4beatlelove

The Space Between Us All - Acknowledgements

Wed, 28 May 2008 02:11:16 GMT

Eleven months ago, I started pulling together the notes for the "short story" that would eventually grow into the massive novel The Space Between Us All. Two items sparked the creation of this story: John Lennon's "Jesus statement" and its possible relevance to the social and political situation today, and a dimly remembered item from a Beatles book I had read ages ago, about someone being murdered right next to one of the young Beatles, which I seem to recall was George. I haven't seen anything in print about the latter incident for years, which makes me wonder if it indeed ever happened. However, that item was now in there, mixing in with all the other Beatles biographical material I had read.

Then Pattie Boyd and Eric Clapton helped me out by deciding to publish their autobiographies last year which, thanks to the frantic competitiveness of the publishing industry, came out almost at the same time. So I had some additional first-hand commentary to bring to the Beatles story. The rest of it was just pleasurable research, playing videos and reading interview after interview (as I preferred to hear from the Beatles in their own words, rather than through some analyst), and studying the world situation as it stood in the 1960s. It was a delightful journey, and I'm so pleased that so many wonderful people chose to step into my alternative universe for a while.

I can't say goodbye to this novel without thanking the deserving people who helped me complete it. As always, two groups of people deserve special recognition:

First, I'd like to thank my beta readers. The friendly and knowledgeable 749_penny_lane deserves special accolades for following this journey all the way through, from beginning to end. I particularly appreciated our chats about the various historical and peripheral characters who contributed to the background of this story. Who knew that Jack Valenti would end up in here? :D So thanks for hanging in there and providing that valuable continuity, as well as the "tough love" that makes a story better.

I'd also like to thank ded_grotty for beta reading the first part of this book, and hawkmoth for pitching in so whole-heartedly at the end. You both offered insights I wouldn't have thought of myself, and it's so valuable to me to have a fresh opinion on a manuscript, particularly when I'm so very close to it. So thank you both very much.

Second, I'd like to acknowledge those special people who make a writer's life complete-- the readers! You made posting this epic a joy. Not only did your comments brighten my day, but they often led me into new directions or writing scenes I had not anticipated, and the novel is the richer for it. LJ is a wonderful resource for a writer, because I get to hear so many different viewpoints while the work is still taking shape-- and have a chance to respond. It's the most interactive form of writing I get, and I love that.

So, give yourselves a big round of applause! My heartfelt thanks to:

749_penny_lane

alec_towser

alyteima

babymoobunny

beagle_agent

beatles4life

cholera_jasna

dasliebchenkind

ded_grotty

hawkmoth

isat_belonely

jambi_juice

keevus

lesautdesanges

loreleilynn

maryano4ka

mercury_diva

sihalema

solidfoamsoul

spoonzees

ultimate_cin

wheelchairsad

and the ever popular Anonymous. ;)

Thank you all for your thoughtful or playful comments and for your inspiring remarks. Discussing a project helps bring it alive and increases the joy for me, so I'm very grateful you chose to contribute.

If any of you would like to continue discussing the novel, please pop over to hawkmoth's new community greatlittleband. Feel free to start a new thread on whatever topic of interest you like, or join in on one already in progress. Discussion helps keep the Beatles love alive. :)

I'm so very appreciative you all came along on this journey with me. It's a lovely memory for me that will never fail to bring a smile.

Farewell for now!

Brian and the Beatles prepare to depart Heathrow airport, August 1966.

For more Beatles fun, see my short story Live on Saturday Night—The Beatles! Click here to read Part 1.

The Space Between Us All, part 99 - CONCLUSION

Wed, 28 May 2008 01:51:54 GMT

I'm looking through you, where did you go
I thought I knew you, what did I know

Title: The Space Between Us All
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence and occasional strong language
Disclaimer and summary: Please see Part 1.

The young Beatles at Harold's Cafe in Hamburg, circa October 1960: bassist Stu Sutcliffe, John, Helmut (a waiter friend), George, Paul, and drummer Pete Best.

Paul, continued

George's statement might not have anything to do with the Memphis incident, but it certainly fixed the interest level in the room. Paul glanced at Ringo, to see the drummer already staring at him. Ringo raised his eyebrows questioningly; Paul barely shook his head. As bewildered as anyone else in the room, they both turned to look at George, curious as to what he might say.

The room was suffused with murmuring. A woman near the front asked, "Who did you see murdered, Mr. Harrison?"

"I don't know. I never knew his name."

"Was this in Liverpool?" asked another.

"Hamburg."

"What happened?"

George looked at John. John shrugged and waved towards the crowd. Go ahead, that gesture said, as plainly as words.

George tapped the ash from his new ciggie irritably into the tray. "It wasn't any big deal. That is, I feel bad for the bloke who copped it—"

"Start at the beginning, George," John interrupted. He was powering down his cigarette. Paul couldn't read John's mood: angry? Embarrassed? Uncomfortable?

