A/N: REVIEW.
It was obvious what the place was once she saw its innards. It was a recording studio, with autographed photographs of musicians decorating the peeling red walls, guitar cases and headphones lying forgotten on the dusty floor, and a red 'Studio In Use' light on the wall opposite her.
Her interest piqued, she stepped inside. The atmosphere was incredible – it was buzzing with music, activity and life, and she could almost hear the voices of artists long dead, forgotten, or both. She began to explore the dilapidated studio, reverently stepping over corroded cymbals and moth-eaten manuscript.
She moved around the ground floor, from room to room, in awe, until she found a little upright piano in one of the rehearsal rooms, much like her one at home, in Sydney. Aside from that, there was nothing particularly special about the room, so she didn't waste much time in sitting down at the antique keyboard and lovingly resting her fingers on the keys, just light enough to not make a sound. After getting the feel of the wizened ivory notes, she began to play.
At first she played tentatively, sticking to scales and simple melodies she used to play with her brothers, but, after a time, she started to play more advanced pieces. Her hands flew across the keys, and she started to hum along, tapping her foot to the beat. A fast ragtime piece soon evolved into technically-superior Bach, and from there it morphed into 'Eleanor Rigby', yet another Beatles piece. God, she loved them.
She started to sing the lyrics, her sweet voice feeling at home in the musical mausoleum. She got more and more involved in the piece, and started to pretend there was a crowd in the room with her. She looked around the room, and started imitating the self-obsessed musicians she always saw on television, pulling faces and sucking up to her imaginary audience. She cast her eyes to the far wall as she reached the final chorus, and immediately froze in horror.
The words 'HAYLEY, COME TO THE BASEMENT – WE NEED YOU' were written in red across the majority of the wall. She couldn't believe she hadn't seen them before, but it was preposterous to think that they had suddenly appeared while she'd been there.
Her pale skin was as white as a sheet, and beads of perspiration had appeared on the nape of her neck. She waited for the adrenaline to ebb before doing anything, and sat perfectly still at the resonating instrument. Eventually, she decided to see what was lurking in the basement. Usually, she hated horror movies with stupid, gullible heroines, but now she felt she understood things from their point of view. How do you ever get to be a hero if you never venture into a darkened basement?
She took a few steps over to where she had dumped her bag, and rifled through it for her pocket-sized torch and her mobile, just in case. She went into the corridor, and looked for a staircase down to the lower level. For a few minutes, she thought there may not even be a basement, but, needless to say, she found a narrow set of grungy concrete steps leading down to a thick wooden door.
She nervously made her way down them, the rubber soles of her black Converse gripping onto each step, and walked up to the door. She hoped it wasn't as obliging as the front-door, but, sure enough, it was. She opened it inch by inch, and shone her torch inside.
She was surprised – it was merely another corridor, which seemed to go on for at least twenty metres or so. It was pitch-black, and she couldn't find a light switch anywhere, so she had only the thin beam of light from her torch by which to navigate. The corridor was rather bland, with cream walls and a low ceiling, but as her apprehension reared its head, it seemed to have so much more personality. It was threatening, mocking her, and housing several monsters which poised in the shadows, ready to strike.
At the end of the corridor was another door, similar to the one she had just passed through. She arrived at it and held her breath, slowly reaching for the doorknob, but then something made her hesitate.
She could hear something on the other side of the door. It sounded like voices, but she couldn't be sure. As she continued to listen, it sounded more and more like male voices bickering about something. She wasn't sure she should go in if they were arguing, but then she heard someone call out for help. The plea sounded desperate, and it was accompanied by a banging on the wall.
Drawing up all her remaining courage, she tried to pull the door open quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. It wasn't as cooperative as the previous two doors, and she had to use all her weight to pull it open.
Flashing her light inside, she saw what must have once been a high-tech recording booth, but now was caked in dust and rendered obsolete. She stepped into the room, and realised it had gone eerily silent all of a sudden.
She cast her torchlight around the room, searching for the owners of the voices she heard just moments before. Suddenly, the beam revealed a handsome young man standing next to her. She jumped back as he scrunched up his eyes in reaction to the sudden light.
"Argh, that smarts, that does," he groaned, rubbing his eyes with his hands.
Keeping an eye on him, she continued to search the rest of the room. She found three more young men, who all reacted in a similar way. Puzzled beyond means, she wondered how they had ended up down there.
"What are you doing down here?" she asked, her eyes flitting from face to face.
"Brian sent us down here," one of them said. "We had to warm-up."
"It's a very serious business, love," another interjected. "If we're not warming-up, we're cooling down, and it plays havoc with a guitar's tuning."
"And the drum skins," a third added.
Against her will, her lips curled up in a small smile, but it wasn't like they could see in this light.
"That's all you do? Warm-up and cool down? Why bother coming to a recording studio for that?" She knew they should probably get out of the building and into fresh air, but she couldn't help being a social little thing.
"Great acoustic," the final one answered. "Can we go now?"
"No, you may not," she declared forcefully, spinning around and striding out the door back into the corridor. She walked back to the steps, and climbed them with a spring in her step, glad she had conquered her fears. Imagined monsters were worse than real ones, in her opinion – you can't fight them as easily.
She collected her bag from the room with the piano, and headed towards the front entrance. She had seen enough to satisfy her curiosity, and wanted to get home before dark.
She was about to step outside when she heard the four young men call out after her.
"Oi!"
