Shelter In Your Love (Beatles Fan Fiction)

99. Cry For A Shadow

A/N - A quick warning for sexual content in this chapter. I think its a tad more explicit than what I usually write. Also a quick warning - this is where the story gets a bit... different. Fingers crossed this is gonna work! Thank you all for reading up to chapter 99!!

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"Heaven and hell is right now, right at this moment. You make it heaven or hell by your actions. It's just obvious, isn't it?"

[George]

27th January, 1972

The phone rings for ages. A strange cross-atlantic ringtone that sounds electronic and foreign. It's the early hours of the morning at home. England. Still referred to as 'home' in his mind. He knew that if he didn't call now, then the drinking would start with earnest, the drink and all the other stuff, and then it would be another day without doing it, without at least asking. Today's the best day to do it. Also the worst. He's already a bit pissed. Enough to brave it. Selfish to call at this time, but why change the habit of a lifetime?

'Hello?' An eventual answer, gruff, half-asleep.

'Hey man, how's things?'

A pause while he makes the connection from the voice to the identity of who would be calling at this hour.

'John? Do you know what time it is?'

'No, why? What time is it?' Lie number one.

'It's past one in the morning. Bobbie's sleeping. I was sleeping.'

'Oh, really? It's only eight here. Eight at night.'

'What do you want?'

'I, uh... I was talking to Ringo. He was over here for that Blindman premiere. Y'know, his new film. Have you seen it yet?'

'What? No. John--'

'Well, anyway, we were saying what do you think everyone would have done if we'd never made it? You know, if there was never any Beatles. Ringo said he might have been a hairdresser. Can you imagine that?' He laughs, too much, over the top. 'What do you think Paul would have done?'

Pause. No reply.

'Ringo said he'd be a teacher or somethin'. You could almost picture it, couldn't you? Paul. Big, stupid, black gown and a mortar board. Teaching poetry or music or some shit.'

'John, look--'

'What would you have done, George? You were... uh, you were gonna be an electrician, weren't you? You were an apprentice at Blacklers. I remember that.'

'--I'm hanging up now.'

'Know what else I remember? Going round yours and your mother giving us whiskey.' He chuckles. 'We had to go to yours, because Mimi wouldn't have you in the house. You were too Teddyboy-ish, too laddish. Too bloody Scouse. You were a bad influence. You! You, George!' More forced laughter. 'She, uh... She liked Paul though. He had the right accent.'

He sighs. 'John, seriously...'

'Nah, no, you were always gonna play guitar for a living. Even if we'd never done it, you would have. I can't think of you doin' anythin' else. You'd have been a session musician at least...'

His voice drops. George doesn't reply, but he's still there. John can hear him breathing.

'Ritchie asked what I'd be and I said, "A drunk"!' He laughs again. Tinny. Echoey. 'But, uh, do you know what I really would have done, if I'd stayed in Liverpool? If the Beatles didn't happen?'

A beat, then, 'What?'

'I'd have married Minnie.'

He'd dreamed of her again last night. A dream so vivid that it was almost like losing her all over again when he woke up and found it wasn't her there, next to him. In the dream, he'd been in bed with her. Her on top of him, kissing him. Kissing his neck and his chest. Her hair tickling his skin. He'd held her. He'd felt her. The weight of her body as she straddled him, the warmth of her touch, the softness of her mouth.

She'd spoken to him, but what she said didn't make sense. Words garbled. He couldn't make it out, it was like a different language. I don't know what you're telling me, Min, he'd kept saying. I don't understand. Say it again.

He'd been crushed when he'd woken up. It was so real. How could it have been just a dream?

'You couldn't have,' George replies, quietly. 'She went to New York with Hannah after Hamburg. She didn't come back to Liverpool.'

'Yeah, yeah, I know, but... She'd have come home. If I'd asked her to.' Lie number two.

'She might not have had you.'

'No, probably not...' He laughs again, and this time it's genuine. 'Listen, George, do you remember that party in New York in sixty-four? The one Dylan came to, and Minnie and Hannah were there? You took a picture of me and Minnie. Do you still have it?'

Because that's the worst of it. He's struggling to remember what she looked like. In his dreams he sees her so clearly, but when he's awake, it's almost impossible. If he can conjure up a memory, sometimes he can see her, but he feels like those are fading too. Not three years yet, and he feels like he's forgetting her. Lose her again and he'll lose his mind.

'Uh, yeah, somewhere, I think.'

'Would you send it to me? I haven't got any pictures of her.'

'You can get pictures of Minnie anywhere.'

'Not of the two of us together. There's hardly any of them.'

George exhales. 'Okay, sure. I'll have a look for it.'

'Thanks, man.'

There's a longer pause. Neither of them say anything. The things between them which are left unsaid are loud enough anyway.

'Um, John, actually, I've got some papers for you--'

John sighs audibly. 'Not more fuckin' papers. Can't we deal with all that shit some other time?'

'No, I don't mean business stuff... There's a box with some old LP's in it and some of... Some things I think you should have.'

'What things?'

'Letters mostly. From Minnie to you and some from you to her.'

John's heart stops. He feels it. For a couple of seconds, it stops beating. She'd kept them. Fuck. She'd actually kept them. He closes his eyes.

'And... and some that she must have never sent to you. They're sealed envelopes with your name on them.'

He snaps his eyes open. He can't reply for a moment as the weight of that, the meaning it might contain, presents itself.

'A box?' he asks, things falling into place in his already weary mind.

'Yeah, like the old record boxes you used to get.'

'A record box,' he repeats. 'Black? And... It's a vinyl box.'

'Yes,' George repeats, irritated. 'A vinyl record box. Like LPs, albums, you know?'

'Where... Where did you find it?'

'It was with Minnie's stuff. Hannah kept it all. I found it a while ago but...'

'A while ago?!' John echos, voice rising. 'So why are you only telling me now?'

'Well, that's it, John. Han was really weird about Minnie's stuff. She couldn't bear anyone touching it or going through it, so I didn't know if I should send it to you.'

'Personal letters between me and Minnie?' John says, tersely. 'Of course you bloody well should.' He considers telling George what the box is, and just for the hell of it, pointing out that he was allowed to go through Minnie's stuff. Hannah didn't object to John touching it. But what would be the point?

'Have you read the letters, George?'

'No, of course not. They're sealed, a lot of them. She must have never got round to posting them to you. I don't know... I'll send it to you then.'

'Thank you,' he say, testily.

'No problem,' George says, in a tone which means the opposite.

John should go now. He should hang up and go and drink until the pain in his head goes away. If he drinks enough, the dreams don't come. He can't decide if that's a blessing or a curse. But he finds he doesn't want to. He wants to stay talking to George longer. Because he's the only one, isn't he, who knows what it's like to love and lose one of the James sisters.

'How's Bobbie?'

'She's alright.'

'How old is she now?'

'Three on Sunday.'

'Tell her Uncle John says happy birthday.'

George snorts. 'Yeah, okay.'

He's not Bobbie's real uncle. She was Minnie's real niece. Hannah's daughter. He could have been her real uncle. If he'd not been such an idiot all his life.

'And she's... She's alright, then? Bobbie?' he asks, falteringly.

'What's that supposed to mean?' George snaps, defensively.

'Noth--'

'She's fine. She's perfectly fuckin' fine,' George talks over him. 'I can look after her, you know. I am her father. She's happy and healthy and normal--'

'I never said she wasn't,' John says, blinking.

'I don't need any help to look after my own daughter. I can do it myself.'

'Who said you did, man?'

'Everybody.'

'Who's everybody?'

'The... The health services. That bloody copper. The detective. Paul.'

'Paul? Our Paul?'

'Yeah. At Christmastime.'

'He said that? He said you needed help?'

'He said he thought I should concentrate on Bobbie and what she needs. Stop getting wrapped up in other things. Stop being selfish and wallowing in self pity.'

Oh. Something vague. A memory flickering at the back of his mind. George in the news, over Christmas. The reason why asking after Bobbie might make him kick off like this. John didn't pay much attention to it. He had his own headlines to deal with.

'I don't think Paul means...'

'He means I can't do it on my own.' Anger bubbling in his voice. 'He means that I'm not putting Bobbie first. That I can't look after her and she needs a mother. He means...' George takes a sharp breath. 'He means Hannah isn't coming back so I just need to get over it and move on with... with--'

Anger gives way to despair and John feels a stab of guilt for even asking.

'How can he be so fuckin' cold?' George says, despondently. 'You think you know someone but... I don't know Paul. Not anymore. All the fucking crap with the Beatles and when Hannah was...'

'I guess Paul's not as close to Hannah as me and you...'

'He doesn't give a fuck, you know? He just doesn't.'

'But... well, he means you can't stop living, can you? Just because Hannah's... gone. Life carries on. Paul's got a point, George. You have got Bobbie to think of...'

Fucking hell. John Lennon siding with Paul McCartney for once. Alert the media.

'What, like you are, you mean?'

'What?'

'You're living, aren't you? Getting thrown out of clubs. Drinking and snorting yourself into an early grave.'

'Fuck off. You don't know anything about it.'

'Don't I?'

'No.'

'All this... bad behaviour. That's nothing to do with Minnie then?'

'No, it's not.'

'She's been gone a lot longer than Hannah. Minnie's dead and no one can change that--'

Christ, George. Don't sugar the pill. Give it to me straight, why don't you?

'--But at least that's not your fault. At least you don't have to blame yourself for... for--'

He makes a strange, strangled noise which John stiffly ignores. Come on, man, we're English. Pull yourself together, he thinks, but says nothing. What do you say to something like that? He's right. It is his fault and John isn't going to tell him any different just because George wants him to.

As if he can hear him, George turns on him again. 'So it's nothing to do with Minnie then?' he asks, the venom returning to his voice. John won't contradict and comfort him like he wants, so now he'll lash out at him. 'Nothing to do with you still being in fucking pieces over her. Nothing to do with the fact you can't come to terms with life without her.'

