The Devil In Her Heart (Beatles Fan Fiction)

Chapter 43

17th November 1965 2.00am

It was the cold that woke George, otherwise he might have slept there all night.

For a moment, he didn't recognise his surroundings, then slowly his fuzzy mind began to make sense of the shapes. He was on the doorstep of Kinfauns, leaning against the front door with his knees drawn up to his chest for warmth. George stood up and a security light came on. His whole body ached. His right shoulder hurt whenever he moved his arm, so George tried to do everything with his left. He found the spare door key, hidden under a flowerpot. George wondered where he had left his set of keys.

As George opened the door, a wave of nausea rose up inside his stomach without warning. George just reached the bathroom in time to vomit violently into the toilet bowl. He lay on the bathroom floor in the dark for several moments afterwards, just trying to think past the pain in his shoulder and the pain in his head, that had also come out of nowhere. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten home. For a few moments, he couldn't remember where he'd been. But then – Grace, the restaurant, Grace's declaration they were to marry. George shook his head in disbelief. Where was she anyway? He must have left her at the restaurant. It didn't matter, because he and Grace were over now, and Pattie... well, Pattie.

Another wave of nausea hit George, as sudden as the first, and he threw up again, only just reaching the toilet in time.

Did I drink that much? he asked himself, leaning there, trying to get his breath. It seemed there were a lot of rather worrying gaps in George's memory.

When his stomach would allow, George stood up and pulled the chord for the bathroom light. "Paul's!" he said aloud, suddenly remembering. Why hadn't he gone to Paul's house to meet the others? He looked at his watch, shocked to find it was nearly quarter past two. Where have I been?

He went to the sink and turned both taps on full, splashing water over his face and washing his mouth out. As he stood up again, reaching for the towel, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the bathroom cabinet mirror and gasped.

The right side of his face was grazed and scratched, with one large cut on his eyebrow. George leaned into the mirror and prodded it with his index finger. Have I been in a fight? Gingerly, he unbuttoned his shirt and drew it off his right shoulder. The skin wasn't broken but there was a lot of yellow and purple bruising. George tried to shrug but it sent too much pain hurtling through him. There were more scratches and grazes on his neck and the top of his chest. His back ached like he'd been bent double for a long time. George swallowed and re–buttoned his shirt, unevenly.

He left the bathroom and stumbled through the dark house to the living room. He went to the chest by the window and pulled open the drawers, looking for the address book. As he found it, he was surprised by how suddenly exhausted he felt, his eyelids drooping as he flicked thorough the pages.

All the entries were written out in Pattie's neat handwriting. All of their friends. George remembered her doing it, it had taken her ages. Finally, he found Jenny's number, Pattie's sister. He had no idea where Pattie was living, but Jenny would.

George went to the phone in the lounge. He set it on the floor and sat down next to it, carefully, so he didn't move his shoulder too much.

He dialled the number. It rang for a long time and George nearly nodded off, cradling the receiver under his chin. Finally it was answered by a tired male voice. George asked for Jenny and a moment later she came to the phone.

"Hello?"

"Jenny?"

"Who's this?"

"It's George. I'm, uh, looking for Pattie."