Definitely Maybe (Beatles/Oasis Crossover Fan Fiction)

2

John kicked at the heater on the dashboard and leant forward; rubbing his hands in front of the whisper of warm air it gave out.  

“D’yer mind?” Ringo said testily from the drivers seat.  

“Yeah,” John snapped back, “Yeah, I bloody well do mind.” He looked down at his red hands, crippled with the cold, “These,” he said holding them up in front of his face, “are my living, look at ‘em! How am I gonna play guitar like this?”  

“Would you give it a rest, John?” Paul said from the back of the car.  

John leaned back in his seat and kicked the heater again. “Doesn’t… fuckin’… work…” he said, punctuating each word with a kick.  

“S’no wonder with idiots like you booting it every minute,” Ringo said, turning on the car’s fog lights and rubbing the screen in front of him.  

“Shuddup, Ritch, this is all your fault anyway,” John said moodily, wrapping his arms around him, half for emphasis and half to try to keep warm.  

“My fault?!” the drummer asked, taking umbrage, “Yeah, yeah, sorry, it is all my fault, isn’t it?” he continued sarcastically, “It’s my fault Brain wouldn’t let us go home til the very last minute, it’s my  fault the airport was closed, oh, yeah, and its definitely my fault there’s a blizzard blowing out there!”  

“It’ll be nice,” Paul said brightly. “There’ll be snow for Christmas.”  

“I meant…” John said slowly, “it’s you’re fault that the bloody heater doesn’t work, because you can’t bloody service your car properly.”  

“Oh sorry, John. Sorry for driving you all the way up to Liverpool on Christmas Eve! I can’t even see further than two foot in front of me!” he added, rubbing the screen again.  

“It’ll look like a Christmas card tomorrow morning,” Paul continued, sitting behind Ringo.  

“That’s if we make it,” Ringo replied.  

“We’ll make it,” Paul said, checking his watch. “It’s only half eight, we can’t be that far away now?”  

“I meant, if we make it at all,” Ringo said. “At this rate, we might crash into a snow drift and never be seen again.”  

“We should have got Alf to take us,” John mumbled.  

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Ringo replied. “No one’s working, not even for The Beatles.” He glanced up into rear view mirror at his back seat passengers. “Alright, George?” he asked, looking at him sitting next to Paul, bundled up in his overcoat, hat, scarf and gloves.  

George didn’t reply. His eyes were closed.  

“He’s asleep,” Paul said.  

“How can he sleep when it’s this cold?” Ringo said.  

“He can’t,” George replied, clearing his throat and opening his eyes, “but he’s trying to, so he can get away from you bunch of bickering kids.”  

Ringo shook his head, “Who rattled your cage, eh, Harrison?”  

“You did,” Paul reminded him, grinning.  

“Christ, if it’s not John whinging and kicking the dashboard, then its you whinging and shouting at him, or its Paul with his, “Ooh, isn’t it lovely? Isn’t it pretty?””  

“Well, it is,” Paul said simply.  

“It’s not,” George said. “It’s only lovely and pretty from the window of some warm front room, with a raging fireplace and a glass of brandy. From the paper thin pane of glass in the back of Ringo’s car in the middle of God knows where, freezing my tits off, its ugly and nasty and horrible.” George closed his eyes again, signalling the end of his speech.  

Paul shrugged. “C’mon, its Christmas Eve! Aren’t you excited?”  

George opened his eyes again only to give him a withering look.  

“Its Christmas day tomorrow! Santa’s coming tonight!” Paul giggled like a small, over excited child.  

‘Not for you, he ain’t,” John said to him. “I know for a fact you’ve been very bad this year.”  

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t know that,” Paul replied.  

“Yeah, he does, he knows who’s naughty and he knows who’s nice…”  

Paul smiled broadly. “He’s making a list, he’s checking it twice…” Paul sang loudly.  

“Well done, you’ve set him off again!” Ringo said morosely.  

“Well, the radio’s broken as well, isn’t it?” John said.  

“He knows who’s naughty and he knows who’s nice…”  

George moved stiffly to cover his ears with his gloved hands.  

“Santa Claus is coming to town!” John joined Paul, both of them singing disharmoniously and off key.  

“How did you two ever become number one record selling singers?” George asked.  

“Shit!” Ringo said suddenly, ramming the breaks on and juddering the car to a stand still.  

“What?” John said, rubbing the fogged up windscreen. “What’s the matter?”  

“Look where we are,” Ringo replied, gripping the steering wheel.  

John peered out, “It’s a T junction,” he said, sounding confused.  

“Yeah,” Ringo nodded, “and it shouldn’t be. I’ve missed the turning.”  

“What turning?”  

“We’ve been going in the wrong direction for the past forty five minutes.”  

“Oh for fucks…” John said.  

“Fuck off, I didn’t see you bloody navigating!” Ringo said defensively.  

“So where are we?” Paul asked.  

“Somewhere outside Manchester.” Ringo said, scratching his forehead tensely.  

“S’not so bad,” Paul said, sitting forward and gripping the seat in front of him with both hands, “We can just take a left and we’ll be home in no time.”  

Ringo sighed loudly.  

“Ring, take a break,” George said, “You’ve driven all the way up from London, you’re knackered, let me drive for a bit, eh?”  

Ringo turned around in his chair, held back by his seat belt, “That’d be fab, George,” he said gratefully.

“Yeah, that’s what we all need, a bit of a break,” Paul said, “Stop for a minute, we can stretch our legs.”  

“In this?” John asked, looking at the unrelenting snow building up on the bonnet.  

“Well, I need a pee anyway,” Paul said, jumping out of his door.  

“Rather you than me, mate,” John said, watching him disappear behind the hedge through Ringo’s window.  

Ringo unclipped his seatbelt and switched the engine off.