Oh, Dad's gone down the dogtrack, Mother's playin' bingo,
Grannie's boozin' in the parlour, you oughta see the gin go,
No one seems to notice me, isn't it a sin?
What a crazy world we're livin' in
'We love you, Beatles! Oh, yes, we do! We love you, Beatles, and we'll be true! When we're not near you, we're blue! Oh Beatles, we love you!'
There is a brief moment of silence. I take the pillow from over my head and listen, holding my breath.
'We love you, Ringo! Oh, yes, we do! We love you, Ringo...'
The singing starts again in earnest and I roll over onto my back with a frustrated groan.
I am very much regretting not sleeping on the plane now. I'm nearly regretting not staying in Houston when I had the chance. The hotel we're staying at - the O'Hare Sahara - have announced, proudly and stupidly, that The Beatles will be in resident for the next two nights, and there are tons of fans outside. Deranged, adoring, shouting, singing, noise making Beatle fans. Holding up banners that no one can read in the dark. Singing 'We love you Beatles' to that tune from Bye Bye Birdie, clapping their hands along with it.
The hotel is near the Chicago O'Hare airport, like Maurice said. Unfortunately, after what happened in Houston yesterday, they wouldn't let us land there. We had to land at Chicago Midway instead. By the time we'd found our way to the hotel, it was past three o'clock in the morning and there was already a vigil of fans outside, shouting for the Beatles and singing their inane love song, over and over. It's making my head spin. It's worse than any stomach flu or migraine. It's like a form of torture.
Getting out of bed, I slip a jumper on over my pyjamas and go to find Maurice's room. I hope he's got some more of the yellow pills he gave me yesterday. It will be the only way I'm getting any sleep tonight.
I knock on the door and wait. Then I knock again, a bit harder. There's no reply. I can still hear the Beatle fans out here. I wonder if Maurice has swallowed some of the pills himself.
This hotel is not as big as some of the others we've stayed in. We're all on one floor here. We have this end of the corridor, and The Beatles have the other. I can see light spilling out of the bottom of most of the closed doors down there.
I knock a third time time and lean on the wall, trying to listen for any sort of movement inside. One of the doors further down the corridor opens and Minnie steps out.
'Hannah? What are you doing?' she asks.
'Looking for Maurice.'
'He's not there.'
'Why's he not there? Where's he gone?'
'Out.'
'Out? Out where?'
'I don't know. He went out about an hour ago. What do you want him for?'
'I wondered if he had any more sleeping pills. I can't sleep with that racket outside.'
'No one can sleep. We're all in here.'
She goes back into the room. That was more of a statement than an invitation. Yesterday I would have just gone back to my bedroom. Now, I'm don't know what to do. I'm surprised George said what he did. I feel a bit guilty. I'd been thinking all these mean things about him, since I found out about his girlfriend, and then he came and apologised to me.
I'd like to join in more, but I was keeping out of his way. He said he wouldn't ignore me anymore, but it was hardly a, 'Hey, lets hang out together,' was it? He would probably still prefer me to keep my distance.
I go back to my room but I've given up on any notion of getting sleep. I doubt I will be well enough to sing in Chicago, so I should be able to have a nap when the rest of them are at the show. The fans will surely go away then. I pick up my books and papers and head for the "lounge" room. My bedroom is on the north side of the hotel, where most of the fans are congregating. Even if I'm not trying to sleep, I can't sit and listen to them.
The "lounge" room is an extra hotel room which is being used as a communal area. It's where Brian Epstein has set up his office. He's always on the phone. I think I've only seen him once or twice without a receiver stuck to his ear. This room faces the other side of the hotel. You can still hear the fans, but it's not as loud.
I expect the room to be empty, but when I come in Ringo and George are sitting in two tub chairs, next to a table with a teapot and whisky decanter on it. I hesitate, but then I just give them a smile and go and sit on the sofa on other side of the room, putting my things on the low coffee table in front of me.
