entrance. Nothing more. Nothing that would make him think that his hosts have any friendly intentions. Even if they said so. Right with doors closing Lennon felt completely separated from the rest of the world. 'I hope I won't be there for a long time.'

"Please, sit down, Mr. Lennon," spoke one of the policemen.

John did as he was told to, more and more terrified by the situation he found himself in. Will he be able to help them anyhow? The musician had no power to talk about Paul McCartney, he had no power now, and he won't have in a close future. He will never be able to talk about him without tears appearing in his eyes. He couldn't help. This pain was too much.

Lennon was sitting motionless on a hard, wooden chair when policemen begun the questioning. Name, surname, age...

"I'm John fucking Lennon and you can check it in the first newspaper you'd take! You better tell me what the hell am I doing here?!" He couldn't stop himself — he never considered himself an example of angelic patience and right now he was really nervous. As nervous as never before.

"Calm down, sir. That's the procedure, and you're here to help us find your friend. I think you're aware of that, mister Lennon."

John took a deep breath. He knew he had to calm down; the quicker he does it, the sooner he'll go home. So he looked down and apologized quietly. The man prayed inwardly to be somewhere else right now. Preferably in another universe. In a universe where his best friend was still alive, where he was happy or even in a universe where he was something more than a friend.

Now he didn't have time for it though. John had to focus and answer. And he did, as good as he could. But the truth was that he barely remembered that evening. It took some time, but they finally set down when McCartney has left the studio. And soon after that he wasn't alone.

"Geo didn't feel very well... Paul offered time take him home, so they got dressed and left. That was the last time I saw him." John knew how it sounded. He thought about it a lot himself. Probably more than he should have.

"Do you mean George Harrison, the guitarist?" One of the officers asked, looking through his notes.

"Y-yes... But it can't be him... he's our friend, we've known each other for so long, before any of this even started..." If so then why did John stop trusting him? Why did he suspect him? Why did he send Ringo to spy on him? And why the drummer didn't give any sign of life ever since?

The policemen didn't really look convinced by his words, hardly surprising. The rest of the questions was centered around the guitarist himself. Around his relationships with the rest of the band, any suspicious behaviour. For this very moment everyone forgot they were here to talk about Paul.

Lennon didn't know what to think about it. He was exhausted, terrified and depressed. Every now and then he glanced at the clock hanging right in front of him. He was wondering if it even works right. By that time he could swear that the hands of the clock slowed down, and he actually has spent at least few hours in this almost empty room. He had enough and almost jumped with joy when the officer told him he's free for now. The man informed that they may need his help later on, but now they have to talk to George Harrison. Lennon wasn't surprised at all. He imagined this little, scared man in the same interview room trying to prove his innocence. He felt shivers only thinking about it. He wanted to believe that it's not him. He wanted to, but he didn't.

***

George didn't try to come down for the next couple of hours. Only when he made sure that Ringo is asleep he took a first aid kit and dared to open the basement's door. He was walking down the stairs quietly, taking every step carefully. He didn't want to scare Richard more, his only intention was to help. The man hoped it will repay for some of his sins at least.

When Harrison was already downstairs, he lightened the only miserable bulb in the room. The man didn't even look around, he couldn't stand the cruel view and atmosphere of this place. Every corner reminded him of different victim, sometimes he was seeing them, other time he was hearing their groans and begging for mercy. No wonder he lost it long ago. He used to think that if he stopped at some point he would get back a chance for a normal life, that it's not too late and possible to stop. Arthur didn't agree on this though.

The guitarist slowly approached Ringo sleeping on the floor. This view broke his heart. Blood was literally everywhere — on the floor, on the walls, on the knife which was laying under the table now. It was on Ringo, on his hair, on his face. Harrison, wearing his recently changed clothes, didn't fit this terrible scenery. He had no choice though. He knelt down and looked at his friend's face one more time.

Even though Ringo was still asleep, the one could see fear and misery on it. He passed out from the exhaust — both physical and mental — maybe he wished to wake up somewhere else, in a safer place. Maybe he wished not to wake up at all. A few single tears ran down Harrison's cheeks; he couldn't believe he let hurt like that someone who meant so much to him. He could react somehow, prevent it from happening... he could... No, he wasn't able to stop Arthur anyhow. The man has known it for so long, and he already managed to accept this. Just as the fact that probably he won't get to live peaceful life, know how it's like to be a happy person.

The Beatle completely surrendered to the routine, trying not to think about it too much. But now he couldn't leave things like that.

He was treating Ringo's wounds, trying to come up with some resolution. Any resolution, to be fair. He couldn't let Richard die in this dark place, anyone but Richard. He probably wouldn't survive this himself. If Arthur won't let him commit suicide, his body just won't take it any longer. George was on the edge of total emaciation. He wondered how long will it all last, until the drummer woke up.

He was opening and closing eyes slowly. Seconds after awakening he had no idea about his position and situation. For one blessed moment Starkey remained in a state of blissful unawareness. But then he looked around, trying to move. He felt flashing pain in his left arm and every memory hit him with a power of waterfall. He started to panic yet again. To cry and try to get out. He noticed Harrison bent over him with a bandage in his hand, and try to move away. Not with much result. His hand and legs were still tied up.

Starkey was completely on the murderer's mercy, murderer standing next to him.

"Ringo..." George started, not really knowing what he wanted to say. "Ringo, please..."

The only answer he received was another scream from the depths of the friend's throat. Richard still tried to break free, but when the realization that there's no use, that he's in a dead end, hit him, his voice broke. Ringo cried and for a second George thought he will burst into tears as well. The man didn't want his view in victim's mind pained as a merciless killer. He desired a chance to explain himself. To explain his situation. He didn't have right words to express it correctly, and he knew he will never find them, but this... He couldn't leave it like this...

The guitarist opened his mouth but no Sunday escaped. Ringo most likely wouldn't won't to listen but Arthur was his comrade since childhood. Harrison knew him well and was aware that there won't be next opportunity. So he sat down, looked at his friend's and begun his history.