'No, I... I haven't even thought about her in ages. Not until just recently.' Lie number three, definitely. And possibly the worst lie he's ever told.

'Bollocks.'

'I don't know what you're fuckin' talking about,' John says, petulantly.

'What are you calling me for then?' George demands. 'Why do you always fuckin' ring here if it's not for that?'

'Just to--'

'Don't preach to me about living and moving on and what I should do when you can't bloody well do it yourself.'

And then George is gone too.

*

'John?' she said, in an effort to interrupt him.

John ignored her, annoyed. He continued talking over her, trying to make his point. He'd not got there yet, but she wasn't listening to a word he was saying.

'John...'

Christ, she gets on his nerves. What's he doing here? Why does he even bother? She's a pain in the bloody arse. She never listens to him. Other people do. Other people hang on his every word. Listening, taking in what he's saying, taking note and contributing to the discussion. Other people that he could mention by name. That would piss her off then, wouldn't it?

'John-nnn-eee...'

Oh, what's the fuckin' use?

'What?' he snapped.

She smiled, taking pleasure from his flare of pique. 'I love you, Johnny,' she replied, plainly, like she was just asking him the time or to pass the salt.

John looked at her for a moment, lying full length on the sofa, resting her head on her arm, the skirt of her pale blue dress riding up her thigh in a tantalising manner. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor beneath her, trying to explain to her about... About what? What was he talking about? It had completely gone out of his head.

John moved closer, on his knees now in front of her. He took his glasses off and leaned in close enough so that he could see her face perfectly in focus.

'I love you, Minnie,' he replied, and kissed her.

*

23rd February, 1972

John steps unsteadily from the plane, holding onto the handrail a moment longer than he should so he nearly trips at the bottom of the staircase. He's bundled up in a wide brim hat and tinted glasses, heavy peacoat, collar pulled up to shield his face, and a flimsy silk scarf around his neck. An effort at a disguise. Unnecessary, as John barely recognises himself these days, so he wouldn't expect anyone else would. Nonetheless as he half-walks, half-staggers through the arrivals gate, he hears a John Lennon! behind him. John doesn't turn around, keeps going, as swiftly as he can in this state.

He didn't realise how pissed he was until he stood up. Then, shouldn't really be a surprise. He's just spent the whole nine hour journey chucking back overpriced whiskey and coke, punctuated by brief spells of unconsciousness.

It wasn't really a plan to come here. It was a whim, and being unaccountably rich, his whims are ridiculously easy to indulge. He has a brief moment of clarity, his younger self, ideals of the eccentric millionaire he thought he'd be by this point in his life.

Yoko is furious with him. She didn't want him to go. Especially without her. Unthinkable. They might not let him back in the States afterwards. Then he'd be in trouble.

But this is going to be one day. Twenty-four hours. Well, two or three days at most. Here, there and then back again, and everything is resolved. As resolved as John can hope for.

Yoko wouldn't speak to him when he called from the airport in New York. She's not very pleased about how he's been acting lately. He's gone off the road map, not doing what he should do, but he can't explain, he can't tell her about the dreams and the things that wind up inside his head. She understands him on a lot of levels, but not this. She's threatened to leave. That's when he knew he had to come. He needs her, doesn't he? If he's not got Yoko, then he's alone. This is for her as much as him.

Thinking about it unsettles him. A panicky knot ties tightly in the pit of his stomach, so he pushes thoughts of Yoko out of his mind. He has to deal with this first and her later.

So what if she won't take his calls. So what if she doesn't talk to him ever again. If she hates him, well, so fucking what? She can get in the queue. Take a number, love.

The only person he really wants to speak to at the moment won't take his phone calls either. That's why he's had to come here, in person. In the night, the phone rings out, unanswered. In the daytime, housekeepers or nannies pick up, but he still refuses to come and talk to him. Stupid, pig-headed, stubborn, ignorant, bloody idiot. Won't listen. That was his worst fucking trait. He would never listen. No wonder the bloody band went tits up.

Alright, maybe John can appreciate why George won't take his calls. Maybe he's called one too many times in the small hours of the morning. One too many times pissed out of his mind. Trying to get George to talk to him, argue with him, cry with him. But George won't. He's not spoken to him since they had that row in January, but he sent the record box over, all the same.

The box arrived at the Bank Street loft apartment two weeks ago. When Yoko gave it to him, he pretended he didn't know what it was.

'The return address is George,' Yoko said, purplexed. 'Friar Park. What is it?'

John shrugged. 'No idea,' he said, flippantly. 'Probably something to do with Apple.'

He left the parcel on the kitchen table, still wrapped in it's brown paper for later, waiting for when he can open it alone. Frustratingly, he didn't get opportunity for two days. He had to wait until Sunday night, and late. Two in the morning. He'd nearly fallen asleep himself while he waited for Yoko to go to sleep.

He took the parcel into the bathroom, locked the door and sat on the cold, tiled floor to unwrap it.

A black vinyl box and it's contents for Mr John Winston Lennon.

That phrase has haunted him since Hannah first said it. He'd known what it was, but he couldn't bring himself to tell her. It's not vinyl covered, like Hannah assumed. It's actually covered in leather. The vinyl meant records. Vinyl records. A black box for storing vinyl records, with a carry handle and a silver clasp fasten. It's lined inside with check cotton fabric.

There were ten or so albums. He flicked through them; Kinks, Pretty Things, Small Faces, Rolling Stones. More random stuff that she used to love, The Standells, Electric Prunes, The Creation, The Sonics, Count Five. Christ, Minnie is here, in this box of dusty records.

There were the copies of Please Please Me and With The Beatles that John had sent to Minnie years ago, when they first came out, when he was in London and she was in New York. He knows they're the same ones because the hand written notes he'd sent with them are still inside the covers. He's quite surprised she didn't throw them away after what happened. But then, if she was going to get rid of the records, she wouldn't have kept the letters either.

'Not sentimental, my arse,' he mumbled to the empty bathroom and to Minnie, smiling to himself. She'd always deny it, but she was. Why she felt the need to be so secretive about it was a mystery. Just another thing she perceived as a weakness, and weakness must be cut out with a knife.

Slipped down the front of the box are the bundles of letters, as George said. Letters sent from him to her. Better, the ones she'd sent to him that he'd thought he'd lost forever. And best yet, tantalising sealed envelopes of white and baby blue.

Unsent, unread. John Lennon, written on the front of most of them, in Minnie's handwriting.

They're dated too, inexplicably. Sometimes with the proper date; 14/03/1964. Sometimes just the month and year; December '68.

When George said there were unsent letters, he'd assumed they'd be from the end. Things she'd wanted to say to him but couldn't, or wouldn't. But there's lots of them and they start as far back as 1960. Nine years worth of unsent letters. Why would she write so many, not send them to him, but keep them? They meant something to her. He can guess that from the record box hiding place, everything important went in here.

On top of the box was the picture he'd asked George for. A couple of others too. The photo, square shaped, sides curled from age and the colour a little faded. He's twenty-three in this picture. So is Minnie.

John's got his arm around her shoulders, but only in a friendly, rather than intimate fashion, just in case his wife had seen the photo at some point. Just one of the thousands of times he pretended Minnie wasn't all that she was to him. He's grinning, looking like a dope, sunglasses hiding his tired, bloodshot eyes. But Minnie, who'd had as little sleep as he, is fresh faced and alive.

Minnie's smiling, even though a moment before she'd been cursing George for trying to take their photo. She never liked having her photo taken, despite taking up a modelling career later. There was an element of masochism in that.

She was beautiful when she smiled. She was beautiful all the time. John can't remember if he ever told her that. If he could go back he'd make sure he told her things like she was beautiful. That she was beautiful and talented. That she was worth so much more than she'd been told. And that he adored her. He wanted so badly to go back to the sixties so he could see her again. Just for one day. Couldn't he have that? Just one day to see her and try to put right everything that they'd left so wrong.

He couldn't read the letters then. Couldn't face it. This time tomorrow, he'd promised silently, but it'd been several days before he'd started reading Minnie's letters.

John won't allow the taxi driver to take the record box from him. He sits with it by his side, as he did on the plane, gripping the handle tightly, like the chancellor brandishing the budget box. The contents of which could make or break the fortunes of everyone.

The first time he lets go of it is when he sets down on the top of the bar and raises his finger for the barman. Or tries to. His fingers have been curled around it for so long, they're stiff and achey.

A drink, that's what he needs. Before he can face England again. Dear old Blighty. Old Albion. Land of Hope and Glory. Home.

He loves and hates it in equal portions.

He hasn't actually got anywhere to go, so he might as well take up residency in the bar. It's too early to go and look for George, by which he means it's too late. It's half past midnight by the time they get into London and John just asks the cabbie to take him anywhere that will still be open. After that, he's not sure. Any property John still owns in England is occupied, rented out. He could go to a hotel, live there for a while like some old army major whose wife has died. But that thought depresses him no end. It feels like he's spent half his life in a hotel room. He wouldn't care if he never stayed in another as long as he lived.

And besides, she was never his wife.

No, a hotel is out. Too public anyway. He'd rather slip in and out unnoticed, if such a thing is possible these days. He still has a lot of friends in England, friends with spare rooms or sofas they'd be all too happy to loan to a nomadic ex-Beatle, but if he goes to one of those he'd feel under pressure to perform. To entertain. To act like everything is fine and dandy when really he feels his life is disintegrating in his hands, like old newspaper fished out of a storm drain.

Family, then. That's what he needs. Real family. Family he can be himself around, flaws and all. Of which there are many, but significantly few who will tolerate them.