I was planning on writing a letter to Ricky. Ricky's not a letter writing kind of guy, but I thought if I sent him one or two, he'd know I was thinking about him. It might assuage his jealousy a bit - the jealousy he claims he doesn't feel.
I take a page of baby blue writing paper out and rest it on one of my books.
Dear Ricky,
I start and immediately stall. I'm not sure how to begin. What can I tell him? I've not done anything. I was in bed all day yesterday.
'Feelin' any better, love?' Ringo asks from across the room.
I glance up at him. 'A little bit.'
'Still lost your voice?'
I nod with a wistful smile.
'Not being able to sleep doesn't help, eh?' Ringo continues. He looks back at George. 'Although I think if I don't get a couple of hours soon, I might just fall over.'
George smiles at him but otherwise he doesn't respond.
I look down at the blank page in front of me again, and tap my pen on the page, while I try to think.
'D'yer want a cuppa tea?' George says, his voice surprising me. I look up at him. He puts the back of his hand against the teapot. 'It's still warm.'
'That would be nice, thanks,' I reply, sheepishly.
'That won't help you sleep,' Ringo says. 'That'll keep you awake. You want some of this.' He holds up the whiskey tumbler he's been cradling, and shakes it.
'I'm not supposed to drink either of them,' I tell them. 'No tea and coffee, nothing with milk in it and nothing alcoholic. For my voice.'
'Really?' Ringo says, unimpressed. 'Glad I'm not a singer.'
'Milk, anything dairy, coats your vocal chords and alcohol dries them out. But you need a cup of tea, don't you?'
'Course you do, love.' Ringo swallows the rest of his drink and drops the glass down on the tray with a clatter.
George pours the end of the pot into a spare cup and, without asking, adds a spoonful of sugar. It's how I used to take it. He brings it over to me and sets it down on the table. 'It's a bit stewed, sorry,' he says, sounding tired.
'It'll be fine, thank you.'
'Right, I'm off to bed,' he says, stretching his arms, backing towards the door.
'I think I'll come with you,' Ringo replies, standing up.
'Well, okay, but don't steal all the covers this time,' George says, deadpan.
Ringo rolls his eyes at him. 'Night, Hannah,' he says, then checking his watch, corrects,'Morning, Hannah.'
They both go, leaving me to my empty page.
Dear Ricky,
We're in Chicago at the moment. We got here about two hours ago and
I thought it would be nice to write to Ricky while I was away, but now I'm struggling with what to put. I'm not sure he's going to find any of it interesting. I've never written to him before. I suppose I've never been away from him long enough.
I screw the page up and start again on a new sheet.
Dear Ricky,
Perhaps this is a stupid idea. I just can't picture him reading it. If I post it to him, I bet it will still be on the hall stand, sealed and unread, when I get home.
'You still write your diaries then?'
His voice makes me jump. George stands behind me. I didn't hear him come back in.
'I just forgot my-' He points to a blazer jacket, left hanging on the back of the chair. He crosses and picks it up.
'Oh, er, no. I was just trying to write a letter actually,' I reply, watching him.
'You were always scribbling in your diary,' George says, absently. He pulls his jacket on and ambles back towards me. 'How I'd like to look, into that little book, the one that has the lock and key...' he says in a sing-songy voice. 'Neil Sedaka, remember?'
I smile and nod. 'I still kept it up until last year,' I tell him.
'Not this year?'
I shake my head and lean forward, picking up the brown book from the table in front of me. 'That's this years, you can read it if you want.' I offer it to him.
He hesitates. 'Should never read a girl's diary,' he says, but takes it anyway and flicks through the pages. I know it's empty. Or nearly empty. I've written things like dentist appointments, people's birthdays in there. There's an exciting passage where an electrician didn't turn up for three days on the trot.
George gives me the book back. 'That's a pity,' he says. 'It was always your... thing.'
'I might start again. I still carry it around with me like a talisman.'