She turned to face them, and nearly fainted. They were the spitting image of the Beatles. There was John Lennon, with his witty eyes and cheeky grin, Ringo Starr, with his boy-next-door looks and happy laugh, Paul McCartney with his charming smile and pretty face, and George Harrison, with his shy demeanour and inner quirkiness.
"God, are you like Fabba, or something? You could pull it off, believe me," she said, trying to not gawp at them.
"Huh?" the Ringo lookalike said. "Look, we just wanna-"
"Where are we?" the one who looked like Paul asked, anxiety apparent in his warm brown eyes.
Looking at them closely, she realised all of them were anxious. "What do you mean? How can you not know where you are?"
John's spitting image stepped towards her. "We just don't. Maybe it was drugs, maybe some crazy fan, I dunno. Why, love – can't you tell us?"
"Uh-," she blushed. Damn coincidences. "Of course I can. Milky Way. Earth. Northern Hemisphere. Stop me when it starts to ring a bell."
The George impersonator stepped towards her as well. "Ding dong. Now can you tell us how to get to the Royale? Please?"
She racked her brains trying to think of what he was referring to. "The Royale Hotel?"
"Yeah, heard of it?" Ringo's carbon copy asked.
"It's only the most prominent hotel in London," the one who appeared to be Paul cut in. "Don't feel bad if you can't tell us how to get to it."
Annoyance flared through her like someone flicking on a light. "Fine, suit yourselves. Have fun staying at a shopping mall." Of course she knew what the Royale had been.
All four looked at her in confusion, and John's doppelganger pointed a finger at her threateningly. "Explain."
"Well," she began. "Thirty years ago, the hotel was demolished and a car park was built on the site. It was then demolished in turn, and a mall was built. Consumerism knows no bounds."
The four were silent for a while, before George's lookalike muttered, "Damn. I left me favourite tie there."
"Where are we gonna stay?" The drummer looked to John, then to Paul. "We have to stay somewhere."
The confused girl recognised their accent. "You from Liverpool? So were the Beatles – but I'm sure you know that."
George looked at her weirdly. "We are the Beatles."
"Yeah," John added, sliding his hands into his pockets. "So of course we know we're from Liverpool."
She was about to say something in reply, but her phone rang. Spinning around to face the open door, she slid it out of the shallow pocket of her bright-blue skinny jeans, flipped it open and held it to her ear.
"Hello?"
"Miss Hayley Evans? I am calling on behalf of your local service provider-"
She snapped the phone shut in disgust and placed it back in her pocket. "Damn telemarketers. No sense of timing."
She turned back around to continue talking to the four boys, and was taken aback by their expressions. They appeared to be bewildered, and she couldn't think why.
"Wha' was that?" Paul asked, pointing to her pocket.
She looked at him with eyebrows raised. "My phone, numbskull. What else would it be?"
"That was a phone?" Ringo asked, disbelief etched across his face. "Don't be ridiculous!"
John stepped towards her slowly until he was merely a foot or so away, and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Love, I'm going to ask you something now, and you have to be one hundred percent honest with me. Alright?" She nodded. "What's the date?"
She suddenly doubted her original presumption that they were Beatles impersonators – they were so perfect. But they couldn't be the actual Beatles, as that was nigh on impossible. All logic was against it. It was not a viable explanation for their uncanny resemblance. There had to be a rational reason for it.
Yet as she looked into John's eyes, she was willing to believe anything.
"Love?"
"John, don't be ridiculous." Paul scolded.
"Yeah, John. It's the first of August, nineteen-sixty-two. What are you trying to get at?" George asked curiously, stepping up behind John's shoulder.
She had a sunken feeling that things were about to get really, really complicated.
"Is that what you think the date is?"
"Uh, yeah," said Paul, Ringo and George simultaneously, as John continued to hold her shoulders and stare at her.
"How about we make a deal – I'll tell you if you're right or not, if you get Mr. Creepy out of my face."
George leant forwards and pulled John off her.
"Now, tell us," said Paul.
"Argh, this is a waste of time," Ringo interrupted. "We should be finding a way back home, not asking a random bird for the date."
"Shut it, Ringo!" John suddenly said, rather harshly. "I have a hunch that getting home is going to be more difficult than what you think, so let's just listen to what the bird has to say."
Highly confused by their exchange, she said, "You have the date right."
Sighing in relief, John turned back to Ringo. "Okay, so you were right. Let's go."
They all cast their final glances around the recording studio, and started heading out the door.
She was left on her own, and stood in shellshock for a few moments before chasing after them.
"Wait! Wait up!"
She slammed the door behind her in haste, and sprinted down the gravel path. As she weaved around corners and dodged overgrown scrubs, she chided herself for taking so long mucking around at the old piano – though it was mid-afternoon, being the Northern Hemisphere, the Sun was already making its way gradually towards the horizon.
She soon caught up to them, and they turned around with smiles.
"What, missing us already?" John teased, crossing his arms.
"No, I just needed to tell you something."
"What?" Paul asked, his black jacket flapping in the breeze.
"It's about the date."
"Yeah?" George asked, resting his hands on his hips and he contemplated the pretty girl in front of them. "First of August, nineteen-sixty-two, right?"
"Well, it's half right."
"What do you mean?" Ringo asked.
"Well, today is definitely the first of August."
"And?" John enquired.
"Well, I guess you could say it's nineteen-sixty-two . . . just . . . add . . . fifty years . . . or so. . ."