Psycho Killer || Starrison

Chapter Seventeen

John ran out of the police office furious. How could it be? What on earth was more important than his friend's missing? Was he the only person that sees correlation between Harrison and this bunch of murder?

He could not believe it. The entire Scotland Yard was too busy to help Ringo. Unbelievable. 'You can't report a missing before 24 hours pass,' what was that supposed to mean? Were they even serious? The last time he saw this man was when he walked right into the den of a murderer. Good morning, mister, can we have some tea? And... if you don't mind, bullet in the head?

Lennon could not calm down. He had no idea what he should do now. It seemed like he was the only person who actually understood how serious this case was. The police itself gave up long ago, now everything connected to the serial killer was easily swept under the carpet. Lovely, lawmen in peak condition. What else could one want? Maybe except for justice.

The man paid no attention to where he's going to. It wasn't important, in fact nothing was really important if he couldn't save his friend. John felt helpless, felt all his powers disappear. Like air disappears from an untied balloon. Still there had to be some solution. Any solution. Something he could do, maybe finding an evidence that will finally make the police take it seriously. Anything that will prove Harriosn's guilt. But if everything that happened lately wasn't enough, finding something really convincing may be hard. He couldn't give up though. He's about to do anything, only to realise the truth. The murderer has to be punished.

Before John even realised, he was standing by the library's doors. The same one where he saw Ringo for the last time. The man could feel angry growing inside of him. He wanted to scream, he could not stand all of this. It felt like the entire world was on his shoulders all of a sudden. But at the same time he knew that he has to stay sane. It's a priority. This is the only way to help.

Lennon raised hands to his temples, he needed to calm down. Needed to think everything through, every possibility. He won't save the world alone, but he surely could take a part in it. At least that's what he wanted to believe.

The Beatle went in to the library. Recently he has spent there more time than through all years of school altogether. This thought made a small grin appear on his face. Never in his life has he thought he'd spend all days in this very place, looking through old newspapers. At the same time he has never expect to appear in any similar situation. Oh well, some things are unpredictable, it seemed. One can't predict future but it is possible to check whatever happened in the past and this, as he believed, can make just as much of a difference. Within a minute he opened the first newspaper.

The time was passing fast and John didn't have anything interesting yet. He wasn't even close and still didn't know what exactly he was looking for. After looking at every article from last two years he still couldn't figure out any rule the victims could be chosen by. Those murders had nothing in common, except for letters... Lennon had no idea what to do. He started to check some older publications. Better safe than sorry.

The man thumbed through all of them. Twice. He was already on the year of '55, still nothing. Well, what was there supposed to be? He was a kid back then himself. Kid smoking cigarettes on a school yard, when no one was watching. Stealing vinyls and begging his aunt for a guitar. He didn't know Gearge yet, but was sure, they both had just the same simple life of working class boys. Any more searching seemed to have no sense.

Lennon kept putting off one newspaper after another, only to go back to them minutes later. Chaos that seemed to rule his entire desk wasn't any better than the one in his mind. The man started to lose hope, if he's ever had any. Older and older issues passed his hands, he read them all. One from the year of '54, another from '53. He checked all the numbers, dates, trying to keep it chronological. First winter of 1954, then autumn year earlier. John focused on the headlines but whenever it was something interesting he read the entire article. Nothing. Not even a word about so called murderer. Not even mentioned.

At this point Beatle was ready to give up. But then he reached the year of 1951. He was eleven years old himself back then. And honestly he doubted than even younger George Harrison could kill his entire family during a break from doodling he had for kindergarten. It was surreal...
Brutal murder in a Liverpool's family.
John froze for a second. Was it even possible? His senses kept saying that it wasn't important, that there was a lot of cases like that and there's literally no reason for this one to be different. Instinct in the other hand made him throw all of the other newspapers onto the floor. Glancing at the photographs he already knew. He knew this place. At least he thought so. Even as a child John was sure he knows his hometown by heart. Which was mostly right for he has spent his childhood wandering from one street to another. Further and further as the time passed. By that time every house could seem at least familiar. But there was something special about this one. He couldn't figure what exactly though.

John begun to read. Man's eyes slowly and carefully slid from one verse to another, only skipping the short introduction. They're never important. He remembered pieces of information. He remembered terrified Mimi who was wearing to let him out alone, even to school. Back then he didn't understand the tragedy that took place in the city. Lennon kept on reading unroll his eyes found the surname. Surname everyone talked about back in the day. Harrison.

***

George still hasn't moved from his place. He didn't want Ringo to wake up alone. He was also afraid that if he left now, he'd never gain courage again. 'It's now or never,' he kept telling himself. Every part of him knew that it's probably the only chance to explain everything that happened to Ringo. And he had a lot to say. Everything that has happened since that one winter morning, slowly, but inevitably was leading them to this point. The man could lie to himself, that it's all gone in the memories and didn't matter at all. Try to forget and carry on - but it was too late. Time to face the reality again.

Memories can occur amazing, they're able to, at least for a while, carry us to different, better times. Some tend to be sad, painful and better to be hidden deep down in drawer, to which you come back only during sleepless nights, when your consciousness plays cat and mouse with you. But there are also the worst ones. We try our best to forget them, keep on living, but they're always with us. Even when we do not realize it. Even when we start to hope that they're gone forever. Memories of terrible events, the worst moments of our lives; they affect us to our grave.

Harrison had not even one, but lots of memories like that. He remembered them all, in every single detail. And now - now he was ready to confess them to Ringo at his own, terrible shrift. Because he wanted his close friend to understand and to forgive him, at least a bit. He had to. It was his only chance.

He didn't wait long, Richard slowly started to gain consciousness. Firstly he didn't even notice a slight change of his location. No wonder. It was dark, and, after all, every basement look similar. It took him a while to perceive some changes in new room's decoration. Table was at its place, obviously, but this time much cleaner, just like the walls, with no drops of blood anywhere. Starkey looked around carefully. At the table covered in dust. At the walls, with mold at some places. At some displaced pipes. With no sight of knives, nothing that Arthur could hurt him with. Until he laid his eyes at George, standing near him.

"Where are we?"

"It's our new house. We couldn't stay in London forever, right? Police could storm in there at any moment."

"But where...?" Ringo was in shock. It all made sense, naturally, but it took all his hopes though. If George found some way to run away from the police's grasp, he can keep him there until he dies.

"It's not important, Ringo. It's really not... You know... We're safe here and...." Harrison stopped because he realized the comicality of this situation. He was just trying to convince his friend that he's safe and sound in a psychopath's basement. While the truth was that neither him, nor even George could feel safe for a long time. But he couldn't say this out loud.

Richard was sitting there, speechless, staring at the guitarist. He was afraid. He was afraid all the time since he saw that stain of blood on the floor. The drummer had no idea what will happen now, he counted on anyone's help, the police's, John's, anyone's really. But now... He didn't even know his own position. Nobody knew. Nobody except of Harrison and his silent comrade. In this moment Richard Starkey lost his hopes.

"I wanted to tell you something..." George broke the silence. He wondered if this is the right moment. When he jumped into the conclusion that there will be probably no right moment, he decided to continue. "Actually... not something. Everything that led us to this point."

"I don't think I..." Ringo tried to protest, but George didn't allow objections. It took him too much to go through all those painful memories to be interrupted.

"I know that you hate me. But please, hear me out. Maybe it won't change anything, but I want to try."

Starkey nodded unsurely. The terrified man had no idea what he was agreeing to, but silence fell upon them - until Harrison started telling his story.