He finds he wants to go and see Mimi. There would be no all-day, all-night drinking sessions with Mimi. She would straighten him out in minutes flat, tell him to pull himself together, stop moping, what good can that do? Cantankerous old bird. He smiles to himself. But she lives in Poole, Dorset. Too far away for what John needs to do, though he resolves he'll go and see her before he goes back.

Who else? Cynthia and Julian? He should make the effort to see Julian, but Cyn's remarried now and John's not sure he'd be very welcome if he just arrived on the doorstep.

Ritchie is away. He's in Italy or Hungary or somewhere. And Paul... well, he can't imagine Paul would give him a very warm welcome even if he was at home in London. He's not spoken directly to Paul in months.

John sighs, and finding his glass strangely empty already, raises his hand for the barman's attention once more.

*

24th February, 1972

Another morning, another headache.

Not a hangover though.

Not. A. Hangover.

And that should be celebrated, really, but George finds he's still going to hide the fact his head feels like it's being demolished from the inside out. Old habits die hard.

He lies in bed for a few minutes longer, closing his eyes as he listens to the sounds of the house. People moving about, cooking in the kitchen below, the buzz of the oven timer and the bang of the back door. Some mornings he can do this and imagine it might be Hannah down there. Making the breakfast that she insists he eats before she lets him out of her sight, even though she won't ever have more than a single piece of toast herself. Caring for him by making sure he ate, making sure he had clean clothes to wear and a warm and tidy - organised - house to come home to. It's how she told him she loved him.

She'd sing to herself while she cooked and cleaned - a habit that she always swore she wasn't aware of, and maybe that was true. He misses hearing her singing. After he'd been living with her for a while, he found he could gauge her mood exactly by what she was singing. Certain songs were reserved for happiness or sorrow, tense times or carefree times, or when she felt at her absolute lowest, there would be no song at all. Just the sweep, swoosh, scrub of her brush or mop or duster or whatever else while she cleaned and cleaned until her hands were raw.

But not today. He can't conjure her up, but he tries anyway to invoke the fantasy. The one that he's played over and over in his mind, as if the repetition might make it happen. He'd go downstairs and there she'd be, smiling at his surprise, I'm home, Georgie, flinging her arms around his neck as he kissed her. But the visions won't come and it's getting harder and harder to do.

He sits on the edge of his bed and swallows a couple of painkillers from the pack he keeps in the bedside drawer. The water in the glass by the bed is dusty. He can't remember when he last changed it.

The headache is from tiredness, but morning has broken, the day is new and fresh and George can't sleep any longer. Maybe he'll get forty winks this afternoon.

He's been awake since half seven and seeming as he only went to bed at three, he feels sore and short tempered. Already snappy and fed up. He'll make an effort not to be like that with Bobbie though. He'll have a cup of coffee or two - or three - and something to eat and then he can go and play with his daughter, who possesses the everlasting energy and vim that all three year olds do.

Just like you were at that age, George's father keeps telling him, whenever George comments or complains.

George forces himself up, careful to avoid looking at the other, empty side of the double bed and dresses in yesterday's clothes; a white t-shirt that needs a wash and the gardening overalls that Hannah bought him for Christmas a couple of years ago. There's a hole in one of the knees now.

He ambles downstairs, staggering a bit, holding onto the wall like he's drunk, but it's three days since George even had a drink. Okay, two. Okay, he had a drink with dinner last night but that was honestly all.

He finds the kitchen full of people, all of whom ignore him, carrying on with what they're doing. Doing what George pays them to. Still, it would kill them to say good morning, would it?

'Where's Bobbie?' he says to no one in particular.

'In the garden,' Emma replies, moving past him. She sits at the side of the table and takes out a notebook, flicking through the pages.

'On her own?'

'With your brother.'

George sits at the end of the long wooden table. Since moving to Friar Park, it's always been full of people. Friends, family, the Hare Krishnas that lived in the garden for a while last year. And depressingly, employees. Employed housekeepers, nannies, cleaners, gardeners, and drivers to George's rue. He'd started when Hannah was struggling, adding more when she was grieving for Minnie and experiencing a touch of the baby blues, as George now appreciates, although he wasn't always so understanding at the time.

He'd brought people in, terrified to leave Hannah on her own, frightened she couldn't take care of Bobbie and even more scared that she just wouldn't. He'd employed more - without much of an interview process - after Hannah had gone and it had been George who couldn't take care of Bobbie properly. Now he currently has a staff of eleven, or was it twelve, and the new housekeeper keeps telling him they might need more.

'Coffee, Mr Harrison?' asks the said housekeeper, appearing by his side as if summoned by George's thoughts. Her name still evades him, three months after she's started here, but they're way past the stage where he can just ask for it.

He nods. 'Thanks, and you can call me George.'

She smiles and pours the coffee from a large glass pot like a waitress in a cafe, but otherwise doesn't answer him. George sighs after she's left.

The kitchen door opens and George's brother, Pete, now also groundsman of Friar Park, walks in. He stamps the loose dirt from his wellington boots on the mat and pats George's shoulder as he passes on the way to the coffee pot.

'Afternoon, sleeping beauty,' he says and George pulls his face. 'Decided to join us, have you?'

'It's not that late,' George replies.

'It is when you've been up since five.' Pete pours himself a cup and leans on the side, sipping from the mug.

'Where's Bobbie? Isn't she with you?'

'She was, then she came back inside.'

Emma lifts her head. 'When? Bobbie didn't come back in here.'

'A while ago,' Pete answers, standing up straighter.

'What?' George asks, his stomach a heavy ball of panic already. 'Where is she?'

'Probably still playing in the garden somewhere,' Pete says, calmly. 'She'll be fine, George.'

'The "garden" is nearly thirty acres wide!' George cries, getting to his feet. 'And there are fountains to fall into or a maze to get lost in or... or the bloody lake to drown in! I knew we should have had it filled in!'

'She'll be fine,' his brother repeats, maddeningly rational. 'She's not daft.'

'You should have made sure she'd gone back in the house--' George says, voice getting louder. 'And you!' He rounds on the young nanny. 'You shouldn't even let her out of your sight! What do I pay you for? You're fired, Emma!'

She looks on the verge of tears, but George doesn't care. He's already trying to pull on his own wellingtons, abandoned by the back door, and getting the left boot on his right foot in his haste.

'I'll find her,' Emma says, standing.

'No! I will find her,' George snaps, straightening up and yanking his muddied field jacket on.

'Ignore him, love,' Pete says and George could merrily smack him one. He's always doing that, undermining him in front of the staff, albeit when George is being boarish or overreacting. 'If you didn't mollycoddle her so much, George, she wouldn't always be running off, would she?'

George huffs, glares at him and steps through the back door, making sure he slams it behind him.

It's a phase, this. Bobbie disappearing off on her own, hiding somewhere, never usually going far, but still giving George a heart attack every time she does it. Running away. Who would have thought that trait would be hereditary?

'Bobbie!' he shouts and pauses. When no reply comes, he jams his hands into his jacket pockets and stomps off across the gravel. Last time he found her under the oak trees, near to where he'd planted the daisies, he'd check there first.

There's a light mist of rain in the air as he rounds the corner of the building. He raises his head towards the copse of trees and freezes.

Bobbie is there, and she's not alone.

The little girl stands facing the flowers, as if beside a grave. Next to her is a shortish man in an olive coloured trench coat. They have their backs to him. George's heart leaps into his mouth and he's about to yell and threaten and maybe rush over there to punch the intruder if he doesn't get away from his daughter when the man turns to Bobbie. George sees him in profile and now he remains rooted to the spot for another reason altogether.

George is staring at a ghost.

It's a good minute before he can move himself. He walks slowly over to the couple, somehow managing to creep up on them, as neither of them acknowledge him. He stops a few feet away.

'Bobbie,' George says, and both turn around.

Bobbie skips over to George and wraps her arms around his leg, babbling something George isn't listening to because he can't stop staring at the man. George puts his hand on her shoulder.

'Hello, George,' the man says, steel grey eyes meeting George's gaze. He smiles sheepishly. 'The, uh, gate was left open. Sorry for arriving unannounced.'

He looks older. He's aged a lot more than the four years since George last saw him. His face is more creased, hair greying and receding slightly, but his skin is a healthy tanned shade and his eyes have the same spark they always held. He'd always been stocky, not big, but solid. He's more lithe now, skinny even. His coat seems to hang on his frame.

'Was it?' George replies, distracted. 'They're not supposed to leave it open with her around. She's going through an inquisitive age.'

'She's just like you,' the man says, nodding towards Bobbie. 'But I can see a lot of Hannah in her too.'

George smiles and looks down at Bobbie, still hanging on his leg. 'So can I.'

'She was just telling me that these are her mother's flowers.' He gestures to the bed of daisies behind him.

'Mummy's daisies,' Bobbie echos.

George nods, still a little dazed to hold a proper conversation. He planted a patch of gerbera daisies, near to the tree that Hannah used to sit under with Bobbie when she was a baby. Bobbie's taken to playing there quite often. Missing her mother, George likes to think, although he knows truthfully, Bobbie probably doesn't understand well enough what's happened. Hannah is still very present for her, like she's just gone out on an errand and she'll be home any minute now. It's the idea of Hannah that draws Bobbie. That and the fact that George sits here too, under the tree, when missing her becomes too much.

'Perfectly Hannah,' the man says.

'Bobs,' George says, finding his voice. He bends down to her, putting his hand on her back. 'This is... Bobby. His name is Bobby too. He was Mummy's...'

'Friend,' Bobby Teale finishes for him, with a thin, but kind smile.

He stoops down and offers his hand to the little girl. She looks up at George and George nods to show it's okay. Bobbie finally relinquishes George's leg to gingerly shake his hand.

'I haven't seen you since you were a tiny newborn baby in a cot,' he tells her, making George wonder at what time did Bobby ever see his daughter as a baby.

'You got same name as me,' Bobbie says.

