The fans were piled against the police barricade. They tried pushing through, just to reach for their favorite band. Just to touch their idols.
The boys smiled at the young girls. They were exhausted, but they could always put on a happy face to encourage the girls. Mal pushed them forward to keep up with the police escort.
"Paul!"
"Ringo!"
"John!
"George!"
"Please... please..."
Whatever the girls were begging for, they couldn't hear. They inched their way towards the car. It was nothing new.
The screams were nearly deafening. George focused on how close they seemed to the limo and the hand on his back that urged him forward. The fans were great, but they were a bit too loud for his liking. It was distracting - and surely not just to him, either. He couldn't hear anything anyone would try to say to him.
He didn't even notice the swarm of fans that broke through the polices' arms.
"Boys!" Mal shouted.
They were pulled back by their collars, nearly choking them, and police quickly went after the girls. It wasn't enough, though, and girls were on them like a swarm of bees.
George felt handfuls of his suit be grabbed in frantic fists. He might have felt a seam give way or his jacket rip. He wasn't sure if his clothes were still in one piece. In the buzz of bright colored dressed and hair, he saw Mal pull one girl off Ringo, only to be replaced by two others.
Police mixed in with them and held the girls down. They wrestled them back to the lines and away from the beloved band. Elbows were shoved into George's ribs, and nails scratched at his arms. He pushed gently, not wanting to hurt anyone.
Slowly, the girls disappeared from his immediate line of sight. He looked around for the others and found them all still alive behind him, looking a bit miffed and shaken. John was fixing his hair, Ringo was cowering behind Mal, and Paul was staring back at him, his doe eyes filled with concern and silent questioning.
They swallowed and continued to stare at one another. Suddenly, Paul's eyes grew wide, and he pointed past George. His other hand reached out for Mal.
George turned around and was immediately face-to-face with a woman, holding a small child close to her chest. All the police were gone, trying to shove the younger girls back behind the lines.
"Please," the woman said.
She looked like she should have been young but had messy, white hair and a few wrinkles. Her eyes were filled with tears. She looked hysterical.
"Please," she repeated. Then, she smiled and held out her child. It was grey and perhaps too small. Its face was bloated and the eyes were closed. Hopefully only sleeping. It was a pathetic mockery of a baby. "Can you help her?"
"Mal!" George tried to scream.
The world seemed to be silent. No one was daring to make a move towards the woman, and George couldn't hear anything but her pleas. She held the baby closer to him. It brushed against his chest. He stopped breathing at the contact.
"Please, just touch her -"
Mal appeared and put his hands on her shoulders. He pulled her back gently. She jerked in his touch.
"Please!" she screamed. "Please! If you touch her, she might get better! I've tried everything!"
A police officer took her to the side and soon her cries were drowned out by the screams of the fans that returned to George's ears.
"Come along," Mal said.
He put a hand to George's back and began leading him to the car once again.
George curled up in the window seat, watching the fans crowd around the hotel. There were so many teenagers - healthy teenagers, eager to scream their lungs out in the chilled air.
He closed his heavy eyes but opened them quickly when he saw the sickly child again. The rest of the group had taken a nap after they got back to the hotel, and he wanted to do the same. He wanted to forget that morning and go back home.
"Hey, George?" Paul walked to his side. "We're getting room service in a few minutes, what do you want?"
"'M not hungry."
"You're not hungry? You've gotta be. We're all starved."
George didn't respond. Paul sighed and sat with him.
"Are you still shaken up from that crazy lady?" he asked.
"She wasn't crazy," George mumbled. "She was desperate."
"She was scary... George, you know why Mal and Brian and Neil keep us away from those people. They can get dangerous."
"What was she gonna do?"
"It's just not her, it's the type of people, y'know? I get you want to help people -"
"The baby's gonna die."
"You don't know that."
"It looked... dead already. The woman said she's tried everything."
"There's always miracles."
"We were supposed to be the miracle! We're supposed to be gods, Paul. That's what everyone thinks."
Paul looked down. George looked back out the window. The others could be heard from the other side of the suite, joking and laughing.
"I know what you mean," Paul said finally. "We're not gods or angels or any of the shit people make us out to be - want us to be. But I don't think that's the only thing that's bothering you."
George shook his head. "It didn't look like a baby."
His voice broke. His chest felt heavy. Paul swallowed hard and inched his hand closer to George's.
"It was grey. I don't think it had enough hair. It was too small, and its face was swollen. Babies aren't supposed to look like that, Paul. It was fucking dying. It was scary. It didn't look human."
The commotion on the other side of the suite was dying down. No one spoke anymore and tried making as little sound as possible.
"I know," Paul said. He balled his hands into fists. "When me mam was sick… she looked different. I wanted everyone to try to make her look normal again. I didn't want to see her -" Paul took a breath and a second to compose himself. "You have to put the baby out of your mind. You have to accept that you can't change anything. The sooner you do, the sooner you'll feel better."
"I don't think I can do that."
"Because it's unfair the baby is sick?"
George nodded. "How can you accept that with your mother?"
Paul shrugged. "I had a lot of long talks like this with me dad… Are you tired?"
George nodded again.
"I'll take a kip with you, and we can eat later."
Paul led George to their bedroom where they stretched out together. George curled up on his side, facing Paul. Paul laid on his back, ankles crossed, hands folded across his middle.
"Try not to think about it before you fall asleep," he said. "That's what me dad would always say. Say a prayer, but don't think about it before you close your eyes."
"What else am I supposed to think about?"
"The new album? A new riff? Brigitte Bardot? Doesn't matter."
"Pattie," George mumbled.
"Yeah." Paul smiled. "Pattie."
His eyes focused on the ceiling. George looked at his gentle profile. His face was made of soft curves and milky skin. His cherub cheeks, round with leftover youthful chub. His eyelashes, resting against them when he closed his eyes.
"Goodnight," Paul said.
"Goodnight," George replied.
He closed his eyes. The boys drifted off to sleep, unhaunted.
