Paperback Writer // McHarrison

One

Stop! Listen.

Like most October mornings, a fog settled over the township of Liverpool and George Harrison smoked a long cigarette by his window to watch it. And like most days in George Harrison's life, his office door opened, a man greeted him with a nod and he dropped a thick bundle of paper onto his desk.

Unlike the regular sequence of George Harrison's days though, Otto, the man with the papers, stopped.

"This one's a doozy." He comments, before leaving.

Solemn Otto never seemed to have an opinion and certainly not on the books that were processed by the publishing company he worked for. So when he stopped to voice his thoughts, this intrigued Mr Harrison immensely.

Chewing on his cigarette gently, Mr Harrison delicately picked up the first page.

Curiously Uninterested

Was what the title read.

Stop! Listen.

Was the first sentence.

Immediately it made the minuscule hairs on the back of Mr Harrison's neck rise. His eyebrow crept up his forehead in interest - much against the title of the novel - and he took the cigarette from his lips between two lean fingers.

Where was this piece of work taking him? Was it a tale of dragons? A romance? A murder mystery? Or maybe a dark comedy? This first sentence told Mr Harrison none of that, but it did tell him one indispensable fact. This author could grab attention like he was snatching it out of thin air. A head-turning first sentence such as this was a sign of a very talented writer.

George didn't read the rest. Not yet anyway. Instead, he went back to the title page to read the author's name.

J. P. McCartney

It read in the same curly cursive as the rest of the book.

Finally, Mr Harrison read on. The more he did, the more he felt as if it was the story reading him and not vice versa. He felt as if the words written out so neatly had grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into the world of the text. Mind you, nothing exciting was happening. The main character was simply standing on a train platform. Mr Harrison had no inkling at all where exactly the train would be taking Edmund Holly, as he learned the protagonist's name was, nor why he was travelling at all. But that unknown territory of fiction only drew the publisher in more. Mr Harrison was on the fifth page before he learned that the train the character was waiting upon would take him off to war.

That's when Mr Harrison stopped.

Many people had made the mistake of trying to write of the war. In 1952, it was simply too close in memory to make into a fictitious tale. Many people, including himself, had been on the battlefields only 7 years back. People reading wanted a world away from it because (even 7 years later) they couldn't seem to find it the real world so they needed an escape to another.

George Harrison himself was one of these people. At 17 years of age, he had been drafted to Poland where he served for the most horrific 2 years of his life. He is 25 now, but his fictitious escape is still very much needed.

He looked back at the page full of words and debated whether to read on.

For the moment, he decided not to.

Later that night though, similar to the story, Mr Harrison sat on a train on his way home when he decided to pull out J. P. McCartney's book again.

Enduring the words that reflected his very own memories almost too much for liking, he read on. Suddenly, at a point in the story that seemed to be a peak, it stopped.

1 and a 1/2 years later...

Mr Harrison's brow furrowed. It was certainly an unusual thing to do to a story - to cut it up like that. Alas, he continued, hoping that the author's reasoning would come clear soon enough.

The next sentence though explained all of Mr Harrison's queries and he knew instantly that this writer had a streak of genius in them somewhere.

Stop! Listen.

Is what it read and a smirk formed across George's cheeks.

He was nose deep in the page when the train came to a slow halt and the conductor shouted out Mr Harrison's stop.

He walked all the way to his apartment without looking up from the story, trusting years of muscle memory to keep him from stumbling as he surrounded himself with the tale as if it were a quilt. He stayed stubborn and attached to the pages as he fumbled endlessly to insert his key in the door without looking at what he was doing. When the door to his apartment opened itself though, Edmund Holly and a newly introduced character by the name of Raymond Jones couldn't save him from tripping over and falling into his apartment less than gracefully.

"My my." Richard Starkey, Mr Harrison's good friend and flatmate, hums in amusement upon viewing the scene. "I thought you'd get it into your head by now that I get home before you and the door doesn't need unlocking." He rolls his baby blues and chuckles at the sight of George sprawled out on the doormat.

Even while he was down on the floorboards, he simply adjusted the papers and continued reading; far too enthralled to bother getting up first.

"Suit yourself." Richard murmurs before strolling back the way he came.

10 minutes had passed and George beginning to find his situation rather ridiculous by this point, deciding to gather himself up and read in a more suitable spot. He still had his bags hanging off his arms and his shoes on his feet when he fell back onto the sofa where he would lay until dinner time.

By the next morning, deep purple bags hung under George's eyes after having devoured and savoured every single one of J. P. McCartney's words into the late hours of last night. He dragged himself onto the train this morning and into his office, slumping into his chair and opening his mouth in a tiresome yawn. Even in the state he was in though, he was determined.

"Otto?" He asks as the older man with grey hair and yellowing teeth comes into his office with another stack of manuscripts.

"Yes, sir?" He asks, gazing at him expectantly.

"Can you find J. P McCartney's telephone number? Or even better, find him?" He asks and Otto gives him a half-hearted saute before veering around to the door. He stops though and hesitantly turns back to Mr Harrison.

"Are you really going to publish this lad?" He questions and the publisher looks him dead in the eye. An icy pale blue burned slowly from the fiery Chestnut brow.

"You betcha."