'Yes, I do,' Bobby replies and straightens up. He offers George a wry smile. 'Hannah said she'd name the baby after me if it was a boy.'

Suddenly shy, Bobbie moves behind George's leg again and presses her face into his thigh.

George shakes his head, still in a state of disbelief. 'Where have you been?'

'Gibraltar. Mainly. France for a while before that.'

'We... We thought you were...'

'Dead?' Bobby asks, plainly. 'Yes, that was the idea. I'm sorry. I was advised to leave. Disappear. I couldn't tell anyone. I've told nobody. Not Alfie, David, not even my old mum. I imagine they assumed the same as you.'

'Hannah was... She was so upset,' George says with a sigh. 'And lost, after you'd gone. I couldn't reach her. Minnie died. Hannah's sister. And with the new baby and the... the guilt over... It was churning up inside her...'

Bobby grimaces. 'Someone told me about her sister. I thought about it, but I couldn't risk contacting her. Not then. It would have put her in as much danger as I was.' He turns back to look at the flowers. 'I shouldn't be here at all.'

George gently prises Bobbie from his leg, wrapping her small hand in his. He steps level with Bobby and stares at the flowers with him. He planted them for Hannah. He's never told anyone that, outside of his daughter, who understands they are 'Mummy's daisies' but not why. The out-of-place daisies, not matching a single other plant surrounding them, not fitting in with anything else in the park. Pete wants to get rid of them, but George won't hear of it. They were Hannah's favourite flower, and despite how much George loved her, whatever he did to try and help her, she had always felt out of place too, wherever she was.

'Pretty flowers,' Bobby says and George nods. It's raining heavier now. The daisies heads bob as the raindrops hit them.

'Why now? Why have you come back now?'

'I... Someone found out where I was. I have to move again. I shouldn't have come here. I shouldn't even be in the country, but I couldn't go without stopping by. I have to go further afield this time. Do you think...' Bobby clears his throat and shifts his weight. 'Do you think she'll be angry with me? For just going like that? Letting her think I was dead?'

'I'm sure she'd understand,' George replies, although he's not sure of the truth of that statement. By his side Bobbie pulls on his hand, trying to escape him. George stoops down and lifts her onto his hip.

''S'raining, Daddy,' Bobbie says in George's ear, putting her arms around his neck.

'I know, love. We're going inside.' He turns to Bobby. 'Want to come in? Have a cup of tea?'

Bobby nods. 'Is she around? I can't stay long. I have a plane to catch tonight.'

'Who?'

Bobby smiles. 'Hannah, of course.'

George is so surprised that his mouth actually hangs open. 'Hannah's...' He can't say it. He still can't bring himself to say the words.

Bobby picks up on it. His face falls. 'What?' he asks. 'What's happened?'

'You haven't heard..?'

'I avoid the news. I don't read the English papers anymore.'

It had made the international papers in a lot of countries, but George sees no reason to point this out. He turns from Bobby and stares at the daisies, shocked to find he's blinking back tears. He concentrates on the white petals. There are so many differing versions of what happened that for a moment, George doesn't know what to say.

Hannah would tell the truth. To Bobby, he knows, she would tell the truth.

'The kid that was murdered, Joey...'

Bobby stiffens.

'And... um, the guy that did it, Frank Heath... The bastard came for her. He... His brother said he'd... She was...' He's flustered. Not making sense. He knows all the words, they run around his head at night still, but actually vocalising them and in the correct order is new. No one has ever not known - at least this part of the story - before.

Bobby puts his hand on George's arm. 'George, don't tell me she's--' He stops, his eyes flicking to Bobbie who rests her head on George's shoulder now, not listening to them.

George swallows and shakes his head slightly. 'The truth is...'

'George!!'

George turns around. Emma runs across the gravel towards them.

'Emma's shouting, Daddy,' Bobbie says.

'George! The phone, it's...' she says as she nears. She slows to a jog.

'Tell them I'll call them back,' George replies, annoyed.

She glances at Bobby Teale, wary, the same mistrust of strangers George has now too. It sends a pang of guilt through him. Emma, in truth, doesn't want to be here anymore. She loves Bobbie but there are, understandably, a lot of bad memories associated with her job here that she'd rather forget. George pays her two and half times the going rate for a children's nanny, but it's not the money she wants. She stays out of sense of loyalty to him, to Hannah. She knows he didn't mean what he said earlier because she knows George would struggle to replace her. Who would he get? He won't trust anyone he doesn't know with taking care of Bobbie now.

'Um, this is Emma, our nanny,' George says to Bobby, unsure whether he should introduce Bobby with his real name or not.

The decision is made for him as Bobby steps forward. 'Robert Phillips. Old friend of George's from way back. Nice to make your acquaintance, Miss.'

Emma gives him a slim smile and altogether distrustful look. 'It's John Lennon,' she says, quietly to George.

George sighs shortly, immediately irritated. 'I've told you,' he says, through gritted teeth. 'I'm not taking his calls. Tell him I said to piss off with ringing all the time.'

She shakes her head. 'It's not him on the phone. It's someone calling about him. You'd better come.'

*

'Minnie, why aren't we together?'

She didn't reply. She lay the full length of the sofa with her head rested on her folded arms, eyes closed.

She looks different recently and it took John a while to put his finger on why. It's absence which is so noticeable. She still wears makeup, but not as heavily as before; pink lipstick instead of red, soft eyeshadow instead of dramatic black kohl and mascara. And her hair. Since she came to England it's been bright blonde through to jet black and back again, a new colour every week, but now it's not anything. That is to say, it's her natural colour. A soft, natural dark blonde, like the colour of honey. John's not seen it like that since they were in Hamburg together.

On his knees, he inched closer to her again, studying her.

'I'm not asleep,' Minnie said, and opened her eyes. 'I can't sleep. Ever. The pills don't work anymore.'

'Why don't you answer me then?'

She exhaled. 'We are together. As together as we ever have been.'

'Yes, but, I mean... properly.'

'You know why.'

'I don't. I really don't.'

'It's just... how it's worked out.'

John huffed, dissatisfied with her answer.

Minnie smiled and extended her arm to take his hand, lacing her fingers in between his. 'We've always been together, Johnny. We always will be. No matter where you are, or where I am. Whether we're in the same room or light years apart, we're together.'

John smiled back, sadly. He turned around, leaning his back against the sofa but keeping his fingers interlocked with hers, so that her arm was pulled over his shoulder, twisted around.

Minnie pulled her hand from his and sat up to wrap her arms around his shoulders. Leaning forward, she kissed the side of his neck. 'What's the matter?'

'Nothing,' he replied, sulkily. Then added, a little more wistfully, 'I just... wish perhaps things were different.'

'Don't,' she said, simply. 'There's no point in regretting things. You can't change the past. What happened, happened.'

'That is... easier said than done.'

'Not really. It isn't. You just have to forgive yourself. Everyone makes mistakes, but what's the point of stewing about things you can't change?'

'Mistakes,' John said flatly, twisting round to face her. 'Was he a mistake?'

She sat back to glare at him. 'Don't spoil it, John, raking up all of that again.'

'You don't regret it then.'

'The truth?'

'We always tell each other the truth,' he said, dryly, not breaking eye contact.

'No,' she said, plainly. 'I've said, haven't I? Regrets are a waste of time.'

Why don't you just stab me in the heart, Minnie? It would be less painful.

'But...' she added, putting her hand to his head and brushing his hair away from his eyes. 'If I could go back and do it again, I would do everything differently. And I would make sure that I never, ever did anything that would hurt you.'

Not the answer he expected. He allowed a small smile. 'I have regrets.'

'Oh, I know,' she laughed.

'Can't you... Don't you think it would have been better if I hadn't...'

Minnie softened. 'It wasn't you, John. That's what I'm trying to say. It was me who chose the path for us. I couldn't go back to Liverpool, after Hamburg. I couldn't take Hannah back there. It was me who left you. Nothing was ever your fault, you know. You went home and when the time came, you did what you were supposed to do. Then later on--'

'What I was supposed to do,' John scoffed.

'You married Cynthia. She fell pregnant and you did the right thing.'

'How can it have been the right thing, Min, if it meant... I just think it might have been better if we'd...' He let his voice trail away. He didn't really need to tell Minnie this. She knew already.

Minnie laughed. 'Why? What do you think would have happened?'

'I don't know,' he said, irritated by her trying to make light of it. 'It would have been... nice.' He turned his back to her so she couldn't see it in his face.

'Nice,' she repeated, and still giggling, looped her arms around his neck again. 'What are you picturing, John? Some huge white wedding? Pretty countryside cottage with roses in the garden? Couple of ankle biters running around? John Junior and little Minnie the third.'

'Would it have been so bad?'

'We'd have driven each other crazy. We would have been one of those couples that have screaming rows, throwing crockery at each other.'

John smiled and shook his head.

'What do you think I would have done? Waited at home for you while you were out touring with The Beatles? Shagging your way around the world?'

'No. I wouldn't have...' He stopped, because that was exactly what he'd done with Cynthia, wasn't it? Would it have been different if it had been Minnie waiting at home for him? Maybe in only one way - Minnie would never have tolerated his behaviour for as long as Cynthia did.

'We'd be long divorced by now,' Minnie said, as if she'd read his mind.

'No, we wouldn't. We'd be forever, me and you.' John twisted round to face her again. She kept her arms around his neck. 'We could do it now.'

'Get a divorce?'

'Get married. We have to do that first, then you can have your divorce after that.'

Minnie laughed, but John didn't.

'Minnie... Min...' He pulled out of her embrace and sat on his knees again, putting one knee up to his chest as he took her left hand in his. 'Millicent Minerva James,' he said, formally, grinning as she cringes at hearing her full name. 'Will you marry me?'

Minnie laughed louder. John kept hold of her hand, waiting for her reply.

