They used to be in a band. Now they went in through the bathroom windows. Robbing the houses of geriatrics. It wasn’t what they wanted for themselves – they had hoped to be big time musicians, at least for a few years. No cigar. It wasn’t that they felt good about thieving – they felt bad for the geriatrics, but it was a steady income. And what’s more, it saved them from having to get real jobs.

John was the ringleader. He had a mouth on him, and a bastard temper. But he was witty and charming in fits and starts, and you got the sense that he was blessed with inspiration.

Then there was Paul. He thought he was the ringleader, and many would argue that he was, but it was contentious (you wouldn’t want to bring it up at a family buffet if either of them was present). Either way, you couldn’t argue with Paul’s mastery of the craft. It was beyond dispute. He never failed to jimmy a lock. He never forgot to bring the rope. He always got back to the getaway car in good time.

John, by comparison, was volatile. On one job, he’d get impatient and blow the whole thing up. On another, he’d come up with an inspired way of finding the lolly in unexpected places. Once, he extracted a set of gold dentures from a sleeping geriatric, and all while standing on one leg. Later, it turned out that the geriatric was already dead, but John didn’t know that. When he found it, it plagued him for months, and that’s why he grew his hair out like the original man.

Then, there was George. He complained a lot, and generally carried the toolbox. When you needed a hammer, you could trust him to provide it. And sometimes, he’d even bring a decent job prospect to the gang. Like the time he noticed that Mr Mustard had banked a fortune playing the slotties. One sleep later, his newly found fortune had been ‘transferred’ to the four lads from the Pool who went in through the bathroom windows.

George and Paul had a weird relationship, and their bickering often made John roll his eyes. Often, he called them things like ‘dull cunts’ or ‘the Anthony Eden nipple twins’. For Paul, such comments were like water off a dingo’s back. For George, it was like a rag to a ten-legged horse.

Finally, there was Ringo. He was reliable. He turned up to the jobs that weren’t even going ahead. He turned up to a job that hadn’t even been planned. But the thing with Ringo, he knew when to contribute and when to remain in the background. If things were going well, he just stood strong and didn’t rock the boat. But if the gang was hitting a wall, he came to life. One time, they were trapped in the bathroom of a retired accountant. Ringo was the one who got them out. Frequently, he drove the getaway car. Why did he stick with the gang for so long? Mainly because it provided him with ample opportunity to steal rings (his pride and joy (more so than his wife)). It’s a wonder he could lift his hands from his sides with all that metal on them; but he could, and he did.

Being a winter’s night, the gang were dressed up in their best peacoats as they drove through the backstreets of Liverpool to the house of their next victim. They’d heard from a friend, Jonnie, that Mrs Scouse had just come into some money after the death of her husband, Anthony Scouse. How he died was subject to local gossip. Maybe she killed him. It didn’t matter. There was inheritance under her bed, and now, the lads were off to bag it for themselves. This would be their thirty-seventh job in two years, and they wondered if it might be that early retirement pot they were always talking about over pints of Mersey stout.

From the back seat of the car, George piped up, the cold visible on his breath. “Kin’ell Paul, how far off are we? It’s nippy back here.”

“We don’t want to draw too much attention, George. I’m taking us the sensible way,” said Paul, and he meant it. John rolled his eyes and lit a Dunhill. Ringo was sleeping, and boy could he snore. He had fog horns for nostrils and it’s a wonder they didn’t wake up half of Liverpool.

When they arrived at the household of Mrs Scouse, John arched his head out the old wind-it-down-window to get a decent look.

“Here we have it boys!”

“Can I bring my Indian friend on the next job?” mumbled George.

“Only if he promises to talk for a change,” replied Ringo.

“I can’t promise that,” said George, all morose and feeling the chill of the Mersey on his teeth. You got the sense his heart wasn’t in this anymore.

John was first out of the car and before anyone could stop him he was scaling the wall towards the bathroom window. You could tell when he was excited by the work, because he got all mischievous and rash and started to sound a tad Irish.

“Bloody ‘ell John,” said Paul, who could make indifference and exasperation sound one and the same. But John was already halfway through the window, his arse sticking up towards the Scouse night sky. Then, just like that, he was gone.

Paul was on edge. George was meditating. Ringo was dosing off. A few seconds later, John opened the front door to let them in with a big grin on his face.

“Just like Bill Sykes,” he announced.

Within a moment of these words escaping his mouth, he dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Behind him stood a dark and shadowy figure with a spanner. He stepped over John’s body and into the moonlight. It was Pete Best.

“What have you done, Peter?” Said Paul. “You’ve only gone and bloody killed John Lennon.”

Pete grinned. Then he pulled some drum sticks from his pants and started to tap dance.

Many years later, I interviewed Paul for The Echo. When I asked him about John, he had this to say; “The movement you need is on your head gasket.”

I never did figure out what he meant.