'The others are in John's room. If you're lonely out here.'
'I'm alright on my own. I'm used to it,' I reply, before I think what that might sound like. I smile to show I don't mean it in a sad way. 'Thanks, though, George.'
'Alright. Night, Han.' He tries to stifle a yawn, then gives me a smile and leaves. I watch him walk out, thinking, he's always had a nice smile, George. And then I banish that from my mind, because that is a dangerous thing to think.
*
'I can't believe you don't remember how to play this,' George says, as Ringo deals the cards to everyone in the group.
I give a half shrug. 'Sorry, I don't. I'll just watch.'
'No, no spectators. Deal her in, Ritch,' Paul, sitting to the left of me, says.
'I thought Black Jack was where you tried to make twenty-one...'
'That's pontoon,' Paul replies, picking up the cards George is dealing, one by one.
I've been along for this trip, but it seems I have missed a lot. Everyone keeps referring to in-jokes and things that have happened that I have no idea about. This, what we're doing now, is an on-going card game, which George swears we used to play in Liverpool, but I can't remember it. Maybe he's thinking of someone else.
Everyone is playing, which including me now, makes ten. We're all sitting and lying on the floor in John's room, which is the biggest room. They pay into a kitty with pennies. At the end of the tour there is a 'final' planned where the winner will take all, although as the current total is four dollars, twenty-seven, it's not going to be exactly life changing.
'It's very simple,' John tells me, sitting opposite me in the circle. 'Eight is miss a go, kings reverse the order- hey!' He moves sharply as Minnie tries to lean on him.
'What?' she says, innocently. 'I'm not doing anything.'
'You're tryin' to cheat. Again.'
It went eerily silent after they all left for the show this afternoon. Some of the fans went away, but a lot remained, camped out in little groups. They were at least quieter, now they knew the Beatles weren't in the building anymore, but before I had the chance to go to sleep, the cleaners started. Vacuuming, scrubbing, sweeping, slamming doors, walking into my room without knocking because they'd thought we'd all left. I eventually got a couple of hours sleep around dinner time. Now it's midnight again, the fans are back outside and if anything, there's more of them.
'So what are the rules?' I ask, picking up my cards, one by one. They all start talking at the same time.
'Start with a seven. You can either follow suit or follow on numbers.'
'Black Jack is pick up five.'
'Unless you have a red Jack.'
'No-'
'Yes, it is.'
'You have to knock when you're on your last card, or you miss a go. Because they don't let you off if you forget.'
'Will you stop trying to look at my cards?!'
I frown, looking at the seemingly random cards in my hand.
'You'll pick it up as we go along,' Paul says, nudging me. 'I'll help you.'
'You already know it,' George says. 'We used to play it.'
'When?'
'All the time. Well, a few times. But it was just the two of us, so some of the rules didn't apply.'
'That's what you do when you get girls on their own then, George?' John says. 'No wonder it took you so long to shag her.'
He's not looking up. It was a careless, off-colour joke, they always tease and rib each other like that, but George shoots him a black look and everyone else falls abruptly quiet.
There are rules and limits to this truce between me and George. Rules which, like this card game, I'm not completely au fait with. One rule, apparently, is that we do not mention the nature of our past relationship, and neither does anyone else. We can talk about the films we watched, music we liked, the Blackler's department store Christmas windows and when the tramlines were taken out of Lime Street. We are not to talk about us.
I try not to react, as if I didn't hear John, but I can feel my cheeks glowing. Why do I always have to blush? It's like I'm still sixteen years old. I should be outside with the rest of them, gripping my 'Beatles 4-Ever!' banner.
John looks up at George, over the top of his cards and raises an eyebrow. Minnie shoves his arm hard and he moves away from her. 'You've a big gob, Lennon,' she says. John just shrugs like he doesn't know what she means. I stare at my cards.
'Who's got a seven of hearts then?' Ringo says.