'Well, I don't know,' she said, with mock coyness. 'How are you going to keep me within the lifestyle I've grown accustomed to, John Winston Lennon?'

John looked at the debris of their shared meal. 'I think I can stretch to a bag of chips every now and then.'

Minnie smiled and tried to take her hand back from him. John wouldn't let her. She looked at him. He smiled and she frowned. 'Are you... Do you mean it?'

'Of course I do. Marry me, Minnie.'

'Aren't you already married?'

'Nope. I'm divorced. That came through earlier this year.'

'What about Yoko? You were going to marry her in March.'

'Yes, but only because... I didn't go through with it in the end.'

'Why not?'

'You know why.'

'They wouldn't let you. Not at short notice.'

John pursed his lips and shook his head. 'No. It wasn't that.'

'Oh, why then? Because you're too much in love with me?' Minnie's voice rose in anger, surprising him. 'You're only in love with me when it suits you. It's not fair, John. You change your--'

'I am always in love with you,' he said, calmly.

'--mind like the bloody weather. You decide you want me, and then you change your mind again and decide you don't, and--'

'I always want you,' he said, gripping her hand tighter as she tried to snatch it away from him, tears forming in her eyes.

'Then why would you--'

'Because you loved someone else!' he cried. 'I couldn't stand it. And I'm sorry, Minnie, for all of that.'

'That's why you were all set to marry Yoko?'

'Oh, I, uh... I thought you meant the other thing,' he said, embarrassed. 'But yes, that too. I thought you were happy with Brian. I was trying to forget you, trying to...' He stopped and sighed. 'I don't know what I was doing. You know, half the time, I don't know what I'm doing.'

'Like now?'

'I am very sure of what I'm doing now.'

There was no waver in her voice when she spoke. Tears spilled down her cheeks, though Minnie made no other sound. She made no move to wipe them away, so John reached with his free hand and wiped them for her.

'You're... You're doing it again.'

'What?'

'Fucking about. You think I'm made of... of... stone? Like I don't have a heart? Like I don't feel...'

John laughed, softly. 'I don't think that at all, do I? Of everyone in the world, I'd say I was the one who knows exactly what you feel about everything.'

'No, you don't,' she snapped. 'You don't know anything about me. No one does, John.'

'Yes, they do. I do. And I love you in spite of it.'

Minnie laughed then, through her tears. Relaxing her shoulders, she bowed her head and John finally let her take her hand back from him.

She wiped her eyes with the pads of her thumbs, carefully, so not to smudge her mascara, but it was just a habit because she's not wearing any to smudge.

'If you know me so well then, if you know how I feel about everything... Tell me how I really feel about you.' She raised her head to stare into his eyes, challenging him, daring him to say it out loud.

John wet his lips and clasped his hands together. 'You love me,' he answered, simply. 'You don't want to. You've tried not to, but you still do anyway. You love me now. You loved me then. You always will, just like I will always love you. Through all the crap and everything, it remains, unchanged.'

She doesn't flinch, doesn't avert her gaze for a second.

'You're always so cock sure, aren't you? Any woman you want will fall down at your feet.'

He gives a small shake of his head but doesn't reply. The truth is, where Minnie's concerned, he's never sure. She always has the ability to shock and surprise him. It's taken a long time, but he's finally learned not to second guess her, not to assume anything about her. He knows as soon as he does, she will do the opposite, deliberately or not.

'I want to put it right. I want us to be together, Minnie. I want to marry you.'

Minnie sat back. 'I don't know if I believe you.'

'Believe me,' he told her.

Minnie took a deep breath and turned her head towards the window. It overlooked the gardens at the back. Acres of overgrown plants, trees, grass which George was slowly - very slowly - trying to get under control. It's peaceful out here. Quiet. Far away from anything and anyone. It's why Minnie likes it. He never thought he'd see the day. She loves the city. The noise and the clubs and the life that goes on there - but he understands why she's spent so much time at Friar Park lately. Its given her respite from everything. From herself. She needs it.

'God, I loved him. I loved that man,' she sighed, and sniffed.

John felt his chest tighten and he had to turn his head away to control himself. Maybe this was a bad idea. She was still so... mixed up, and though he might not want to admit it, she was grieving for him. It had only been just over a month since he'd died, although they'd not been together for at least a month or so before that.

'And he didn't deserve what happened to him. He was sweet, and intelligent and gentle and... and so beautiful.'

John swallowed and bit his tongue.

'I really did love him, and he knew that, but he also knew...' She stopped, her voice trailing away.

'What?' he asked, not really wanting to but unable to stop himself.

'He wasn't you.' She moved her gaze back to him, her eyes soft, and bowed her head. 'I loved Brian with all my heart, but I... I have never and probably will never love anyone the way that I love you.' She sighed again, full of sorrow, but John's heart was soaring. 'And the poor sod knew that too.' She lifted her head. 'Stop smiling.'

John tried to sober, and couldn't. 'I liked Brian...'

'Oh, no, you didn't! Don't lie!'

'I did!' he insisted. 'I did. I was his friend before you, you know. He was alright, Brian, but he-'

'You were horrible to Brian!'

'Because he was with you! Because you wanted him and not... not me. And besides, he wasn't all butter wouldn't melt. He could hold his own. You should have heard some of the not-so-sweet and gentle things he said to me about... about--'

'What?'

"...She can't do more to please me. I've got her cooking, scrubbing floors, washing clothes. And the sex is fucking unbelievable, man..."

'Nothing, never mind. It was just bravado.'

Minnie sighed and forced herself off the sofa. She took John's hand and tugged him to his feet. 'Come on.'

'Where are we going?'

'Upstairs.'

'What for?' he asked, but let her lead him into the hall.

'What do we normally go upstairs for?'

'You haven't answered me yet.'

She pulled her hand from his. 'Answered what?'

'If you'll marry me.'

She turned her back and walked to the foot of the staircase, glancing over her shoulder at him. 'I'm not going to dignify that with a response, Lennon.'

'Answer me,' John demanded, annoyed that she wouldn't take him seriously.

Minnie started up the stairs. 'Are you coming?'

'Not until you give me a proper answer.'

'I'm not going to.'

'Then I'll stay here.'

'Please yourself then,' Minnie said, and paused to unzip her dress. 'Or come upstairs with me and I'll please you instead.'

She stepped out of her dress, leaving it on the stairs behind her, then unclipped her bra, letting it drop away from her slender body.

John swallowed. How, after nearly ten years, does she still have the ability to do this to him? He was usually quick to tire of sex with the same woman. He'd get bored and go in search of something new; new women, new experience, new lust, but with Minnie - it always felt new. Still so much to explore with her. He could actually imagine being with her - and only her - for the rest of his life. Faithfulness. Fidelity. Monogamy. A real revolution of the mind.

As she reached the top of the stairs, she paused, her back to him, and unfastened her hair, letting it fall loose. Then hooking a thumb into either side of her panties, she wriggled out of them, leaving them behind her as she went towards the bedroom and out of John's view.

He followed her, seconds later, picking up her clothing as he went because George's housekeeping staff were still around here somewhere.

*

It takes a long time - nearly a full minute - for his eyes to focus sufficiently to recognise him as he stands over him.

'Hey! You're here!' John says, with the elation of the still drunk and only now becoming aware that he's lying on his back on a carpeted floor, wedged between a leatherette covered chair and a coffee table.

'And so are you,' George says, flatly, shoulder length wavy hair hanging loose as he stares down at him. 'What are you doing, John?'

John sniggers. 'I'm baking a cake, Georgie, what's it look like?'

'Looks like you're blind drunk, on the floor, making a tit of yourself,' George answers, impatiently and John feels his mirth and enthusiasm slipping away. 'What are you doing here, in England?'

'I've come to see you, haven't I, la?'

'La?' George repeats with distaste.

John sticks his hand out to him. 'Help me up.'

George huffs but helps him anyway, clasping his hand in his and putting his other under John's armpit to drag him ungracefully to his feet. John immediately feels dizzy, like he might vomit, and he starts to remember how he ended up on the floor of the nightclub bar in the first place.

Thankfully, George deposits him roughly on a upholstered seat and steps away to speak to a man, John's drinking buddy, and seemingly his traitor. Told on him. He's still telling on him now, eyes wide in awe, talking a mile a minute to George.

'Sorry,' George says, raising his hand to hush him. 'Who did you say you were again?'

'Uh, I'm a... a friend,' says John's drinking buddy. 'I'm the one who called you. He--' points at John '--gave me the number. I had to call someone or they were going to fetch the police.'

'Me?' George says, with a tone of disbelief. 'He wanted you to call me?'

The man nods earnestly. George sighs and returns to stand in front of John.

'Where's Yoko? Who are you staying with, John?' he asks, and John has to laugh because in the months he's not seen his former bandmate, he's changed a lot. He's become a parent. A proper one, after months of fucking it up, George has finally done what everyone was shouting at him to do; be a dad for Bobbie. That's just what he sounds like, a dad.

'Stop bloody laughing,' George snaps. 'Why are you here? Who have you come to see? Tell me so they can come and pick you up and I can go home.'

'You, you fool,' John replies, still giggling, a little uncontrollably.

'What for?'

'To tell you. You wouldn't come to the bloody phone, would you?'

'You came to England because I wouldn't speak to you on the phone?!'

Well, when he says it like that it sounds stupid.

'I needed to speak to you, George.'

'What about?'

'About what's in th- The BOX! Where's the box? Where is the fucking box?!' John nearly topples off the seat trying to look under the table.

'What box?'

'Uh, it's here, Mr Lennon,' says the drinking buddy, still loitering, producing the black box from - John's sure - behind his back. He sets it on the tabletop and John lunges for it, grabbing it, clutching it to his chest.

'That's the... Minnie's record box?' George says. 'The one I sent to you?'

'Yes,' John confirms, glaring at the man who has started to back away from them.