George relented with a sigh. "All right. It was during our first trip to Hamburg, our first steady gig. We’d just moved from The Indra to The Kaiserkeller, so it must have been October. We were on a break between sets and were talking to some of the patrons. Well, trying to. These two local fellows had been listening to our set, and they came over to join us afterwards. We were all in one big booth off to the side. These two blokes were on the end, and me next, and then John, and then two more Beatles—whichever two—on the other end."

Despite the rapt attention in the room, some people couldn't help but chuckle. One of the closer reporters called, "Wouldn't the other two Beatles be Paul and Ringo, George?"

More people laughed at this remark, but George was unflappable when he was explaining something. "There were five Beatles in those days. And Ringo hadn't yet joined the band— although he was in the room."

At this statement, Paul shot Ringo a look— and saw Ringo looking back with equal surprise. Clearly, he had no memory of this incident, either.

"He was part of the other band that was playing at the moment," George went on. "Rory Storm and the Hurricanes. We traded off sets with them five or six times a night, each band playing for about 90 minutes. So there were three other Beatles in the band and I don't remember if Paul..." He leaned forward, trying to catch Paul's eye.

Paul expressively shook his head and spread his hands.

George shrugged. "I guess Paul wasn't there. It must have been the other two. Paul had likely stepped out for a bit. So it was just me and John then from this band, and I was trying to talk to the fellow next to me. Me German is terrible and his English was worse, but we were stuttering along somehow. He seemed a nice fellow, not much older than me—probably nearer John's age. He was very impressed with us—with the band, I mean. That's the main thing I was able to learn.

"So there we were, chatting along, with John and the fellow's buddy listening in on other side. The music was pounding and there were people dancing and all of a sudden this big bloke bursts out of the crowd. Without a word, he jumps over and stabs the fellow I was talking to right in the chest."

Gasps broke out. Paul felt amazed. How was it he had never heard about this? John was smoking hard, staring straight ahead. George related the incident in a calm, measured voice, as if this was any old night in a club instead of a murderous attack.

"There was blood everywhere. That's how I know about that. I was sitting right there, and actually saw the knife go in. And we were stunned—the lot of us, just stunned. We'd seen violence in the clubs before; it happened often enough. But this wasn't a gang fight, it was out-and-out murder. That made it a bit of a shock.

"Well, the instant after it happened, the whole place went up in a riot. The fellow sitting on the end—the stabbed fellow's mate—jumped on the knife bloke and they crashed to the floor. All of a sudden everybody in the place started punching everybody else. I reckoned there must have been two groups in there, each of them friends with one side or the other. They might even have been watching for their chance while we chattered on, unsuspecting. Then after the stabbing, the place just exploded.

"The two Beatles on the end dashed out of the booth and away— which is what we'd been told to do in a fight. The management didn't want the band members busted up, or we couldn't play. But in my case, I couldn't leave. The fellow who'd been stabbed had slumped over on me, and he was still alive. He was looking at me..." George took a breath. For the first time, Paul could see how much the incident had shaken him. George steadied himself and went on. "He couldn't speak. Or perhaps he didn't try, knowing I wouldn't be able to understand him. But he had that look in his eyes— he knew he was dying." George swallowed. "I couldn't just leave him. I mean, if I were dying, I'd want someone with me in me last moments, someone to help— I don't know. Ease the way. So I held him. And his blood pumped out and he kept looking in my eyes. Then he gave a sort of gurgle, and died. "

The room was absolutely silent. Only John, smoking and scowling, was able to listen to this without staring.

"Now, John saw all that. He didn't run away with the others, because he saw that this fellow had me pinned. Well, not pinned, exactly. He was sort of leaning, but he was bigger than me. Then when he died he sort of sank, and he became this deadweight— so to speak— holding me in place. I think we were the only two people in the room who were still. Everything else was a riot. There were people smashing each other with chairs and hammering with coshes, and the air was full of thrown bottles and glasses and the odd person flying through. So when John saw this fellow had me trapped, he grabbed an empty bottle and jumped on the table. He stood there swinging at anyone who came near, trying to keep them off."

Paul looked at Ringo, who stared back, equally wide-eyed. As one, they turned back to listen to George.

"Now, this might sound long," George continued, "but it was really only a few seconds. I was just trying to get myself out from under this poor fellow, when one of the bouncers, Horst Fascher— he was a mate of ours, Horst— he made it over to the table, I'm sure on purpose to rescue us. When he saw what the trouble was, he lifted the dead fellow off me in one pull, shouting, 'Zur Hölle, raus mit Ihnen! Augenblicklich! Schnell!' So John and I—"

"Excuse me," a round-eyed reporter in the front row interrupted gently. "How would you translate that?"

"Er..." George looked at Paul for help. They were all miserable at languages, but Paul was the best of the lot. He and George had been the only ones who'd had even a rudimentary schoolbook training in German to fall back on before the band went to Hamburg. But like George, Paul was better at understanding German than in speaking or translating it. He was so stunned at the moment, he doubted he'd be able to give his own name. He gave George a shrug.