*
The next stop is Minneapolis. I've missed four shows now, two in Houston and two in Chicago. I'm determined not to miss this one. If I continue to miss shows, I know Maurice will want to send me home, and I don't want that to happen. Our set should be twenty-five minutes, but we always sing faster live. It usually ends around twenty minutes. I know I'm still not fully better, but I convince Maurice I will be alright. I can manage twenty minutes and we can change the set around, so that I don't sing lead very much. It's only one show in Minneapolis, two in Portland tomorrow and then we have a few days break in Los Angeles. I can rest my voice then.
We leave Chicago in the afternoon. A more relaxed plane ride, much better than travelling over night. A good thing too as, after two sleepless nights, no one was up before lunchtime.
'I suppose you do look better, Hannah,' Maurice tells me, as I sit with the girls on the plane, trying to plan our arrangements. 'There's a bit more colour in your cheeks.'
'I do feel better, Maurice. Honestly. Back to full strength, nearly.' A little white lie.
Maurice smiles. 'Don't over do it then.'
'Did you call Ricky?' I ask him, suddenly remembering.
The smile on his lips dies. 'Uh, yes. But he didn't answer. I tried a couple of times.'
'Oh, really?' I reply weakly, imagining how cross Ricky is will be when I speak to him. I haven't rung him since Toronto, four days ago.
There are four thousand fans waiting for the Beatles when we arrive. The original plan was to go to the place we're staying and for the boys to have some photos done, but in sight of the manic crowds, we go straight to the baseball stadium where the concert will take place. Once we get there, we use the locker rooms for dressing rooms, waiting around, lying on fold up camp beds. It's not exactly glamorous.
There's a press conference in the evening, which Cat and I watch from the back of the room. The usual amount of daft questions and dafter answers. A music shop presents George with a new guitar, a twelve string Rickenbacker, worth quite a lot, and I think about how George worried once he wouldn't be able to keep up with the payments for the guitar he had on tick from Hessy's. Now he must be considerably richer and people are falling over themselves to give him expensive instruments for free.
The stage is in the middle of the baseball field. We put on our pretty, long length, blue chiffon dresses and they are immediately covered in dust as we walk from the tunnel, out across the field and onto the stage. The noise from the audience is deafening and I can't tell if I'm singing well or not. My throat hurts afterwards, but it was worth it. I'm so glad we're a foursome again. I think the other girls are too. John's voice is suffering as well. They're dropping Twist and Shout from their set tonight.
'You look different out there, singing,' George says to me, when we return to the locker room. I feel like I'm covered in dirt and grime, but I don't care. Everyone is smiling and laughing. It's the happiest I've felt since the tour started. Actually, it's the happiest I've felt for a long time before that.
'Why? How do I look?' I ask him, sitting down on one of the camp beds, unbuckling the sandals I'm wearing. I wriggle my toes. These shoes always cut into me like they're made of cheese wire.
George gives me a wry smile like he's not going to answer me. He lifts his guitar and puts it over his head. 'Confident. Sure of yourself,' he says, and turns away.
'What? Cocky, then?' I reply and he laughs, glancing back at me. 'When did you watch me sing, anyway?' It couldn't have been tonight. There's no way they'd even get to the sidelines without being seen.
'In Atlanta,' George says. 'Me and John watched some of the show from the dug-out on the field there.'
He walks off and I watch him, thinking Atlanta was when I was getting sick, I must have sounded awful.
*
'Ricky, if you'd let me get a word in edgeways I would tell you-'
Ricky falls abruptly silent and that is somehow louder than when he was yelling at me. I play with the telephone cord, trying to pull the coils in it straight, as I attempt to piece together in my head words to placate him.
'So?' he says, after a moment.
'I've explained,' I say, as gently as I can. 'I was sick. Really awful, Ricky. I couldn't stand up. I was supposed to be resting my voice. I couldn't call you-'
'Resting your voice? What, total silence, Hannah? You couldn't manage a thirty second phone call?'