'You've brought it back?'

John pats his coat pocket as the man escapes out the barroom door.

'What for?'

'Fucker's stole my wallet,' John mumbles, more of an observation than an accusation.

George looks over his shoulder and then back to John. 'Who was he?'

'Some fucking thief.'

'That you gave my phone number to? My personal, home phone number?'

'Alright. Don't get your knickers in a twist.'

'You are unbelievable! You are just as... as selfish as ever! You're so self-centered, John, it's no wonder that...'

John levels his eyes at George, still clutching the record box, beginning to wish he hadn't come here. Why is he bothering? He doesn't want to know. He doesn't give a shit. It's all ancient history anyway, isn't it? Who cares? Not George. Not John. No one.

Minnie would. Minnie would care.

John sighs and struggles to sit up, vaguely aware George is still speaking to him.

'...then?' George finishes.

'What?'

'Say what you want to say so that you can get on the first plane back to America and leave me alone.'

John shakes his head. 'Can't.'

'Why?'

'Too tired. Too pissed.'

George rolls his eyes. 'So what do you want me to do?'

'Take me home.'

'Back to New York?'

'No, your home.'

'What?!' George gets to his feet again. 'No. Absolutely not. You're not staying with me.'

'Shut up, George. It's not like you haven't got the room.'

'I have a three year old daughter!' George exclaims, like it's something special, like no one has ever had one before. 'Do you think I'm going to let you near her? Pissed and fuck knows what else you've taken. No, not a chance, John. Call someone else, you're not coming home with me.'

'Put your father of the year trophy away, George. Bobbie's seen you worse than this. A lot worse if the stories are to be believed.' A smile plays on John's lips. He raises - what he imagines to be - a quizzical eyebrow. 'How long was it before you realised? Couple of hours or so? Longer?'

That's what he did. This self righteous prick. This pretentious, perfect git, who would have you believe he'd never put a foot wrong in his whole fucking life. Lost his kid. Left her behind, in a restaurant or a hotel or somewhere. Forgot her. That's bad enough, but what's worse is why. He drank too much, too quick and someone tasked with minding him that day, probably Mal Evans or Terry Doran or someone, had to take him home to sleep it off.

'Fuck you,' George says.

John laughs.

'It was a... mistake, that's all. A mix up. I didn't forget her. Someone else was supposed to have her.'

A mistake. The worst mistake in a whole line of recent mistakes. Well, nearly the worst.

'Who?' John goads.

'Emma. Bobbie's nanny.'

'Liar,' John says, with a cruel smile.

George narrows his eyes at him. 'I don't have to justify myself to you.' He turns to leave. Wrestling with the record box, John has to jump forward and grab his wrist to stop him.

'I'm pulling your leg! I'm kiddin',' John says, tugging George downwards into a sit. 'It's a joke. What happened to your sense of humour, man? You used to be a laugh.'

'Uh, excuse me. I'm sorry to interrupt.' John and George both look up. A man stands over them. John vaguely recognises him as the bartender but not the original one. How long has he been here? 'I appreciate your custom, Mr Lennon, but we really need to close. The cleaners want to come in--'

'What time is it?' John asks. The windows of the club are blacked out, but a small gap at the top in one corner has been left uncovered. It's quite clearly daylight outside.

'Nearly half ten,' George answers.

'Fuck, must be the jet lag,' John wonders. 'We'll go back to yours then. Get some sleep and after that,' he taps the lid of the record case, 'We'll open the box.'

George shakes his head at him. 'Call the police,' he tells the barman. 'Tell them you've got a drunk in here who refuses to leave.'

John clears his throat and gets unsteadily to his feet. There was something sticky down the front of his shirt. 'We can either sit here for an hour and argue about it, and then go to yours. Or we can just stop wasting time and go now.'

'I'm not letting you near my daughter when you're like this.'

He grips George's shoulder, keeping him there. 'I'm fine! It's just booze, it wears off. I'll be sober by the time we get to Henley.

'No, she's here with me. In the car.'

'Of course she is,' John chuckles. 'Take her everywhere you go, don't you?'

George glares at him and wrenching himself from John's hold, stands up. 'I'll see you at the next court date perhaps,' he sneers and then turns his back and makes for the door.

'Hannah,' John says, loudly, feeling very much like he needs to sit down again.

George stops, hand reaching for the door handle.

'It's about Hannah,' John says, serious now.

George turns around. 'What about her?'

'Take me back to the mansion on the hill and I'll tell you everything.'

'No. Tell me now.'

John presses his lips together and shakes his head, setting his jaw in defiance.

George draws a deep sigh.

*

'Do you think about Stu ever?'

'You're in a funny mood today.'

Minnie passed the cigarette back to John and put her head in the crook of his neck, her breasts brushing against his chest under the bed covers. John contemplated reaching out and caressing one as a prelude to kissing her some more, making love to her again, but he sensed Minnie wouldn't welcome it. Not at the moment anyway. She seemed a little off. Just tired, perhaps. She's told him she's not been sleeping.

'I do,' Minnie continued. 'I think about Stu. What he might be like now, if he'd lived. What he'd be doing.'

John didn't say anything. He put his hand on her head, to take his mind off groping her tit, and smoothed her hair instead.

'Don't you wonder what he might have done? Don't you think about him?'

'Of course I do.' He sighed. 'I think about him quite often, actually.'

'He was so... talented, and smart and sweet. I think he would have made it as a painter too, don't you?'

'Yeah, probably. It was all he ever wanted to do, wasn't it?'

Minnie chuckled. 'Yes. He never wanted to play bass in your band.'

'He did.'

'You did. You wanted him in the band. Stu wasn't all that interested in it.'

'I didn't twist his arm.'

'He sold that painting and you made him buy a bass with the money.'

'He could have said no.'

'When has anyone, ever, been able to say no to you?'

John smiled.

'He would have done one of your album covers. Like Klaus did for Revolver.'

'Maybe.' He leaned, still holding her and rested the cigarette in the ashtray on the table beside the bed.

'And he would have married Astrid and had about twenty kids with her.'

'Perhaps.'

'He loved Astrid, didn't he? I mean, properly. He was head over heels, madly in love with her. He was happy. He was ill, poorly with headaches and that, but he was still happy. He had Astrid, he was painting. They were going to get married... He was happy, wasn't he?'

John wriggled the arm trapped under Minnie.

'John?'

'Yeah. He was happy.'

'Good. It's so terribly sad, what happened. But at least he was happy. Before, y'know. Loved and in love.'

She lifted herself up so he could remove his arm, but instead he tightened his grip around her. Minnie absently kissed his collarbone, which sent a shiver through John but if Minnie noticed, she didn't let on.

'Stu asked me out once,' Minnie said, after a moment.

'What?' John said, unable to disguise the surprise in his voice.

Minnie laughed, softly. 'Didn't he tell you?'

No, the little sod never mentioned that.

'Um, no,' he replied, trying to make it sound like he'd had to think about it. Another thought occurred to him, so as casually as he could muster, he added, 'What did you say?'

'I said yes.'

'Minnie!!' All pretence of indifference was gone with the wind. 'What?! When?! When did he ask you?!'

Minnie laughed. 'What does that matter? It was years ago.'

'Matters to me,' John huffed.

'Okay, it was not all that long after we'd met. After I'd found out you had a girlfriend called Cynthia. Before... Before that night.'

'That night?'

'Yes.'

'What night?'

Minnie didn't respond and John didn't really need her answer anyway.

'So where did he take you then? On this wonderful date?'

'It never happened.' She sat up, twisting around to face him. 'It never happened, because you let him think that you and I had something going on.'

'Hasn't there always been something going on?' John asked, deliberately moving his eyes to her bare breasts to illustrate.

'No,' Minnie said, firmly, and pulled the bedsheet round, covering herself. 'So he broke the date out of respect for you.'

John smiled. Good old Stu. He could always rely on him. He reached his hand out and gently teased the sheet downwards, out of her grasp.

'He said, "I can't do it to him, Minnie. He's a mate, he likes you, and John's not a bad lad, really. He just feels like he has to pretend he is. He acts like he's some tough, hard as nails bastard. He's soft as snow underneath."'

'Cheeky get,' John said, shuffling sideways in the bed, trying to move himself underneath her.

'You should thank him.'

'For what? For trying to get to you before I could?'

'No, the opposite, wasn't it? Once he thought you'd "got to me", he backed off. And I'm nobodies to be "got", thanks.'

'You must have let him think the same. You could have put him right yourself.'

Minnie doesn't have a reply for that. She swings a knee over John and straddles him, like he wanted. He shuffles down inside the bed, raising his hips underneath her.

'You should thank him for saying that,' Minnie says, leaning forward to kiss down his chest. Her hair trailed over his skin while her lips sent tiny electric sparks through him, setting every nerve in his body alight. John half-sighed, half-moaned in appreciation, closing his eyes and she stops. Like she always does. Always teasing him, always denying him the gratification he craves. Always in control.

He opened his eyes. She lay on top of him, folding her hands over his chest and resting her chin there. 'Because it's those words that I've had to hold onto, more than once. Stu knew you better than anyone, didn't he? I've had to hold on to what he said you were to see past all the fuckin' evidence to the contrary.'

'You have...' He stopped himself.

'What?'

'Doesn't matter.'

'Tell me.'

'You have the most brilliant blue eyes.'

Minnie rolled her brilliant blue eyes and sat up, moving to get off of him. John stopped her, putting his hands on her hips, her impossibly thin waist, to keep her where she was with little effort.

'Can't you be normal for once?' John said. 'Take the bloody compliment in the spirit it was given. I'm not trying to trick you or put you down. I'm telling you that you have nice eyes. It's tiresome, Minnie, when you're such hard work.'

'I kept the flowers you bought, didn't I?' she asked, nodding towards the blooms in the glass vase on the chest by the window. And, yes, that was something of a wonder in itself.