George turned back to the microphone. "It means, 'Get out of here, now!' Or close enough. Which is all we wanted to do. The riot was blocking the door, so we ran the other way, and took shelter in the toilet. There was nobody in there except for one passed-out drunk. It was getting near time for us to go on, and, er… I was rather a mess. But neither of us had the stomach to wade through the riot. So I took off me clothes right there and washed them in the basin, with John standing guard the whole time, in case any of the rioters burst in on us. I had to really scrub ‘em, because they were just covered, and it had soaked through... Then, because there wasn't time for anything else, I wrang ‘em out and put ‘em on again, dripping. Horst and the others had got the riot cleared away by then. Rory's band had gone off already— probably ran off to avoid trouble— but ours was still setting up. John and I got back in the nick of time to prevent Koschmider, the owner, from shouting at us."

Memory tweaked. Paul sat up. "I remember! You came onto the set wet, and John had an empty bottle in his hand. I thought... I thought..." Paul stumbled as the other two stared at him. "I thought you'd had a row with John, and he'd poured his beer over your head."

Ringo snorted in surprise, covering his laugh.

John shook his head. "It would take a lot of beer to make him so wet."

"Well, that was just my impression. It was dark, and you were both edgy, not speaking. I thought you'd had a row."

"George and I never have rows."

"We did once," George said mildly. "There was that time I threw food on you— or perhaps you threw it on me? I don't remember."

"It wasn't much of a row, regardless," said John firmly.

"No," George agreed. "We usually get on well."

A stunned silence hung over the room, everyone trying to take in what they'd heard. Then one of the reporters asked, "How old were you, George?"

"Seventeen. But—" he hurried to add, as murmurs surfaced about the room, "that's not really so young. I'd been working almost two years by that time."

Another reporter said somberly, "I'm surprised your parents didn't ask you to come home."

"They never knew." The murmurs grew. "I was afraid if I told them what had happened, they might think Hamburg wasn't safe."

Startled chuckles broke out, probably more from nerves than humor.

"It was, really," George insisted. "At least, it was no more dangerous than Liverpool in those days. And the bouncers looked after us. We had special badges to wear, the members of the bands. It kept us from getting beat up."

"So," said the same reporter, "you never told your parents to this day?"

"No." George waved guiltily at the nearest television camera. "Hi, Mum!"

Tension-filled chuckles percolated amongst much head shaking.

"We never told anyone," John said angrily. "What would have been the point? It was just some rubbish in a club. No sense in dragging it up."

A young woman asked, "Did you go to the police?"

"I would have done," answered George, "but no one ever approached me. There must have been fifty witnesses to the crime. I'm sure they got the fellow responsible without needing my help."

"But," interrupted an older reporter, "this is astonishing. You had this incredible experience, and you never even told the other members of the band?"

"Most of the band was there— except Paul, apparently," said George. "And there were riots all the time. I see Ringo looking at me. You can ask him. Weren't there riots all the time in that club?"

Ringo looked worried over being put on the spot. "Yes, we did have those nights. But... I don't remember a murder—"

"It would probably look like any other riot from where you were sitting," said John. "Unless you were looking right at us, you wouldn't have noticed anything different."

"Perhaps, but—"

"In fact, I'm not positive Pete or Stuart saw all that happened either," said John. "They would have seen this one fellow jump on the other, but you would have had to have been right up close like George and me to see.... well, to see the rest."

"Weren't you terrified?" a female reporter asked. "Having a man murdered right next to you?"

George shrugged. "I wasn't in any danger." As people murmured in disbelief, he carried on. "Honestly. Their dispute had nothing to do with me."

"But... weren't you afraid one side or the other might think you were... involved?"

"Everyone knew we were foreigners. We could hardly even speak! No, I think they thought what was true: that we were members of the band, and just happened to be sitting there when it happened."

"And," said another reporter, "Paul McCartney only found out about this today."

Paul shrugged to indicate his bewilderment— as if that needed calling out.

John snapped, "Well, of course we don't talk about it amongst ourselves. Why would we? You think we talk about what happened in Memphis amongst ourselves? A fellow'd have to be daft to bring up things like that!"

"We mostly just talk about what's passing at the time," said George.

"Music," John chimed in. "Hindu philosophy. Books, friends, clubs. We don't talk about that sort of thing, the disturbing bits. We never have."

"It would only bring up bad memories," said George.

"The only time we even think to mention it," John carried on, "is when Brian herds us into a press conference and we're forced to talk about it. Otherwise, we don't say a word."

The man continued, "Don't you think Paul would have liked to know?"

"Know what?" John was at his orneriest. "It was a trivial incident. That is, I feel bad for the fellow who died, but that sort of thing happens all the time. The only unusual thing about it is that we happened to be sitting next to it when it happened."

"But it would seem," said the first lady reporter, "that this event had a direct bearing on Mr. Harrison's decision to stay and help you during the Memphis incident."

"Not at all," John growled. "Except for that bit about the blood. I never knew he'd decided I was alive based on the amount of blood."

"But beyond that, here is an earlier incident where you may have saved Mr. Harrison's life—"

"Me life wasn't in danger," George said. "He probably saved me from a thump in the face— which is nice, but it wasn't more than that."

