Nineteen Sixty-Four // Starrison

Chapter 3

Even if lone walks and visiting friends wasn’t against law, too frequent was seen as a sign of individuality - and that called attention to oneself.

That’s why George felt a little anxiety, walking through the oldest streets of Liverpool, paved with cobblestones, surrounded by small, ugly single-family houses. Lennon’s house was the same as he remembered it - sleazy, dark gray. Located in a tight backstreet in between the other buildings. But inside there was something comfy about this this house, something he couldn’t define.

And here they were. Sitting in a dark space of the attic, like for many years, lightened only by a small candle.

Lennon looked at him, but Harrison was obstinately avoiding his gaze, contemplating a piece of wall. Finally the younger man couldn’t stand it and with a quiet voice, more likely out of habit then necessity, he spoke:

“Why did you want to meet?”

John was in no hurry to answer, much to George’s irritation. For more dramatic effect, as he guessed, Lennon leaned in and whispered:

“Have you ever heard about the Brotherhood?”

The sentence sent shivers up the younger’s spine; of course he heard. The mysterious organization, trying to bring down the Party. Everything about this remained as a secret - no one knew if the Brotherhood even really existed in a first place.

He nodded. Another minute of silence. And then:

“I joined in.”

Harrison jumped in a shock, not believing in words he just heard - or maybe was it a mistake? “What?!” He forgot about keeping his voice down.

“Shut up! I’m telling you the truth. I got there thanks to… one, special person… it was a matter of luck. I had to take an oath. I’m not sure yet what will they tell me to do… but it’s worth the effort. Hell, of course it’s worth.” A flash of excitation appeared in brown man’s eyes, waiting for friend to share it.

The younger one had no idea how to answer. Damn, he had no idea what to think about the whole thing, either. The image of an open rebellion against the regime made him tremble and clutch his guts in cold, paralyzing fear. George was no coward - he was a careful enough to be alive and to know it’s crazy. No. The Party was too strong. Is it some kind of a sick joke? “I-it’s not funny, John.”

“I’m not jokin’, Geo.” John’s voice became cold, disappointed by this answer. “The Brotherhood is real. Believe in this already.”

“But…”

He was dead. They both were dead, talking about the Brotherhood. A matter of time. Harrison shook his head, looking at Lennon; he saw a man who didn’t understand the price to be paid. Who didn’t understand the risk. Who was too reckless.

“John, you’re picking a fight you can’t win.” Harrison hated the way his voice trembled.

“Of course I can. The Party is not indestructible, as you think. We can’t probably bring it down in our lifetime. Or lifetime of our grandchildren. The dozens or hundreds of years would pass… but that’s something we can start right now. A riot. Destroy the whole system from the ground up. If proles started to revolt, if we could encourage them… we would have a real chance. REAL chance, Geo!” Lennon’s voice reminded him of a teacher who had to explain something to the unruly child - that irritated Harrison even more.

“And HOW do you want to accomplish it? Avoiding EVERY telescreen? Runnin’ away from the government’s eyesight? It’s fucking impossible!”

John’s foot hit the floor from a frustration, making small specks of dust fly into air, tickling their noses. “You’re not able to believe in this. You’re not able because you got used to this life, a life of oppression. I believe in a power of a riot.”

“Your belief won’t help you. Won’t! You’ll die, like the others! Tortured, vaporized!”

Harrison realized that he’s standing; he jumped to his feet in a burst of emotion and raised the voice. Even then Lennon was impassive and gave him the coldest of his looks. “There are ideas more important than our lives. Regims are overthrown at the expense of individuals.”

“It’s not about some great ideas. It’s about a simple riot. You’re blind, John.”

“Not as much as you,” Lennon huffed.

Rage was a rare thing to appear in John’s eyes, but when he let it take over - it burned like a flame out of control, making his face crew and even scary. There was only an unpleasant silence. The words they said in anger were suspended in midair, causing an uncomfortable atmosphere.

“John…” George tried one more time, but failed. The whole space became colder somehow.

“You know what? I thought you’re different. Not like the others, used to mindless worshiping the Party. I thought you’ll want changes, that you’ll stand by me. That there’s something in you. But, fuck, I was wrong, I guess.” John spat on a candle and suddenly darkness surrounded them. Contempt. Such a big contempt.

George shook at his words. The older man wanted him to feel like a fool, trivial, blinded fool - and he succeeded. Although, he knew that Lennon will never win with the cruel systhem and every riot was doomed to failure. He knew that all, but couldn’t help feeling guilty. Why did all of this happen? Why this idiot wanted to die so badly? Why they had to live in a world like this, in a first place?!

Harrison got up with his wounded pride, opened a hatch, turned back to his friend one last time and said: “It’s a madness, John.”

He didn’t receive an answer; George left.