Flowers were so... conventional. Unimaginative, and that's half the reason Minnie doesn't like them. He made a joke of it when he gave them to her, said he'd picked them out of a bucket from some guy selling them in a roadside lay-by, but in actuality, John had spent ages choosing them for her. They had to be special. As special as she was.

He'd chosen large pink lilies arranged with half a dozen red roses and dark green sprigs of leaves. Red roses, for love, obviously - No, said the florist, not just love. Red roses are for wild, passionate, fiery love. Well, Minnie was fiery. And the pink lilies represented wealth and devotion. There's no point in being modest, John had reasoned. He was rich, it's not a secret. He had to be to afford the damn things. Fifteen quid for a couple of flowers and a few leaves. Wealth was right. That florist saw him coming.

But now he looks at the flowers, he considers it might have been the latter quality that had really appealed to him.

'They're nice, aren't they? Pretty.'

'What did you bring me bloody flowers for?! Don't you know me by now?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Then you'd know I put stupid bunches of flowers straight in the bin!'

'Only because you think they're trying to trap you by giving you gifts. Putting you in their debt. Accept a gift and you worry they think you owe them something now.'

She put her hand on his stomach, palm flat. 'I don't owe you anything.'

'And that's why you can keep flowers from me.'

He rolled his hips beneath her and Minnie relented, leaning forward to kiss him, softly at first and then deep, forcefully, desperately.

'I keep everything you give me,' she murmured and reached down between their bodies to wrap her hand around his already hard cock, making him gasp involuntarily. She guided him inside her and sat up, leaning backwards and resting her weight on her hands behind her. John pushed inside her, forcefully and a little rough. It elicited a muttered 'Ohh, fuck... John--' as she rolled her head back and took him as deep as she could. He smiled, satisfied. Her tits looked fantastic from this angle.

'Minnie...' he breathed.

She didn't reply. She had her eyes closed, enjoying the sensation.

'Minnie...' he repeated, an appeal.

She opened her eyes, only half way. 'What?' she teased.

'Please.'

She smiled, lazily, and remained still.

'Christ, Minnie, I need to...'

Slowly, she moved forward, leaning over him, putting her hands on his shoulders as if to hold him where he was. 'No, you can stay where you are. This is the only time I have you where I want you.'

'You can have me whenever you want,' he said, gripping her hips, trying to push her down on him and Minnie not allowing it.

'It's the only time I have complete control over you.'

That's not true, but John's too lost in the haze of his desire to argue.

'When you're trapped beneath me,' she licks her lips and smiles, lasciviously. 'You're at my mercy, John Lennon.'

She lowered herself, allowing him a single stroke inside her. John groaned and arched his back, screwing his eyes firmly closed. It took a herculean strength to resist throwing her over on the bed so he could take her fast and hard like he desperately wanted to.

'I do love you, you know, Johnny,' she said in his ear, between soft, teasing kisses planted on his neck.

'Love you too...' he murmured, as she slowly began to move with him.

'Don't ever doubt that.'

'Marry me, Min,' he sighed, without opening his eyes, without thinking. He hasn't mentioned this since they were downstairs.

She didn't reply and he opened his eyes reluctantly, expecting a vexed, annoyed look on her face, but he finds her gazing at him questioningly, like she's assessing him.

'Have you planned this?' she asked, shortly, the smoothness evaporated from her voice. 'Is it another game you're playing?'

'Planned what?'

'The flowers, the sweet talk, the fucking "you have brilliant blue eyes"? Did you think you'd get me like this and then I'd say... I don't know what you want me to say. Are you hoping for a yes or a no?'

'What..?'

'Were you planning on proposing to me, John?!' she demanded, like she'd uncovered him doing something underhand and devious.

Well, no, is the short answer. He came here to propose something, but he didn't intend it to be marriage.

He'd wanted her to be his girlfriend. A label he's never been able to apply to Minnie. He'd come to tell her that he wanted them to be that. Boyfriend and girlfriend, and to ask her to live with him, if she would. Lovers they'd always been, but never anything official, anything public. He'd known that was what he wanted after the visit to Mimi's. He'd given Hannah all that bollocks about it being like trying to catch a butterfly, but he'd not really meant it. At least, he didn't think he did. No one was more shocked than John to find out it was true. Hannah had given Minnie a butterfly broach to wear. A message. Now. Do it now. And yeah, he'd gone and done it this time.

'I mean it,' he tells her, earnestly. He can't back down. Never back down from Minnie James. She won't respect you for it.

The proposal had been an accident. It'd popped into his head like a simple solution to the world's most complicated problem and he'd said aloud before he'd known it.

'I want you to marry me, Minnie. Of course I want you to say yes. There's no game, no tricks. Just that. I want us to be... what we should be.'

She moved forward, separating herself from him unceremoniously and making John flinch, sensitive, but she stayed where she was, sitting on top of him. He stroked her thigh, the only part of her he could reach.

'We wouldn't work. Not like that. Not married to each other.'

'Baby, we would.'

'We're fine as we are, aren't we? Why do you want to change it?'

'I'm not changing anything. We'll be exactly the same as we are now. I'm not going to enslave you. I won't expect you to cook me dinner every night or wash and iron my shirts. I want to marry you because I love you.' He paused and took a deep breath. 'You don't have to live with me or even wear a ring if you don't want to. You'll still be free, your own person. You won't "belong" to me, Minnie... But I will belong to you.'

She softened as he was talking, he could see it. She cast her eyes down and if John didn't know better, he'd say she was moved, but no, not Minnie. She's not sentimental like that.

She raised her head and smiled and John smiled back, her hand finding his, her fingers slipping in between his.

'Say yes, Minnie.'

The smile faded. 'We'd break up and get divorced and that would mean that it was over for good, forever, and I couldn't stand that.'

'Why would we?'

'You'd cheat on me.'

'You might cheat on me.'

She shook her head and straightened her back, the pulled her hand away and climbed off him to John's frustration. She knelt on the mattress next to him, folding her hands together.

'But I wouldn't, John. Because if I married you then... Then I wouldn't.'

He sat up. 'Neither would I.'

'I think... you would.'

'Minnie, I swear to you-- I want to be with you. I want to do it properly.'

She swept her hair back and put her hand to her mouth. John felt he was losing her.

'Marry me, Minnie,' he repeated, as sincerely and plainly as he could. He sounds plaintive. He sounds fucking pathetic, but he's past caring. 'I love you.'

She smiled, slightly sad, slightly melancholy. 'You have to...'

'What? Anything.'

'You have to give me time to think it over.'

His heart sank. 'Okay.'

'Tonight. Give me tonight, John, and then I will answer you.'

'Okay,' he repeated.

'This time tomorrow,' she said, firmly, trying to make him smile. John managed a weak one. 'This time tomorrow, I will find you and give you my answer then. I promise you.'

'Right,' he said, businesslike, hiding hurt, hiding disappointment. He reached to pull the bedcovers over himself. 'I'll go then, shall I? Then you can, uh... think or do whatever you want.'

She didn't need time to think. When did she ever need to ponder anything? She knew her mind. She always knew what she wanted, and clearly, that's not him. Not in that capacity, anyhow. It was a way of letting him down gently. He knows. If she didn't say yes right away, then it's a no, and now he wants to get as far away from her as he possibly can.

'You can think about it, and I'll... Yeah, I'll see you tomorrow, love.'

He moved to get out of the bed. Minnie put both her hands on his chest and pushed him backwards onto the pillows.

'Are you upset?' she asked, as if it would be unexpected.

He shakes his head. ''Course not. What's to be upset about?'

'I love you, Johnny.' She moved into him. Absently, he stroked her back. 'I love you more than I have ever loved anybody. More than... More than Brian or... anyone or anything.'

But not enough to be with him. Not enough to be his wife.

'You must know that? I meant what I said. There is no one who compares to you. It's the truth, John.'

'Yeah,' he said, dully. 'I know. We always tell each other the truth, right?'

She kissed him but John didn't feel like it anymore. He'd gone soft. Soft all over. Soft cock, soft body, soft in the head. Soft as snow, John was. Stu had been right.

He tried to move away. 'I'll go, Min. It must be getting late.'

'You don't have to leave yet,' Minnie said. 'Stay for a while longer. Til I can go to sleep?'

'I don't--'

She pressed her mouth against his and John tried in vain to resist, but as always, Minnie got her own way. He gave in and she drew another kiss from his lips as she ran her hands over him, his chest, his stomach, down to grip and massage his cock. She moved to follow the path downwards with her lips but John stopped her, putting his hands on either of her arms and bringing her back to kiss her again.

'I swear, Minnie,' he said softly, against her mouth. 'Marry me. It will be forever.'

She drew her head back, smiled and nodded. 'This time tomorrow. I'll give you my answer this time tomorrow.'

*

George walks quickly, John trailing two or three paces behind him. He casts his eyes around the car park, half-expecting a journalist or a photographer to be lying in wait somewhere. They have a knack of popping up at the worst possible moment, and what a photo opportunity this would be. But, for once, the coast is clear.

George is anxious to get back to the car, to Bobbie. And to Bobby. It's only occurred to him as he walked out of the club, a nasty looking concrete dive on the outskirts of Camden, that he just left her with him without a second thought. Like Bobby was some friendly neighbour, the nice old man next door, offering babysitting services. Bobby Teale is not that. Bobby Teale is an ex-con, an old gangster and a hunted man. He told him everything on the drive over here; about how he had to run from England, leaving on a night ferry from Dover, living in Cannes in the south of France for a while until a stranger on a beach came up and said, 'Are you Bobby Teale?' After that, Gibraltar, but police had warned him again recently. They'd had word someone was looking for him.

And George had left him in charge of his three year old daughter. He picks up his pace.

