I had to admit, I felt very bad about leaving behind Pattie and Gwen. For some reason, I had a suspicion that they'd get there anyway, but Brian would flip and send them back. In a way, I kind of liked being alone with the boys. I felt special, like I was the only girl in the universe. I tried not to smile too widely as I climbed into the limo parked in the back of the hotel.
"This is gonna be really fun, Eileen," said John, who was heaving his suitcase into the trunk of the limo. "It'll be exciting, for sure. Just stay away from fangirls."
"I think I can," I said. I still remembered the last time I got caught by fangirls. The scar on my arm was still there.
"Tours are always good," said George, walking over to where his and Ringo's suitcases sat alone. He lifted his up, and threw it back down again. "Gah! This is heavy! What the bloody hell did I put in this thing?"
"You didn't add anything did you?" asked Paul, trying not to laugh.
"No," said George. Huffing, he managed to pick up his suitcase (he was getting purple in the face) and toss it into the trunk.
"Ah, weakling," said Ringo. He went over to his suitcase, and he couldn't even lift it up an inch. He stopped pulling and started panting.
"Who's the weakling?" asked George.
"Oh, move over you two," said John. He lifted up Ringo's bag and put it in the trunk with the others. I never realized how strong he was. His muscles rippled as he gripped the heavy baggage and threw it. When he was done, he flipped his hair out of his eyes and stared off into the distance. The sunlight lit his soft features just perfectly and made his eyes go from dark brown to liquid amber. He was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
"Something the matter Eileen?" asked John suddenly. I realized then that I had been staring blankly at John all that time.
"Oh, I'm fine," I said, embarrassed. "Just spacing out."
"Well don't space too much," said John. "When you're on tour, you constantly have to be on patrol." He did an imitation of s sailor looking out from a crow's nest. I laughed, and he grabbed my hand and led me into the limo.
I sat between him and Ringo, with Paul on John's other side and George on Ringo's. Brian was in the front passenger seat, and driving the limo was a man I'd never seen before. He looked about the same age as the boys, but without the rock-and-roll-star look. He had mousy, light brown hair, and was tall and thin.
"Hey, John," I asked. "Who's he?"
"Oh, that's Neil Apsinall, our road manager," said John.
Neil Apsinall turned around in his seat a little. "Hey," he said. His eyes fixed on me. "Oy, who's the bird?"
"I wouldn't bother," said George. "She belongs to John." I saw John raise his eyebrows at George, and George raised his back. I bit my lip, trying to remain indifferent, although I felt a slight blush creeping up my face. Neil just laughed and turned back around in his seat to drive.
"So, we're going to the airport, right?" I asked.
"No," said John, keeping a very straight face with great difficulty. "We're driving right to Italy. Over the ocean and everything."
I bit my lip again, feeling stupid about my question. "Come on John," said Ringo. "Don't make her feel bad."
"I wasn't trying to make her feel bad," said John. "I really thought we were driving over the ocean." He finished with a wide, sarcastic smile. I smiled too, but sheepishly. The drive to the airport (not across the ocean) was a bit longer than the other car rides I'd taken with the group. I caught myself nodding off numerous times, all of them on John's shoulder. Every time I felt my head slipping down onto him, I jerked back up and tried to act like nothing happened. I focused my eyes on the horizon, hoping it would keep me awake, but soon enough, I was drifting again. My head drooped onto John, and I began to lift it up.
"You know I really don't mind," said John suddenly, making me jump. His eyes were fixed out the front window as well. Taking his comment to heart, I carefully leaned my head back down. Long car rides made me so sleepy. The world around me started to go in and out of focus, and before I knew it, everything went black.
I was standing at the end of a long, echoey hallway. It was dark, and there were no doors on either side, except for the other end of the hall. I heard two voices coming from that room-one a man and the other a woman. They were talking affectionately to each other, but I couldn't tell what they were saying. Curious, I walked further down the hall to see what the two were up to. The closer I got to the room, the louder the voices got, but I still couldn't make out any words. The women's voice grew more sinister, and I walked faster. The voices got even louder. Louder, louder, louder-BANG!
I was at the door now. Slowly, I peeked into the room to see what caused the loud noise. I froze when I saw the scene: there was the man, with yellow-blond hair, a tall and lanky build, and blue-grey eyes staring up blankly at the ceiling. He was covered in blood and lying in a pool of it on the floor. He was dead. The woman was standing over him with a fixed expression of no emotion. She had short brown hair and green-hazel eyes that held no expression as she looked down on the dead man. In one hand, she held a smoking gun; in the other, a gleaming diamond engagement ring. I gave a small, muffled scream, and the woman jerked upright. Her hazel eyes fixed upon mine, and a small smirk appeared across her face. Slowly, she raised the gun. I yelped and dashed across the hallway again. I ran faster than I ever had in my whole life. The woman was gaining on me, my life was flashing before my eyes as I shot down the hall. Suddenly, I tripped, and the woman stood above me just like she had the man she killed. She raised her gun again and pulled the trigger...
I awoke with I loud yell. I was shaking and saturated in sweat. I was breathing as hard as I would if I had won a twenty-mile -long marathon. The limo had stopped; I could see we were parked in the lot of the airport. It took a little while for my eyes to adjust to the sudden light. Then I saw everyone in the limo-John, Paul, George, Ringo, Brian, and Neil-looking down on me with worried expressions.