I had to wait for the phone for half an hour while Cat called her boyfriend. I wished I hadn't bothered now. Cat's phone call was all giggles and hushed whispers and Harry, I'm not saying that! There's other people in the room! My phone call is thinly veiled accusations, hostility and arguments. I was so happy after the show tonight. I felt more like my old self again. Ricky has managed to murder that in two minutes flat.
'I asked Maurice to call you and tell you.'
'Well, he didn't.'
'He says he tried. You weren't home.'
'I haven't been anywhere, Hannah. If he called I would have answered it-'
George and Ringo wander into the room. There's a burst of noise as they open the door, dulled as they close it behind them. Like the one in Chicago, the Minneapolis hotel has announced the Beatles are staying here. Fans have besieged the hotel. Quite a few have gotten in.
I smile to Ringo and George. They go and sit on the sofa. They're waiting for the phone as well.
'Where are you?' Ricky asks, suspiciously.
'At the hotel.'
'It sounds like a carnival.'
'There's a party going on.'
'I thought we agreed you wouldn't be going to parties.'
You agreed that, Ricky, I think, but instead I say sweetly, 'It's just in the hotel. I'm not at the party. I'm on the phone to you.'
'And afterwards?'
'I'm going back to my room with a book and a cup of cocoa.'
'Hannah...'
'I am!' I insist. I glance at Ringo and George and turn away, lowering my voice and covering the mouthpiece. 'I've done everything you've asked me to,' I tell him.
'So where is everyone else now?'
'Now? I don't know. The girls are at the party somewhere. I think Maurice is around. Do you want to speak to him?'
'No. What about the others? Your friends, the Beatles?'
I look over at Ringo and George again. They're messing around, laughing, not paying any attention to me.
'I don't know where they are,' I tell Ricky. 'Why would I? I don't care what they're doing. I've been in a single room most of the time because I've been ill. I haven't been going to parties or doing anything. I've been on my own.'
'I've only got your word for that, haven't I?' he says and hangs up.
I remain there, still with my ear to the phone. 'Okay,' I say into the dead tone of the phone line. 'I'll call you again after the show in Portland. Um, goodnight, Ricky.'
I hang the phone up and get up. Ringo and George get up with me. George moves towards the phone but Ringo tugs his arm back. 'I'm first. You lost,' he says. 'You said, heads, remember.'
George sighs shortly. 'You'll be ages with Maureen. I won't be a minute.'
'You'll be ages. You always are. No. You can wait your turn.'
'Oh, alright. Tell me when you're done then.'
I walk towards the door, only realising that George is with me as I reach it.
'I'm after you,' George says back to Ringo. 'Don't let John or anyone else nip in.'
Ringo waves him away, already speaking to the international operator.
Outside, the party spills out of every room and into the corridor. There's music playing loudly. People I haven't seen before are everywhere. It's smoky and chaotic and I'm tired just looking at it.
'It's a bit crazy, isn't it?' George says, by my side, standing close to me as people squeeze past us. 'Do you want a drink?' he offers.
I shake my head. 'No, thanks. I think I'll just make myself a cup of tea and go and hide out in my room. Parties like this aren't really... um, me.'
'I could keep you company for a bit, if you want,' George says, flippantly.
I give him an odd look. 'That's alright, you don't have to do that. I'm fine on my own.'
'Might as well have a cup of tea with you,' George says. 'While I'm waiting for Ritchie to get off the phone.'
*
'You're supposed to be a rock star,' I tell George, as I lean forward to hand him a mug. 'You should be out there, knocking back whisky and vodka. Not in here, drinking tea and eating biscuits.'
George dips the digestive biscuit in his tea and flashes me a smile before he bites into it.
'Some rock star you are,' I tell him.
'I have my moments,' George says. He sips from his cup. 'That, is a nice cuppa tea.'