Paul leaned forward to catch John's eye, raising an eyebrow teasingly. "Every man for himself, eh, John?" he murmured.

"It was George.” Irritably, John shook out another ciggie. "A fellow can't go leaving George."

Paul smiled and shook his head.

George was continuing his lecture to the reporter, oblivious of the exchange. "We look after each other, see? We always have. It's just sense."

"We didn't always look after each other," John interrupted.

George adjusted course. "That's true. We used to leave the drummer on his own. Some nights we'd get out of a hall late in a bad part of town, and the Teds would be waiting. We'd take to our heels and leave the drummer to come along as best he could, dragging his big cases."

"No wonder we had such trouble keeping a steady drummer," Paul observed.

Ringo said, "I'm really glad I joined the group after that phase was over!"

"Oh, we'd still have left you behind," said Paul airily, "only we had a van by then and we didn't need to run for the bus."

Ringo rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Thank you, Paul."

"But apart from ditching the drummer," said George, "we really did look after each other. It's sort of second nature by now. Take what happened in Memphis. Paul went after Ringo, and I went after John. It's just automatic. We look out for each other."

A man up front asked, "Wouldn't you have preferred that Paul stay with you?"

"No. Then I'd only have had two people to save."

The audience burst into a startled laugh, as did Paul. He didn't know whether to be amused or offended.

The same man said, "Don't you think Paul would have been of some help to you in getting John Lennon offstage quickly?"

George looked annoyed, as if the man was too soft for words. "We’d only have tripped over each other. No, in all seriousness, Paul was far better off doing what he did— going after Ringo and getting behind cover. It was the best way to do it: Paul was closest to Ringo, and I was closest to John. We each went after the person we were standing nearest."

"But your normal position is in the center of the band."

George stared. "Yes? So?"

"So you're always going to be the band member who's closest to any other member. Whoever gets hurt, you'd always be the closest person to go after him."

George shrugged. "That's what you get for being the youngest."

The place really broke up now. As the audience laughed with relief, applauding George's wit, Paul thought furiously.

George was being honest. There was no mistaking the irritated twang in his voice when he talked about it being only natural for Paul to go after Ringo. To Paul's surprise, he discovered that George in fact bore him no malice; on the contrary, George apparently thought that any attempt on Paul's part to stay behind would have been the height of idiocy.

He grew almost giddy with relief. George didn't blame him. In fact, it appeared that George hadn't given Paul's predicament two minutes' thought— if indeed he had recognized that Paul even had a predicament to begin with.

In a way it was understandable that George had never sorted this with him, just as it was understandable why George and John had never spoken about their murder experience with anyone. Clearly it had shaken them. Either of them would have taken it as a sign of weakness to bring the matter up. At that time, George was still desperately trying to prove his value to the band, that he was old enough and good enough to keep his place, and John was in the middle of his tough-guy posturing, a habit he still fell into in times of stress. They couldn't have talked about what they'd seen without becoming upset— no more than George could hide his nerves just now when he went through the incident again tonight, six years later. So they had never mentioned it, ever. Silence was the only way they could be sure of keeping their emotions under control.

Paul understood that— understood and approved. After all, hadn't he been doing the same thing? Keeping his thoughts to himself, never bringing up his distress over feeling that he was no longer a proper part of the band. In Paul's case, this had worked out for the best— because it seems his place in the band had never been a question in anyone's mind but his own.

He remembered now how quickly John had demanded that they be seen publicly as an entity of four. This went as far back as Bellevue Hospital, when he had dragged Paul despite a whacking great hangover into a radio interview in George's room, to demonstrate their oneness. Ringo was always happiest when the band was together, and now it turned out that George had no bad feelings about Paul's actions that night whatsoever. George had accepted what had happened, in all its aspects, and moved on. No blame, no endless rehashing of events. George's biggest problem in life at the moment was not being able to wear short trousers. Paul could learn from him.

Tony raised his hands for order. "We seem to have exceeded our time—” he began, provoking a storm of groans and good-natured boos.

“Not that I imagine anyone has been bored,” he continued.

The audience chuckled lightly. No, Paul thought, bored was not the word.

"But we really must wrap up the question-and-answer period and move on. Do I have one more question? One more question before we end the conference? Yes, Miss."

A young girl near the lad in glasses had raised her hand. Her eyes were troubled. "Will the Beatles ever tour again?"

Everyone in the room shifted uncomfortably— including the four behind the table. Paul cast a glance at the wings. He could see Brian watching them as he usually did, just out of sight of the cameras. He looked grave. Mal and Neil stood near him, their expressions intent. Paul knew it would be with them the way it always had been— whatever the Beatles needed to have done, they would do. Their loyalty was unshakable.

Scattered amongst the men were the Beatle wives and Jane. Their gazes held deep concern. Considering what had happened, they might well view any more touring as a kind of death wish— and for all Paul knew, they would be right. Every year, touring got tougher. Each year, the crowds were more mad. This year the Beatles had added psychotic snipers to the list. How much longer could they go on, even if the band was willing? Which most of them were not...

The Beatles looked at each other. It was obvious none of them wanted to answer the question.

