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Liverpool, late 50s.
I scrunched my nose at the grimy smell of cold, pouring rain dripping all over our heads. The newspaper I'd stolen from a vendor had disintegrated to mush above my head. "Urgh," I flung it down into a nearby puddle, fed up with the way tonight played out.
"Faye, slow down!" Delia complained, lagging behind as usual. She was having trouble with her ridiculous high heels in the cobbled streets, especially since there were very limited amounts of street lamps.
"I'm soaked through," I called back, in a mood for I hated the rain when I'd spent ages on my hair. Tonight had been hell. We'd actually been allowed out to a local band concert where Delia's brother was playing, only for the bouncers to refuse our entry. We rowed for around an hour, until we gave in and started the long walk home with no coats and no car.
Delia's brother promised us a lift, which we accepted, had he not been performing that very minute. "This is a load of crap!" I grunted into the air, rounding a corner next to a pub. A bunch of drunken teddy boys, or should I say men, stood there, beers in hand. They stunk, rowdy as anything. How they loved seeing two girls in the dead of night, short skirts rising way up our knees.
"Alright darling?" One catcalled, old enough to be our father. I retaliated immediately which only intrigued them further. My fingers did all the speaking. "Fiesty.Just how I like them, girl," he informed us unnecessarily, for he had no chance in hell with either one of us. A big band played from inside, their soulful music spilling out of the open pub doors.
"Come on Delia," I urged, hanging back slightly to wait. Liverpool wasn't a pretty sight for two young girls alone, without a chaperone. We walked past a very famous club, where all the freshest acts played and people overflowed. Either on their way in or out. The cavern club. We were both regulars there, though tonight was a different story. More relaxed and surrounded by people our own age, rain soaked the inside of my thighs unpleasantly.
"My new boots," I wiped down my go go heels to no avail. I'd saved up months for those pretty babies and now look. Ruined.
"My makeup," Delia moaned, proving her point by showing me her smudged black eyeliner.
"It's your own fault for putting it all over like a crazy gal," I teased, linking my arm with hers to speed her up. Delia's blonde hair hung limp, though I'm sure I looked no better than a drowned rat by now. We sported all the latest fashion, much to our parents disapproval. I hated the clean cut image of Paul Anka and the poodle skirts which came with the fan girls, preferring the dirtier, sexier sound of Little Richard and Chuck Berry.
My parents practically begged me to wear 'sensible clothes' and wash my ears out on the daily. Those black artists were looked down on by the parents, though we didn't care. They were brilliant, plus the whites stole all the sounds from them anyway.
"It's the new rage," Delia protested, hopping down a pavement. Older couples regarded us two with horror, so out of place with their ideologies. One woman personally moved to the other side of the pavement to avoid us. Prude. At least we weren't rockers, or punks.
"Be careful," I warned my best friend. "Or you'll break your ankle—" no sooner had the fateful words left my mouth, Delia squeaked in pain, collapsing with a thud to the uneven ground. "Delia!" I gasped, leaning down without a care anymore for the weather, nor my expensive clothes.
She writhed in pain, clutching her ankle and crying. "It hurts!" She yelled, catching the attention of some onlookers. Nobody came to help though, the snobby pricks.
"Stay still," I ordered firmly, trying to get a better look at the injury. It didn't seem good, already bruised a bright purple. "Help me," I begged an elderly man who could've been a gentlemen. He refused, probably thinking we were con women or something of the sort. "She's hurt!" I gestured towards the sobbing Delia. "I can't move her on my own!" Still, the pig refused, a ghost smile on his lips.
"Sod you then," I cursed, waving the groups of people away. "Go on, go." I paid attention to my best friend, struggling to even move her ankle by this point. "Crap," I desperately whispered, at my wits end. "Crap, Crap, Crap."
A small ruckus erupted from the other side of the street, four guys shadowed by the dim street lamps. They conversed with each other until one shouted across, "Hey!" (You've got to hide your love away- kidding).
Their heads spun, and the one who shouted dropped a pair of drumsticks he was carrying and scarpered over. His long legs meant he reached us first, positively dripping from rain. "Are you alright?" He paused, Liverpudlian accent on full display. "Stupid question, obviously not," he mentioned the weeping Delia.
"She's my friend. I think she's twisted her ankle. I hope it's nothing worse," I explained, holding Delia's hand tight. Could we trust him? Or, them?
"I'm Paul," he held out a hand for me to shake. "Probably not the right time for formalities," he added at my look of surprise, something in his brown eyes making him easy to trust. Mature, even. "Hmm, it doesn't look too much like a sprain. Could be worse," he analysed Delia's ankle gently.
"What is it Macca?" The rest joined us, holding various items. The one who spoke held a small pair of bongo drums. (I know Ringo wasn't around at this time in their timeline but oh well). "You've dropped my drumsticks!" He exclaimed, freeing a hand to pick up the sticks from the dirt.
"Sorry, Ringo, slightly more pressing issues here," Paul scoffed, trying to move Delia's foot slowly, still in her shoes.
"Not to him it ain't," the guy with short, blonde ish, brown hair quipped, pushing his way over. "There his 'special' sticks, macs, you know he won't play without 'em." He caught sight of Delia and whistled accordingly. "Woah, what's happened here? Drunk off their faces?" The guy assumed.
"No, actually, sober as a stick," I remarked, staring up at the towering figure who wore a teddy boy attire. Of course.
"Take no notice of John, he has to learn to keep his big mouth shut," Paul advised, acting as doctor. "George," he turned to what I could only assume to be the final one, messy brown hair cut into a style which framed his face. George stood rather awkwardly, out of the hub. "How far d'you reckon it'd take from your house to here. Little lady's got a swollen ankle," Paul relayed our story back to the boys, each of them sucking their cheeks in thought.
"Ten minutes, maybe longer," George answered shyly, quietly.
"Mines only a five one," John spoke up nonchalantly, slapping Paul's back, who was still crouched over Delia's pained body.
"Great," Paul directed, obviously in charge here. "John, grab the other arm," he instructed, smoothing out his suit which juxtaposed his young nature.
"Why? What are you doing?" I spoke up, in case they tried to abduct her in plain sight.
"Yeah, good question. Girl," the one called John agreed, snapping his fingers towards you. "What are we doing?"
"We're not going to leave them in the street all night, are we?" Paul shook his head in disbelief. "They can stay at yours, John. Get cleaned up and dried off. This one too," Paul nodded at me. "What's your name, lovely?"
"Faye," I stuttered nervously, surrounded by four men I'd never met before.