George sits on my bed. I don't feel comfortable sitting next to him, so I perch on a small bench opposite. I think you're supposed to put your suitcase on it really.These rooms aren't as luxurious as some of the other places we've stayed in. The plan was we would stay in a more middle range hotel here. Not a top notch one. One that people wouldn't think the Beatles would choose. It's not worked out.
The rooms are small and in need of updating. There isn't much furniture and what is here looks old and worn. I'm finding it difficult keep eye contact with George. It's just the two of us in here. My room. My bedroom. I'm studying the tired furniture, the tasteless curtains, the stains on the carpet.
'Besides,' George continues. 'You should know, it can't be all parties and drinking and music. You get fed up with it after a bit.'
'I've never enjoyed big parties all that much,' I tell him, forcing myself to look at him properly, otherwise he's going to think something is wrong. 'Small parties are alright, but big ones, with lots of people...'
George smiles. 'How's Ricky?' he asks.
'He's... He's fine,' I reply, the question taking me by surprise.
'Calmed down yet?'
'What?'
'The party after Shea Stadium. He looked absolutely livid, when he dragged you out of there with, uh... the girl that Paul was getting to know.'
'Oh,' I say, casting my eyes to the floor again, thinking, he'd be a lot more angry than that now if he knew you were sitting in here with me. 'Yes, he's, um, he's fine. He was... uh...'
There's a knock at the door, rescuing me. I lean over, able to reach the door handle without standing up. Cat is on the other side, holding a board game box to her chest.
'Oh, hi, George,' she says as she steps inside the door. She looks at George and then at me, a funny expression on her face as she rests her eyes on me. 'Sorry. I'll come back later.'
'No, Cat, it's alright, come in. What's the matter?'
'Nothing. I was just fed up with the party. There's a creepy guy out there who won't leave me alone. Even though I told him I have a boyfriend, he keeps trying to hold my hand, get me to dance with him. So I thought, I'll go and hide in Hannah's room, but I didn't realise you'd be busy.'
'It's okay, I'm not busy,' I tell her, struggling to disguise the resentment in my voice. 'You can come in. George is just waiting for Ringo to finish on the phone.'
'What's that?' George asks, craning his neck to look at the box in her hands.
'Oh, it's just monopoly. It's a dull game. Hannah likes it.'
'It's nearly midnight,' I tell her.
'Yeah, I know, but it's not like anyone's going to bed anytime soon, with all this going on out there.'
'Come on then,' I say to Cat, eager to act casual, like there's nothing out of the ordinary happening, annoyed with her for thinking she was interrupting something private, just because George is in here. I get off the bench and sit on the floor. 'One quick game.'
'When was monopoly ever quick?' Cat replies, but she's already joined me on the floor, getting the board out of the box.
George moves to the edge of the bed, looking over. 'I like monopoly,' he says.
*
Mal pauses in the doorway as he takes in the scene. He raises an eyebrow at George. 'Here you are,' he says. Behind him, the party is still going on, loudly and obnoxiously. Mal steps inside the room and pushes the door closed behind him.
'Yep,' George says, not paying attention, studying the board in front of us as he lies on his stomach on the floor. 'What?'
'Nothing, just... this is the last place I'd have thought you'd be.'
'Why?' He flicks his eyes up at him.
'What are you doing?'
'I'm water skiing, Mal. What's it look like? We're playing monopoly.'
'Want to play?' Cat offers, turning around to him.
'He can't play,' George replies. He sits up, pulling his legs round underneath him so he's sitting crosslegged. 'We're half way though.'
'He can if he wants,' I say. 'We'll just deal him in.'
'Deal him in? You don't deal someone in.'
'We used to.'
'We've been over this,' George says, narrowing his eyes at me, but grinning. 'Your rules are daft. We're playing the actual rules of monopoly here. Not Hannah's make-them-up-as-you-go-along monopoly rules.'
