Chapter 9

As Ringo Starr advanced towards the chaise-longue, he cast aside his velvet pantaloons and cackled. The ex-Beatle’s mocking laughter filled the Peter Gabriel Suite, causing Alison to gasp in fear.

Was this her destiny, she wondered? To have her lissom, nubile body, ravished bestially in an opulent Swiss chateau, by the man who sang the lead on ‘With a Little Help From My Friends’?

The former Fab was almost upon her. She could smell the brandy on his breath. But just as he laid a hairy-knuckled hand on her bare arm, a sharp THWACK was heard. A strange look came into Ringo Starr’s lugubrious eyes, and he collapsed to the floor like a badly-assembled drum kit.

“Phil Collins!” Alison cried.

The drum legend stood before her, eyeing the prone figure of Ringo Starr with suspicion. in his hand he held a bloodied drumstick. He eyed his weapon appreciatively. “5B. Solid hickory. Never fails. Good job I didn’t use brushes, eh?” He gave a gruff chuckle at his own drummerly wit.

Then, bending down, the ‘Sussudio’ hitmaker traced a manly finger over Alison’s delicate features, brushing a lock of hair away from her eyes. “Are you hurt?”

“Oh Phil Collins,” Alison murmured, her bee-stung lips quivering. “I was so afraid. but ‘Against All Odds’, I am OK.”

The pair laughed intimately at the mention of Phil Collins’ mega-selling power ballad, from the film of the same name. “That was my first number 1 in the USA,” he mused. “I was at the top of my game. Great days, Alison.”

“Those days don’t have to be over, Phil Collins,” she whispered. Someone just needs to free your…creative juices.” She pulled him onto the chaise-longue. Fixing the Buster star with a penetrating gaze, she whispered the words they both longed to hear.

“Make love to me, Phil Collins. Play me like I’m the last drum kit on earth, and all the world is watching.”

“Bloody hell,” murmured the talented ex-Genesis stickman. “Take a look at me now, eh.”

And with those words, Phil Collins fell upon Alison like a man possessed. Not since the iconic drum fills of ‘In The Air Tonight’ had he fallen to a task with such ferocious passion. Their clothes seemed to melt away, as they came together in a frenzy of erotic release.

The tempo of their lovemaking was rough and unpredictable – a far cry from the rock-solid timekeeping that marked Phil Collins out as one of the finest stickmen of his generation. And yet, the intensity with which he pounded her youthful flesh was undeniable. As Alison submitted to the former child actor’s sexy ministrations, her whole body throbbed like a giant bass drum. So rhythmic were her gasps of ecstasy, she would not have been surprised if a roadie appeared to place a microphone above her.

“Phil Collins,” she gasped as his grizzled, bald head jerked back and forward in ever-mounting strokes of erotic frenzy, “on your 1996 album Dance Into The Light you sang about the ‘Love Police’. What was that song trying to say?”

“Let’s just say,” gasped Phil Collins with some difficulty, “that some people are so sexy it’s criminal. And you,” he added, beads of sweat clustering on his shining forehead, “are in severe danger of arrest.”

But as the pair’s frenzied lovemaking seemed about to reach its dizzying climax, a groan from under the chaise-longue reminded them that they were not alone. Ringo Starr rolled over and touched the wound on his head.

“You’ll suffer for this, Collins,” he said in the ponderous tones made famous by his time narrating Thomas The Tank Engine. “You remember our deal.” Then he lapsed into unconsciousness.

Phil Collins paused. A troubled, faraway look had come into the percussion icon’s eyes.

“Phil Collins?” asked Alison in a small voice. “What does he mean?”

“There’s no time to explain now,” replied the Tarzan soundtrack star, rising from the disarrayed chaise-longue and tying the souvenir Genesis throw rug round his manly waist like a sarong. “Alison, we have to leave this place.”

“Come back to bed,” whispered Alison.

“Don’t worry, treacle,” replied Phil Collins. “We’ll have ‘One More Night’ together soon enough. But right now, we must leave. It isn’t safe here. I just need to pack a few essentials and we’ll be on our way.”

Damp of chest and with her hair askew, Alison hopped off the chaise-longue and set off for her living quarters. It was, she reflected, no real surprise that the man behind an album entitled Hello, I Must Be Going was capable of erratic behavior. But why were they leaving? Where they going? And what dark deal had come to pass between Phil Collins and Ringo Starr?

“Oh Phil Collins,” she murmured, as the elevator hummed downwards. “When will I really see your True Colours, shining through?”

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