She's a Woman

She's a Woman: Secret Chapter

Hi everyone!

I was looking through my drafts of my old completed fanfictions... and came across this little gem of an unreleased chapter! Initially I was going to have Michelle and the boys travel to New York, but ultimately decided on Hamburg because it made the most sense historically. I also removed the strange yet familiar friends Michelle makes within the caverns of the New York subway.

Enjoy!

*****

“Lads?” I called out. “Lads, where did you go?”

There was a hefty crowd of people milling around, all eerily similar in their beige trench coats and trilby hats. Some were wearing long scarves. Others donned gloves and earmuffs. Yet none of them resembled the leather-clad teenagers I was looking for. I ambled around in a blind panic. People bumped into me from every angle. I was pushed and shoved mercilessly. I didn’t even know where I was going anymore.

After several minutes of pure terror and seemingly endless jostling, I found myself near a huge hole. It wasn’t exactly a hole – more like an entrance, with a set of stairs leading from the surface down into the ground. For one split second, I wondered if I had come across the entrance to the centre of the earth. It certainly looked deep enough. I couldn’t see the end of the stairs at all, just a foreboding dark abyss spread out in front of me. There was a sign hanging above the entrance: New York Subway System.

[…]

I was so mesmerised by these works of art that I forgot to watch where I was going. I tripped over and fell headlong. I lay motionless on the filthy station floor, red-faced and ridiculous. My heart was pounding away inside my chest like a drum, and my breathing had become slow and shaky.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!” an irritated voice called out. “Are you crazy?”

“Take it easy, Art,” said another voice – quieter and much gentler than the first. “He might be hurt.”

I felt someone take my hand and help me stagger to my feet. My head was reeling so much that I was scared I might have contracted a concussion. I felt my head gingerly, checking for bumps or bruises or open wounds.

“It’s all right, buddy,” said the gentle voice. “I think you’re all in one piece.”

“My pride certainly isn’t,” I grumbled. “Sorry for tripping over you like that. It’s these blimming boots of mine. They’re much too big.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Accidents happen.”

I had a good long look at my rescuers. They were two young men, probably around my age, both smiling anxiously at me. The owner of the soft voice was the shortest man I had ever seen - the top of his head barely came up to my shoulder! (Still, I wasn’t one to make fun of him for it, especially not after he’d helped me up.) He had brown hair slicked back in a limp pompadour style, and his brown eyes looked particularly bright and earnest.
The man that was skulking behind him was the exact opposite. He was much taller than his friend, with lanky arms and legs that seemed to go on forever. His eyes were a sharp shade of green. His blonde-ginger hair was also fashioned into a pompadour style, but I noticed several little curls that had managed to escape from being smoothed down.

I couldn’t stop myself from looking them up and down, taking in every single bizarre feature. They seemed to be giving me the same treatment. I suppose I looked a little unusual as well in my leather getup and comically large boots.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” said the taller man. “Where’d you come from?”

“I’m originally from Liverpool,” I replied, “but I came to New York with my bandmates to see about landing a record deal.”

“You’re in a musical group as well?” said the shorter fellow. He sounded vaguely impressed.

“Yeah. I take it you two are, what, some kind of double act?”

They shuffled uncomfortably.

“Well, yes, in a way,” the short man said slowly. “We play music together, and we have made a few records. It’s just…”

“It’s not really the style we’re going for?” the taller man supplied.

“Yeah. That’s right.”

I raised my eyebrows. “What’s your act called?”

“We were called Tom and Jerry –“

“Wait, are those your actual names?” I asked, laughing. “With names like that, you’d need to go into show business!”

Both men let out a sad sigh. It was obvious they’d heard this joke several times in the past.

“They’re not our actual names,” the taller man said bitterly. “My name’s Art.”

“And I’m Paul,” added the short man.

“Nice to meet you both,” I replied. “My name’s Michael, just so you know. Listen, would either of you happen to have seen a group of guys in leather? There should be five of them altogether. Greasy hair? Loud voices? Kind of annoying?”

“Yeah, I think I saw them out on the street corner just before we came down here,” said Paul. “It was maybe about ten minutes ago?”

“They were making a commotion, all right,” Art added. “Something about the graffiti on the walls or something. Don’t you get a lot of street art in the UK?”

“Not that I’ve seen,” I said. “Then again, I came from a pretty posh neighbourhood, so maybe that has something to do with it. I think the writing on the subway walls are pretty neat, though...”