'I was looking for you,' Mal interrupts. He takes his glasses off and rubs one of the lenses on the corner of his shirt. 'There's a phone call. Or there was. It was about ten minutes ago. I couldn't find you.'
George shrugs not looking up. 'Well, I'll have to call them back. This is a serious game here.'
'It was from... England,' Mal says carefully, as he puts his glasses back on.
George looks at him, then sighs emphatically and scrambles to his feet. 'I've counted all that money,' he says to me, as he steps over the board. 'None of yer bloody Scouse cheatin' round 'ere, right?'
I pull my face at him.
He pauses at the doorway. 'Cat, watch her. You can take the girl out of Liverpool...'
Cat frowns at me as he disappears. 'What's he mean?'
'He means because I'm from Liverpool, he's assuming I am predisposed to cheating.'
Cat looks more confused. 'But he's from Liverpool too...'
'It's just a joke,' I tell her, shaking my head. 'It's a silly stereotype. All Scousers are cheats and thieves.'
'Hannah, what's going on? Why was George in here on his own with you?' She blurts it out like she's been dying to say it.
I laugh at her. 'Nothing. Geez, Cat. Cheating at the game. Not cheating cheating. He was just waiting for the phone and drinking a cup of tea.'
'That was over an hour ago.'
'Yes, well, we started playing this, didn't we?'
'It's... It's not right, Hannah. First you were enemies, not speaking to each other. Now you're... having secret meetings in your bedroom...'
'Cat,' I say, seriously. I take her hand. 'There's no secret meetings. Don't go saying things like that.'
'I'm not as naive as I look, you know,' she says, a little spitefully, as she pulls herself away from me.
'I'm married. And George... Well, where do you think he's gone now?'
'Where?'
'To phone his girlfriend. Back home in England, where she's waiting for him.'
'Yes, but...'
'That's it,' I insist. 'That's all there is to it. There's nothing between George and me. Nothing at all.'
*
We fly out of Minneapolis at eleven the next morning. No one got a lot of sleep last night, but they still seem quite alert and awake this morning. Perhaps some of them are still a little drunk. The monopoly game fell apart after George went to call his girlfriend. I assume it was his girlfriend, from the unsubtle way Mal announced England was on the phone for him, as if the Prime Minister needed a word.
George didn't come back for ages, but when he did, he tried to convince Cat and me to join in with the party instead. I was annoyed with Cat by then, and she was pissed off with me, so neither of us really wanted to carry on with the game. I went to the party - for around ten minutes. The police had arrived and were trying to separate the gate crashing fans. It was still too full. I don't know why anyone enjoys parties like that.
It's a shame. That was our last shared night together on this tour, so it would have been nice if it had just been us. Not us, joined by a hundred strangers. Today is one of the whistle stop gigs. We're performing two shows at the Memorial Coliseum in Portland and then we're shooting straight over to Los Angeles tonight. The boys have rented a house in Beverley Hills somewhere. We're staying in a hotel, closer to the city centre.
I'd better find time to call Ricky today, before he gets even more angry with me. Maybe in between the two shows today. The prospect of another long distance fight with him doesn't fill me with enthusiasm. I'm tempted to wait until tomorrow. We have some time off in LA. We can get some sleep finally -
'Hannah?'
I look up. George stands in the in the aeroplane aisle. He doesn't look bad for his late night. He must be used to them by now.
'We need more pennies for the-'
Before George can finish his sentence a guy bolts past him, nearly knocking him over in his haste. He's already half way down the aisle before I even realise who he was, a journalist who had been sitting a couple of seats behind me. He continues his charge to the front of the plane.
I'm slouched in my seat, book on my lap, knees up, pressed against the seat in front. Scrunched up, but surprisingly comfortable. I lift myself up to watch the man. He's got an urgency about him, although as he reaches the front of the plane, where most people are, he forces himself to slow down and walk normally.
George turns back to me, a bemused expression on his face. He looks like he's about to comment, but just shakes his head. Over George's shoulder, I see the guy slip into the cockpit room at the front. The door is closed quietly behind him.