"We're having a holiday," John said. "We won't begin to think about touring until we get back from that."

"How long a holiday?" the girl asked.

"Four months at least," George said, to the consternation of the crowd.

"It's not certain," John added. "But I've got this film— you know I've agreed to do this film. And George will be doing his sitar practice as soon as he can sit, and Paul's got an art show coming up. We're all doing things; we have plenty to keep us busy. And I hope you'll agree," he added more softly, giving the girl a smile, "that we've earned a bit of rest."

She nodded sadly even as she smiled, her disappointment brimming in her eyes.

"So, are the Beatles breaking up?" asked a man nearby, in defiance of Tony's one-question rule.

"Cracking up, maybe," said John. "But breaking up... no."

As the audience chuckled with relief, Ringo jumped to his feet. "Breaking up? Never!" He grabbed Paul's shoulder, dragging him out of his chair. "Come on."

Paul looked round in confusion, stumbling to his feet. "What?"

Ringo dragged him over so they were standing behind George and John. "Breaking up?" he demanded of his questioner. "What are you talking about? I love these guys!" To prove it, he put one arm around George and one around Paul, dragging him down so Paul's head practically smashed into John's shoulder.

Ringo gave both of them a squeeze. "The Beatles forever! I'll never let you go!" And he threw back his head in a laugh.

A battery of flashbulbs popped. John gave Paul a wry look over his shoulder, then relaxed and grinned. If Ringo wanted to end the press conference with a group hug— that's what they would do.

"Altogether, boys!" Ringo cried. He growled, squeezing his companions closer together.

The rest of them surrendered to the situation, leaning together and grinning as the press boys went wild, every one of them fighting to capture the shot. Paul knew this was the picture that would appear in all the newspapers tomorrow, the picture that the world might have to remember as the last public appearance of the Beatles: Ringo's eyes sparkling above his wide-mouthed laugh, George looking bemused but going along anyway, John appearing grudgingly pleased, and Paul smiling with equal parts sadness and joy.

It's not a bad way to go out, this, he thought. Not a bad way at all.

The Beatles never toured again. They retreated to the studio and several months later produced an album that would ignite a musical and cultural revolution: Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.

The End

Please see Acknowledgements for a final message and thanks.

For a complete list of entries, see the The Space Between Us All - chapter listing.

For more Beatles fun, see my short story Live on Saturday Night—The Beatles! Click here to read Part 1.

The Space Between Us All, part 98

Wed, 28 May 2008 01:38:05 GMT

Lay down all thought, surrender to the void...

Title: The Space Between Us All
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence and occasional strong language
Disclaimer and summary: Please see Part 1.

George speaks during a press conference in Seattle, August 1966.

Paul

Despite John's reassurance, Paul had never quite got over considering himself the Cowardly Beatle. John's tirades branding the Beatles as a dedicated group of cowards weren't particularly helpful; on the contrary, they served only to reinforce what Paul actually believed: that he had acted badly. Paul still felt, in his heart of hearts, that people thought less of him after that horrendous evening in Memphis. No matter how often he mentally replayed all the arguments to the contrary, he was still left with the impression: I should have done more. People blame me.

It made for a bit of a strain within the group. Paul felt himself to be the outsider, even more than usual. Lifestyle considerations aside, before this fiasco he had been at the creative core of the band. Lennon/McCartney, hey—that was the Beatles, right? Those songs, that partnership? Only Paul was coming to the disturbing realization that that partnership was more fragile than he had supposed. No one shut him out precisely, but the others were sharing things that Paul couldn't possibly participate in—physical therapy being top of the list. Not that Paul had a particular desire to be incapacitated in any way, but it gave the others such a bond—the three of them, healing together. When Paul came over to visit, he seemed an intruder— the friend who popped in but had nothing to say.

Tonight's press conference would be an even more severe trial. Not only would he again be facing his shortcomings within the Beatles, but the world's press would be there to capture it firsthand. During their questions, they would inevitably bring up, over and over again lest it be forgotten, how Paul had run from the stage at the crucial moment. George would be celebrated for doing the reverse, and even John would come out looking all right, on account of his wound. Ringo would be pitied and adored. The press would slobber over every one of them— every one but Paul.

No, Paul was not looking forward to the press conference.

He made the best job he could of it, however. No sense in complaining. He'd arrived early. It wasn't intentional. What happened was, he'd been wearing a hole in the carpet fretting about it, until Jane put on her coat and said simply, "We're going."

It was better after they got there. Jane's sophisticated manners let her mingle easily and put everyone at ease. As was their custom, the couple didn't remain together long. Apart from their grand entrance, with Paul waving gaily to a battery of photographers, hoping to hide his doubts behind simulated enthusiasm, he and Jane soon drifted into different channels. It was all part of the game, to mix— and Jane was well aware of Paul's feelings. Paul was as keen to avoid hearing her justifications of his behavior as Jane was keen to justify it. Paul wondered when his regret over this incident would wear off, if ever.