John jogs to catch up and falls in line with George, still clutching the record box to his chest with both arms, like his life depended on it. He looks bad, George thinks, now he can see him in the harsh daylight. He looks ill. He appears gaunt and drawn, skin pale and body too thin to be healthy. George hasn't seen him in the flesh for a while. It's startling, really, the difference. George is about to comment on it when he considers John could be thinking the same about him.

'When did you get here?' he asks him instead, as they reach the edge of the car park.

'Last night. Late plane.'

'So where are you staying?'

'Nowhere. Got off the plane. Went to the bar. Met you. That's it.'

George frowns at him. 'Where's your luggage?'

'I didn't bring anything. Except this.' He jiggles the box and it rattles.

'No clothes? No... toothbrush?'

'I was just going to buy what I needed as I went along.'

They arrive at the car. 'Except that guy's stolen your wallet.'

John smiles crookedly. 'Borrow us a tenner, wack?' He walks round to the passenger side.

'No, in the back,' George tells him, nodding.

John dips his head and seeing the other passengers, meekly moves to the rear of the car and opens the door there. George sighs and opens the driver's door. This could be a long day.

Bobbie is sitting in the driver's seat watching Bobby Teale work the three card monte. An old con from an old con. Three playing cards face down on the dashboard, bent in half to make little tents.

'Where is she, Bobbie?' he asks. She points to the left one and he lifts it to reveal a four of clubs. She grins and points to the one on the right and Bobby lifts that. The seven of spades. Bobby lifts the last, middle card to reveal the queen of hearts. 'There she is!'

Bobbie laughs in delight and wonderment at the trick and bounces in her seat. 'Again! Again!'

'Daddy's here now,' Bobby tells her. 'Hop in the back, treacle.' Bobbie scrambles to her feet, nearly able to stand her full height on the driving seat, when Bobby stops her. 'What's this?' he says. 'Forgot to wash behind your ears?' He produces a silver hexagonal coin from behind her ear and offers it to her. 'This must be yours, darlin'.'

Bobbie grins and takes it from him eagerly, a fortune, slipping it into her pocket.

'What do you say, Bobs?' George asks.

'Ta,' the little girl says, automatically.

'Fifty new pence,' Bobby says to George. 'What was wrong with old pence? I don't understand this mickey mouse money. You knew where you were with pounds, shilling and pence.'

'It's supposed to be easier to work out,' George replies and Bobby huffs and purses his lips.

Bobbie squeezes in between the leather seats, planting a red mary-jane shoe on each one, but noticing John in the back of the car, she hesitates.

'Hello, Bobs, remember me?' John says, cheerfully. 'I'm your Uncle John.'

She looks round for George and he feels a twinge of self-reproach. Bobbie has no reason to be so nervous and shy around people. It's him, and lesser so Emma, who have made Bobbie like this.

John grins at her foolishly and Bobbie gives him a mistrustful scowl as she climbs into the back of the car. George feels incredibly proud of her. She's smart enough to know she has an Uncle Pete and an Uncle Harry, and this "Uncle" John is an imposter.

'This is John,' George tells her, mindful to drop the "uncle" moniker. 'Daddy's friend, from the concert in America last year, remember?' George tells her, and mystery solved, Bobbie loses interest. She sits in the seat, placing Bun-Bun's ear back in her mouth and opens the picture book she read on the way over here. Her favourite book currently.

George gets into the car and closes the door. 'John, this is Bobby... Um, Robert Phillips,' he says, pulling the seatbelt around him. 'He's a family friend--'

'You're not,' John says, bluntly. 'You're Bobby Teale. Fuck me, you're the Bobby Teale, aren't you?!'

'John!' George scolds him, moving his eyes to Bobbie who hasn't taken a blind bit of notice.

'Sorry, Bobbie-socks. Shouldn't say naughty words,' John tells her, but Bobbie doesn't look up.

'I don't know,' Bobby Teale says, unsure how to respond. 'Are you the John Lennon?'

'Living and breathing,' John says, staring at Bobby, eyes wide. 'And so are you, it appears. Pardon me, but aren't you dead?'

'I, uhh... Well...' Bobby replies, perturbed. He looks at George. 'Hannah told just about everyone, didn't she?'

George shakes his head, wearily. 'No, just this idiot.' Then to John, 'It's a long story. I'll explain everything later.' He twists around in his seat and starts the car engine.

John sits forward, putting his hand on Bobby's chair, obviously unwilling to wait for later. 'Hannah told me about you. Where have you been?'

'Um, here and there,' Bobby replies, deflecting. He turns around in his chair as George moves the car off.

'She kept a photo of you in her diary, carried it with her all the time.'

'She did?'

John nods. 'She thought you were dead. Why didn't you let her know you were alright?'

'It was... difficult, son.'

'And now you're back? Back for good? Why have you come back?'

'I'm just visiting George for the day,' Bobby says, clearly uncomfortable with the questions.

'John, give over,' George says.

'What?'

'Shut up.'

He glances at him through the rearview mirror. Annoyed, he sits back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest. The record box on the leather seat next to him slides forward when George brakes and John catches it, smiling toothily at Bobbie. 'This belonged to your Aunty Minnie,' he tells her. Bobbie goes back to her book.

They drive on for a few minutes. George switches the radio on.

Stay! Don't stand her up, then he comes and he stays but he leaves the next day...

Paul's voice fills the car.

'Can't get away from him,' George says, flicking his eyes to the mirror again with a sardonic grin, expecting some sort of tirade. A sly, derisive comment, at least. But John looks out the window, uninterested in Paul or his new band. They're due to release their first single in a day's time. Not that George is keeping tabs.

John turns his head. 'Did she know?' he asks instead, troubled. 'Hannah?'

'Know what?'

'That he's alive? She told me that bloody bastard had killed him.'

'Which bloody bastard?' Bobby asks.

'Dennis. Jack Heath. Whatever his name is. That fat bloke. The one who stabbed her.'

'John, for God's sakes...' George glances at Bobbie, who thankfully doesn't appear to be listening to what they're talking about.

'It's not like she doesn't know what happened,' John says, low.

'Jack Heath?' Bobby says to him.

George gives him a small, apologetic smile. 'I'll tell you everything later. When little ears aren't listening.'

'Frank Heath's older brother. He said he'd killed me?' Bobby laughs hollowly. 'He wouldn't have the... guts. Women, people smaller and weaker than him, that's more his speed. He's a nonce. A nasty little... Herbert. Hannah didn't even know him. How the hell did he end up...'

'George employed him as her driver,' John interjects.

'You did what?!'

'Not... on purpose. We didn't know who he was,' George protests. 'Said his name was Dennis Something.'

Bobby shakes his head and looks away. 'Good God.' He reaches into his pocket and takes out a cotton handkerchief, covering his nose and mouth with it. 'Dear God. She was still so young. I can't believe...'

'Eh?' John says.

'It's my fault,' Bobby says, his voice wavering in a way George has never heard from him before. 'George, I'm so sorry. It's my fault.'

'No... It's, uh... It's not.'

'What's your fault?' John asks.

'Where is he now? Jack Heath? In prison?' Bobby covers his mouth with his hand. 'Oh, Hannah. God forgive me. That little girl's lost her mother, she's gone and it's all my fault.

'How's that your fault?' John says, sitting forward. 'That's not why--'

'No. No, it's... There's more to it than that,' Bobby says, pained, then to George, 'I thought she'd be safe with you. She was out of it. She was never a part of it in the first place. I thought they'd leave her be. I didn't think they'd come for her...' He coughs. A half-cough, half-sob.

'It's okay...' George says, softly.

'It's not, George. She's gone. It's my fault. I will never forgive myself for this.'

'What?' John says. 'What do you mean?'

George flicks his eyes to the rear view mirror. 'John.'

'It's not your fault Hannah's gone.'

Bobby twists round to him. 'Yes, I'm afraid it is...'

'Leave it, John. We'll all talk later.'

'No,' John shakes his head. 'Hannah being gone is definitely George's fault.'

'They were after me... I was a police informer. They were--'

'Yes, yes, all that,' John says, waving his hand. 'I know. But that's nothing to do with Hannah.'

'It was. She saw Jack Heath's brother, Frank--'

'No, I mean that's not why she's gone.'

'John, drop it,' George says, loudly. They arrive at a crossroads. The lights flick to red and George stops the car.

'It's what got her--' Bobby glances at the little girl and mouths to him, killed.

John sits back, the wind taken out of his sails. The car is silent. Except for Paul.

...It's just another day...

'Hannah's not dead,' John says.

George closes his eyes.

'What?' Bobby asks.

'You didn't get her killed. She's not dead. She was stabbed. She was in a bad way for a while but she didn't die.'

A car beeps behind them. George opens his eyes and puts his foot down, very aware that Bobby Teale is glaring at him on his left side, suddenly very still, very silent, very solid. George won't look at him.

'Why would you tell him that?' John says.

George blinks and doesn't say anything.

'George, why would you--'

'I didn't,' he says, his voice rising, pinched, uncontrollable. He glances at Bobby. 'I didn't say she was dead,' he insists, but it sounds weak. 'I was, uh... I was about to tell you when Emma said someone was on the phone, and...'

Still Bobby glares, silent.

'I was going to tell you the whole story later,' George says, earnestly. 'I was. It's just... It's complicated. It's a long story.'

'No, it isn't.'

'John, shut the hell up, for fucks sake! You don't know what you're talking about--'

'Where is she?' Bobby asks John.

'She left him,' John answers. 'She's been gone for months. No one knows where she is.'

'No, she didn't...' George says, helplessly. 'Hannah didn't leave me...'

John sits forward, putting his hand on Bobby's shoulder. 'Yes, she did,' he tells him, firmly. 'Hannah left him last August. No one's heard from her. No one knows if she's alright or... or what. And it is his fault. She walked out on him because he can't keep his cock in his trousers.'