"What's wrong, Eileen?" asked Brian sharply from the front passenger seat.
Not having enough breath left in me to speak, I shook my head vigorously.
"Eileen, are you okay?" asked John, who was dabbing my forehead with a damp cloth.
Once again, I was still breathing too hard to answer.
"Eileen, you have to tell us," said Paul urgently.
"Guys!" snapped Ringo. "Give her some space! She's obviously not feeling well."
"I agree with Ringo," said Neil. "Let's get on the plane before it flies off." That seemed to settle it. We all got out of the car (John and George had to hold me up because I was still shaking) and put the bags on the luggage cart that drove over to the airplane. The closer we got to the airplane, the more I calmed down because I knew that I'd be far away from whoever was trying to kill me. And Jerri. When we boarded the plane, I had stopped shaking and I could walk by myself now. I was still damp from sweat, but it had dried up a bit.
"And here we are," said Brian as we boarded out private jet. "Let's sit down and get going; we're already running behind." The seven of us went to find a place to sit. Ringo and George sat together in front of Neil and Paul, and Brian sat by himself in the opposite row in the back of the plane looking over some paperwork. That left me and John to sit together.
"Over here," said John, pointing to a pair of seats two spaces in front of where Brian was sitting.
"Fine," I said.
"I call aisle!" called John. I snorted and slid into the window seat. John sat down next to me and gave me an inquiring look with his narrow brown eyes. "So?" he asked.
"So what?" I asked back, trying to give him an equal facial expression, but possible failing horribly.
"What happened back in the limo?" asked John again. "With your dream."
"Oh. That," I said. I fidgeted uncomfortably in my seat. I told everyone about the last dream I had, and it turned out to be a big joke, which I was okay with; it made me feel a whole lot better about what happened. I knew that telling John would do no harm. He would probably like to know that I had another dream like that. Taking a deep breath, I proceeded to tell him about my latest dream.
"...and I just feel strange because it's the second dream I've had like that," I finished.
John laughed. "Eileen," he said, still looking straight into my eyes. "Jerri Dunn is not the shooter-she can't be!"
"I know that," I said. "And I know for a fact who the real shooter is. I've seen him."
"I believe you, Eileen," said John, his features softening. "Besides, if Jerri was the shooter, you'd think she'd have shot herself by accident in the likely event that she had the gun pointing the wrong way in an attempt to shoot you." We both laughed at that. After all, it was true. Jerri simply lacked the brains to be the person after me.
"I think you're having these dreams because you strongly dislike Jerri," said John. "and because you're afraid that the shooter's going to get Charlie next."
"How'd you know?" I asked.
"Ringo told me about the graveyard while you were asleep on the limo," said John. "When you went to visit your mum."
"Yeah," I said. I felt myself drifting off again, but not in the tired way.
"What was her name?" asked John.
"Elizabeth," I said. "Elizabeth Carter. Her maiden name was Morris."
"Did she look like you?" asked John. I wasn't quite sure why he was bringing that up.
"She looked more like Charlie," I said. "I get my looks from my dad."
"I see..." John trailed off. "Your dad's still around, right?"
"Yeah, he is," I said. "He's living in Blackpool."
"Alright," said John. "You see him often?"
"Occasionally," I said. "John, why are we talking about this?"
"Because I want to learn more about you," said John. "Ask me stuff now."
"Okay," I said. I tried to think. He had already told me about his mother, and I didn't want to bring it up. Maybe I could ask him about his father. "What about your father?" I asked.
John looked deep in thought when I asked him, as if trying to come up with a distant memory then he said: "My dad lived a seafaring life. He was barely ever at home. He was at sea when I was born, even. It got so bad at one point that my Aunt Mimi got my mum to hand me over to her. Mimi thought mum couldn't handle me herself."
"Really?" I asked.
"Yeah," said John. "Well, me mum finally ended her relationship with dad when I was about two, and then remarried."
"Did you go back to living with her, then?" I asked.
"Not for a long time," said John. "I reestablished a relationship with her when I was about sixteen or so. It was great. She started me with music, something Aunt Mimi hated. Mum got me playing banjo, and then I went on to guitar. She taught me until she was killed..." His voice trailed off there and he started playing with his mop of hair.
"Are you okay, John?" I asked.
"Yeah," said John. "I'm fine."
"We don't have to talk about your mum if you don't want to," I said. "I know how it feels."
John looked at me with that piercing gaze again. "I know that. That's what makes me want to talk about it to you. We both had the same experience." We had stopped talking by then. Most of the ride was in silence, except for the random burst of laughter at Paul's jokes and the scratching of Brian's pen on his paper. I stared out the window of the plane, looking at the ground so many feet below. It looked like a patchwork quilt. I remembered the quilts my mother used to make for me when I was little. They used to be so many colours with a multitude of shaped stitched in. They were beautiful.
I must have been looking out the window for a long time, because before long, we were landing in the Venice Airport. As the plane leaned forward to land, all I could think about was the connection between me and John, and the dream I had back in the limo. I did not want anyone else I cared about to die. Not even in a dream.