'Have you got any change? Coins?' George asks. 'We need 'em for...'
A violent sudden jolt nearly makes George loose his footing. It's quickly followed by a second shudder. George ducks his head down to look out of the window. My seat is in between windows. I can't see what he's looking at.
'Turbulence...' I tell him, but as I say it, George's face pales. All the life drains from him, even his lips seem to go a funny grey colour.
Everything that happens next, happens so quickly, it's only afterwards I can even put the sequence of events in order.
'What's all that?' Someone's voice, further down the plane.
Everyone starts to move over to this side of the plane, looking out the windows. I try to sit up, putting my feet on the floor but I still can't see what they're looking at as they all crowd around.
'Would you fucking look-' Someone says, close by.
'That's fire!' John's voice, louder, above everything.
I still can't see. What's on fire? Something on the ground or-
'It's the engine. The bloody engine is on fire!'
George looks round at me, his mouth open.
'Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts,' the pilots voice, over the intercom. Calm, professional, authoritative, but no one takes any notice. Everyone is on their feet, looking out of the windows. A girl shrieks. It might have been Cat.
Voices. Words, shouts, screams. I can't identify who's saying what.
Someone moves and then I can see it. Smoke, black and thick, filling the air outside the plane, engulfing the wing, engulfing everything. I can't see the ground. In the midst of the billowing clouds, I see a lick of bright orange, a flame, stark contrast against the darkness all around it.
'George,' I say, but it's barely a whisper.
He's still standing next to me. 'It's the...' he starts.
'Please return to your seats...'
George flops into the seat next to me. We stare at each other. I can't speak.
'JOHN, SIT DOWN!' Mal's voice.
I look over the seats. Some people have sat down. There's a scuffle at the front of the plane, John in the middle of it. Mal pulling him back, dragging him to a seat. I can't see Minnie anywhere. I can hear Cat crying but I can't see her either. All the windows on this side of the plane are darkened by the smoke. I look out the windows opposite, blue skies. It doesn't seem real. Voices are a rabble of noise surrounding me like the smoke surrounds the plane.
'I don't want to die,' someone says nearby.
'Ladies and Gentlemen, please remain calm. Return to your seats and fasten your seat belt securely. We will shortly be arriving at Portland International Airport, who are aware of our situation and have cleared us to land in the next few minutes.'
'We're going to fuckin' crash!'
'Oh, God. Oh, dear God...'
'Fasten your seat belts, ensure your seat is in an upright position and all table trays are stowed-'
'Sit down, you bloody idiot-'
'For Christ's sake, will you let go of me!'
I can't look. I can't look out of the window. I can't look at everyone else as they panic and cry and scream. I can only stare at George. His eyes are aflame with fear, the look on his face is a mixture of terror and disbelief that this is happening. George's fingers interlock with mine and he squeezes my hand tightly. I don't know if I took his hand or if he took mine. I squeeze his hand back.
'Hannah!' Minnie's standing up now in the middle of the aisle. 'Hannah, where are you?!'
'Minnie, I'm here,' I reply, but I don't know if I actually say it or just think it.
'Minnie, sit down!'
I see Paul try and grab Minnie's clothes but she avoids him.
'HANNAH!' She sounds terrible, panicked. I've never heard her like that before, and it trebles my own fear.
'She's alright, she's here,' George shouts back for me.
'Minnie, please,' John's voice.
Minnie disappears from view. I have a dreadful feeling I might not see her again. George leans forward, looking through the windows in front of us, although the visibility is poor. I think I can feel him trembling. I tug his arm back and he looks round at me.
'Don't look out there,' I say, barely audible but George hears. He nods and offers his other hand to me.
'Hannah, I...'
'I know. It's alright.'
I put my other hand in his as well, our bodies angled towards each other.
'Don't let go, George.'
He shakes his head in a silent promise.
'Don't let go.'