The acclamation for George didn't help. Paul would be the first to admit that George had acted bravely— all of John's assertions about Beatle cowardice to the contrary. He had been brave, and John knew it and so did Paul and even George, deep inside, must know it, too. Certainly the media thought so. They raised the roof when George stepped out of the wings. His flustered reaction to the reception, along with him vainly trying to hide the fact that he still needed a cane, only made him look more worthy of praise. Paul was grateful that his own entrance followed Ringo's. If he'd come out first, to just a smattering of applause, and then heard Ringo get the first big cheers—well, he might not have had the stomach to go through with the press conference after all. He'd have had to develop a sudden illness and excuse himself. As it was, he felt slightly nauseated and faint. But he stoically took his place with the others.

The first questions, as Paul had expected, were for George. The youngest Beatle had taken full advantage of his temporary disability to duck the press for the last month—something that Paul, in his town-based existence, was never able to completely accomplish. But the media had run their quarry to ground at last, and they tripped over themselves to get in the first question.

Mr. Harrison, Mr. Harrison!

Tony pointed to one of the fan club members, a lad of about fifteen years of age with dark hair, acne, and black-rimmed glasses. His eyes seemed magnified as he looked at George. "How do you feel?"

Paul resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. This was the great first question. He remembered how excited they'd all been initially when Tony promised to start inviting fans to the press conferences. The hope was that the fans would ask more interesting questions than the regular press, as they were assumed to be more familiar with the Beatles' work and habits. That assumption had proved, disappointingly, to be unfounded.

George answered with characteristic brevity. "Fine."

More flashbulbs went off. There was another chorus of Mr. Harrison, Mr. Harrison! Tony held them off, gesturing for the lad to continue.

"Can you talk all right now?" he asked.

"I'll let you be the judge of that," George answered. "I'll talk, and at the end of the evening you can tell me how well I did."

Reporters chuckled and pencils scribbled. Not bad, Paul thought. Two questions into the conference, and he's already got them laughing. Well done, George.

Tony next pointed to a woman of the regular press. She asked, "What’s your reaction to being called the Brave Beatle?"

Paul braced himself. Here we go.

"It's rubbish," George answered.

"Don't you think you're brave?"

"No."

"But what you did was brave."

"Not really."

The press was becoming intrigued. Paul could see by their faces that they thought George was putting them on. A man spoke up, without being called on. "You stood your ground, under fire, and you expect us to believe that you don't think that was brave?"

"It wasn't. No, listen." George raised his voice as the reporters began to mutter. "I did what anyone else would have done in that situation. It's not brave to do what anyone else would have done."

The man said, "I don't think everyone else would have done what you did."

George stared the fellow down. "Let me ask you this. You've a mate. You see him get shot. You're standing right there. Do you mean to tell me you would just walk away and leave him?"

The man hesitated. "Well, I..."

"A close mate. You'd let him lie there, bleeding?" George assumed a weary expression. "See, when you think about it, the unnatural thing would be to not do anything, to walk away. But helping a mate in trouble, that's easy. You wouldn't even think about it—you, or you, or you—" George pointed randomly around the room, causing startled looks in his victims.

"But," a woman interrupted cautiously, "when you dragged yourself in front of John Lennon, to shield him with your body—"

"That wasn't brave either," George said, making a few astounded listeners chuckle. "Honestly. It’s just that I didn't know how many bullets he had left, you see. And making one target instead of two—that's obvious, isn't it? That's not bravery, it's just sense. I know you lot love to put labels on us. If you started calling me the Sensible Beatle, I wouldn't mind." Calmly, he got out a cigarette. "Now, if you were to ask me who's brave, it's that Bill Bibbins fellow, the police officer. Rushing onstage, putting his life at risk to save a stranger— that's courage, to my mind."

John rumbled to life. "Bibbins wouldn't agree with you."

George looked at John curiously as he struck a match. "No?"

"No. I saw an interview with him on telly. He was saying how he wasn't a hero because he was only doing his job."

"Well, he ought to know." George waved out the match and exhaled a puff of smoke. "I take it back. Officer Bibbins is a coward like the rest of us. Good on you, Officer Bill!"

People laughed, but hesitantly. They weren't yet certain whether they believed George. As for Paul, his discomfort had risen to new heights. He couldn't help replaying George's words in his mind: the unnatural thing would be to not do anything, to walk away.

Tony pointed to one of the several raised hands. The man he called on said, "Is there anything you would like to say to Officer Bibbins, Mr. Harrison?"

George watched the man over his smoldering cigarette. "I wrote him a letter several weeks ago. Everything I wanted to say was in that."

"You wrote to Officer Bibbins?"

"Yeah. It seemed the right thing to do, as he'd been nice enough to save me life and all— well, him and Mal, of course."

The same woman as before interrupted, "So you don't have any difficulty in recognizing that Officer Bibbins was brave?"

"Well, he really was—despite what he might have said after."

"Careful, George," John warned, provoking chuckles from the reporters who had already deduced the trap.

"I heard," said another man, "that the Prime Minister intended to present you with the George Medal for gallantry."

"Well, that was a misunderstanding," said George. "It was the name, you see. He saw my name on the award, and thought it belonged to me. But I explained it was just a coincidence."

"Clearly he thought your actions were worthy of special recognition," the man persisted.

"Yes, but see, it would be wrong to single me out in that way. To give me an award for bravery and not the others would be like saying Ringo wasn't brave just because he happened to get shot first, or saying that Paul wasn't brave just because he went after Ringo while I went after John. It's muddled thinking, that."

Paul started. He'd never spoken to George in any detail about the incidents of that evening. Until this moment, he'd never understood that George thought he might be brave. The notion had never occurred to him. He'd just assumed that George, like everyone else, knew that Paul had massively buggered up that evening and was too polite to mention it. Yet there was George, telling all the world that Paul had been brave for leaping offstage at the first sign of trouble. That was an unexpected twist. Paul wasn't certain how to receive it, although he didn't doubt for an instant that these were George's true thoughts. George was honest to a fault; he wouldn't say something unless he believed it to be true.

"What about Officer Bibbins?" interjected another reporter. "Would you agree that he is worthy of special recognition?"

"He's already being recognized, as I understand,” said George. “The Memphis Police Department is giving him an award, or has given him an award, or suchlike. And I sent him a little something as well."

What, what? came several overlapping calls.

"Just a little memento of the occasion."

"What did you send him?" called the loudest of the reporters.

"A full suit of body armor—you know, the kind the police use for protection against bullets in the States? I had one made. Only instead of steel plates, I had it filled with blocks of Swiss chocolate."

The audience chuckled. "What do you expect him to do with that?" someone called from the back.

"He can wear it or eat it. It's really up to him."

Another reporter called, "Did any of the rest of you send gifts to anyone in Memphis?"

Ringo stirred on Paul's left. "I did."

What, what? cried the voices.

"I sent three cases each of scotch and whiskey to the Memphis police force, the Memphis hospital, and to Bellevue Hospital in New York."

"Why scotch and whiskey?" asked a woman reporter.

Ringo shrugged. "Well, they'd earned it. They saved me life. One of the officers did—just like George. He pressed on the wound to keep it from bleeding too much. And then the folks in hospital did their bit, both in Memphis and Bellevue. I know the doctors' names, but I never did learn which officer saved me. And, you know, they all worked together, the police and the hospital staff, to get us through the riot and into surgery. So I thought I'd better cover the place with alcohol, to make sure that each person who deserved it got a sip. So, thank you." Ringo saluted to the nearest moving-film camera. "Dr. Fletcher and Dr. Levine in New York, and Dr. Scrope, and all the doctors in Memphis, of which there are about fifty, Dr. Beeler and Dr. Jarnagin in particular, and Dr. Yancey, and those police who got the sniper before he could hurt anyone else, and all the other cops, especially the ones who got me to the ambulance that night. Thank you, everyone. I appreciate it!"

The audience broke into applause.

"I only hope," Ringo said, when the noise began to subside, "that those doctors didn't operate on anyone right after receiving my gift—or those patients might be a lot less grateful than we are!"

The applause turned to laughter.

A reporter asked, "How ethical do you think it is to get the entire Memphis Police Force drunk?"

"I expect they wouldn't be giving out many parking tickets that day. But, considering what the city went through on our behalf, I reckon the people of Memphis deserved a day off as well."

The laughter rolled out, long and genuine. Another reporter called, "Mr. Lennon, did you give any presents to the people of Memphis?"

John said, "I promised to never set foot in Memphis again. That ought to be present enough."

Laughter mingled with applause. Paul felt acutely uncomfortable. He hadn't thought to send any token of appreciation back to America. Of course, he’d given Sid his exclusive that one night, but that gesture would hardly go over well with a roomful of other reporters. Paul sat in momentary dread that someone would ask him about his generous behavior, and he would once again be seen to come up short. Fortunately the conversation moved on.

"Mr. Harrison," one male reporter asked seriously, "all talk of bravery aside, there must have been several moments during the incident when you were understandably terrified—finding yourself under sustained gunfire, seeing your bandmates fall. Can you tell us, what was the most terrifying moment for you that Friday night in Memphis?"

The room grew tense. Paul could sense them drooling with anticipation.

But George only put on an expression of wounded outrage and cried, "They shaved me legs!"

There was a moment of shocked silence.

"In hospital," George continued, "before the operation. They shaved both of them—"

And now the audience began to laugh, in surprise and relief.

"—a big patch on both sides. That's because they had to take a piece of vein from one, you see, and use it to patch the other. Now I can't wear any short trousers. It's been growing back, but it's still a mess." He tapped his cigarette ash grumpily. "I look like a blooming show poodle."

People were quivering with laughter. Ringo had collapsed onto the table in a fit of giggles, and John was shaking his head, smirking indulgently. Paul gave a smile and nod. Way to go, George. He wondered if George had prepared that answer in advance.

The reporter gamely tried to return to his question. "Apart from the tragedy of the shaved legs—"

"It is a tragedy," said George. "I swim almost every day. It's part of me recovery. It's a bit embarrassing to go out there in just a swimming costume, as I expect you can imagine."

"I sympathize with you deeply. But it seems—"

"It feels funny in long trousers, as well. The fabric—"

Now Paul lost it. He leaned forward, bracing his forehead against his hand, and giggled along with Ringo. Ringo meanwhile had collapsed in complete hysterics.

George was making gestures towards his thighs, hidden beneath the table. Everyone was laughing, even those who were trying to remain serious. "It rubs, like, and then I start walking funny—not that I don't walk funny to begin with, with this sodding cane and all..."

Tony, grinning widely, decided to take control of the situation by pointing to a different reporter. "Yes, sir."

A stout man in the middle of the pack said, "What was your reaction to the fan film of the shooting?"

Paul sobered quickly, as did the others.

"It stank," said John.

"He didn't get my good side," said Ringo, provoking a few nervous titters.

The man looked at George. "Mr. Harrison?"

George shrugged. "I didn't see it."

"Still?"

"Why should I? I know how it ends."

The mild laughter had an uneasy edge.

The man continued, "There's some remarkable footage of you dodging a bullet. I'd like to ask how you managed to do that."

George stared. "No one can dodge a bullet."

"You can see it on the film. You were dragging John, and you ducked."

George looked at John and then Paul for help, but clearly they were as mystified as George.

"Did you hear the bullet coming?"

"No. I heard it pass. But... perhaps what you saw was me flinching when the pieces of amp hit me. It's mostly healed now, but it got me here, on the side of me face. That’s what made me jump."

"So you didn't dodge a bullet."

"I might have avoided it by accident. But I don’t remember ducking. I'm not that fast. Superman is, maybe, but not me."

People chuckled, still on edge from approaching the difficult subject.

Tony lifted his hand again. "Yes, ma'am. Near the back."

The woman raised her voice to be heard across the distance. "Mr. Harrison, what made you decide to remain with Mr. Lennon after he was shot?"

The audience groaned with disapproval, and George rolled his eyes. "Not this again!"

"I understand why you would want to help your friend," she said loudly, over the mumbled objections. "It's just that— how can I put this delicately? How did you know that Mr. Lennon was still alive? He'd been shot in the chest, hadn't he? What was it that made you decide to try and rescue him instead of believing that he'd been killed outright?"

The audience quieted. This was an angle that had not occurred to them— or to Paul either, for that matter. Everyone looked at George for an explanation.

Clearly her question had taken George by surprise. He paused. "Well, I couldn't really see where he'd been hit until I got up there."

"But when you did," said the woman, "you must have seen the blood on his chest."

"Yes, but there was only a little bit."

"Was he breathing?"

"There wasn't really time to see if he was breathing..."

"But you could see that he'd been shot in the heart."

"Well, no, actually. I could see that he'd been got in the chest, but it didn't look that serious. A fellow's heart gets punctured, there's loads of blood everywhere."

"How would you know that?"

George hesitated a second. Then his eyebrows came down. "That's not important. It's just— there wasn't enough blood, is the main thing. I knew he was alive, and stayed with him. That's all."

The audience began to mutter. John was looking at George curiously. George was doing his best to ignore everyone by scowling and dragging deeply from his rapidly dwindling cigarette.

The questions began. "How do you know there's a lot of blood from a heart injury, Mr. Harrison?"

"It makes sense, doesn't it?"

"But it sounds as if you know. Had you seen someone shot before?"

"No."

"Then how can you say with such certainty that there wasn't enough blood?"

Clearly this topic interested John as well. He frowned at George, as if asking him to explain. George leaned over and whispered a short phrase, perhaps a single word, in John's ear. John's eyebrows rose in surprise, and he nodded sharply. Hastily, he got out a fresh cigarette.

Paul barely shook his head. Subtlety, thy name was not Beatles. Everyone in the room had seen what Paul just had. Clearly there was some incident so familiar to George and John that the mere mention of it was enough to bring it back to John's mind.

The follow-up question was not long in coming. A reporter standing front and center said, in obedience to Tony's prompt, "Mr. Harrison, would you care to share with us what you said to Mr. Lennon just now?"

"No."

George's cigarette had run out, so John handed him another one. Paul glanced at his opposite side, but Ringo looked just as puzzled as Paul. That was a relief; at least it wasn't another secret the three of them shared that didn't include him.

"Would you rather have us speculate?" the man asked, prompting a round of chuckles.

John lit George's cigarette. "You'd best tell them, son."

George drew in the smoke and angrily puffed it out. "It was ages ago. It has nothing to do with this."

"But clearly it influenced your behavior," the fellow up front said.

George caught Paul's eye. His intense gaze seemed to be pleading for intercession. Paul wanted to help him, but didn't see how he could. He had no idea what George was talking about.

"Mr. Harrison?" the fellow prompted.

George sighed heavily. "All right. I saw a fellow murdered once. But it was a long time ago and it has nothing to do with the other night."

Concluded in Part 99.

Three young Beatles enjoy a cup of tea outside Paul's house in Liverpool, 1961.

For a complete list of entries, see the The Space Between Us All - chapter listing.