A balmy sea breeze wafted through the dunes of El Zapillo, a beach in the small Spanish town of Almería. The gentle wind swirled around the beachfront buildings, gently caressing the whitewashed walls of the “El Delfín Verde,” a charming apartment right on the coast. On the ground floor of the apartment, French windows were opened wide, a gust of cool air gently moving the gauzy white curtains aside as it brought the scent of the sea with it, a tantalizing aroma straight from the Gulf of Almería. The sun shone through the open doors, casting a warm glow throughout the room, infusing the polished wood floors with delicious warmth. Leaning against the glass sat John, his posture relaxed as he stared out at the beach from behind a new acquisition, a pair of round, wire-rimmed granny glasses.
John smiled slightly as he watched his son Julian run across the sand, Cynthia following close behind as she laboured under his things; a colourful beach ball, a bright green pail and shovel, and an inner tube. The little sandy-haired boy ran straight towards a beachside vendor, jumping up and down in excitement as he begged his mum to buy him an ice. John laughed lightly as he watched Cynthia slump her shoulders in defeat, the petite woman dropping her baggage as she bought her son a cherry-flavoured treat.
“Daddy, daddy!” Julian yelled excitedly as he ran up to John, his tiny feet kicking up sand. Lips and tongue red, he held out his cherry ice, “Look at what mummy bought for me.”
“Good for you, Jules,” John answered with a smile, as he squinted at his son, shading his eyes with one hand.
“Julian! In the house now!” Cynthia called, the blonde trudging up the beach as she lugged around all of their things. “It’s time for your bath.”
Frowning, Julian stamped his foot petulantly, “I don’t want to take a bath!” he cried, throwing a mini tantrum. He turned his gaze on his father, “Daddy,” he whined. “Do I have to take a bath?”
Poking Julian gently in the stomach, he said, “You should listen to your mum, Jules.”
Crying, Julian ran in the house, a harried Cyn following after him. John turned his head slightly, staring at their retreating forms before turning his gaze back to the sparkling beach in front of him, a tired and unhappy sigh ripped from his lips.
Suddenly, the sound of the phone disrupted John’s unhappy thoughts, and with a hopeful look, he quickly rose and hurried to the phone, picking up the receiver before anyone else answered it.
“Hello?” John said into the handset, steadying himself with one hand on the low table.
“John!” answered the cheery voice on the other end, immediately bringing a happy smile to John’s lips.
“Paul,” John greeted, as he lowered himself in a white wicker chair, making himself comfortable on the soft padding. “How are you doing, mate?”
“I’m great,” the younger man replied, a smile in his voice. “How are things going in Spain? How’s filming?”
John grimaced slightly, “Spain is nice, the weather is lovely and all that rubbish, and Cyn and Julian seem to be enjoying themselves.”
“And the movie?” Paul asked, his voice eager for more news.
“Well, it’s great working with Dick again, but I don’t know…” John trailed off, sounding slight discouraged. He ran a hand through his newly shorn hair, before continuing. “I don’t think I’m cut out for the movies” he grumbled, “It gets fucking boring after a while, just sitting around waiting for your turn in front of the bloody cameras.”
“Well, as long as you’re keeping busy,” Paul replied, still sounding a bit too cheery.
For a minute no one said a word, John’s face falling at the prospect of staying mute and then having to hang up too soon.
“So, how are things in England?” John asked, wincing at the triteness of the question.
“London’s bloody London,” Paul answered, with a sigh. “You know, the fucking reporters have been hounding us here, always asking the same bloody questions, ‘Are the Beatles breaking up? Why are you all on holiday separate from each other? Are you never ever going to tour again?’ Bastards.” Paul complained angrily on the other end.
“Well, what did you expect, Paul?” John answered somewhat evenly. “Those gits have nothing better to do than worry about our bloody lives, almost as if they have no lives of their own.”
“I know,” Paul said with a defeated sigh. “It just pisses me off that they think that we have nothing else going in our lives and that we’re fucking lost without each other.”
John flinched slightly, Paul’s last comment hitting a bit close to home. Closing his eyes, John sighed, not wanting Paul to know that he was indeed fucking lost without him, without him and the other lads.
“Uhh,” John began, trying to change the subject. “How’s everything else? Is London still the same?”
“Yeah,” Paul began dismissively. “It rains most of the time, and when it doesn’t, it’s fucking cold. The weather is awful.”
Smiling hopefully, John asked quickly, “Well, if the weather is as bad as that, you could come down here for a bit, nice sunny beaches and all that. Ringo really enjoyed himself when he was here a few days ago.”
Paul sighed on the other end. “You know I’d love to, John,” he said with little remorse, “But I’ve just been so busy over here.” Without pause, Paul continued excitedly, “Did you know that George, George Martin that is, and I are scoring this movie, The Family Way? It’s been bloody fantastic, working with the orchestra and all that, actually composing a bit of music for a film.”
John smiled ruefully. “Soundtrack music for a major motion picture,” John said, somewhat grudgingly, “Composing scores and all that. Why Paulie, you best be careful, you may end up the next Richard Rodgers.”
With a laugh, Paul replied modestly, “Nah, I don’t think so,” he said. “I mean, doing this sort of thing once in a while is all right, but it’s not something I’d want to do regularly.”
A short silence descended upon the two, each trying to think of something else to say. When no subjects came up, Paul coughed politely on the other end, and John knew that it was the end of the conversation.
“Well, John,” Paul said, somewhat apologetically. “I have to be going, got some things to take care of in the studio today. Shall I call you later?”
Smiling sadly, John nodded his head slightly, “Sure, all right,” he replied, dejectedly. After a moment’s thought, he whispered, “I miss you,” eyes slightly misting over.
Paul let out a mirroring sigh. “I miss you too, love,” he murmured. “Come home soon, all right?”
John smiled, “I will,” he promised, as he slowly got up. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Paul echoed. “Oh, love?” Paul said quickly before John hung up the phone.
“Yeah, Paul?” he answered curiously, thinking that the conversation has ended.
“I love the new hair. It suits you,” Paul said shyly, a smile in his voice.
Smiling a bit, John responded, “Ta, Macca,” before disconnecting the call.
Sighing sadly, John hung up the phone, and walked back to the open French windows, leaning against the doorjamb, as he stared out into the beach, the sparkly blue waves reflected in the glass of his spectacles.
The stately homes in the wooded “Stockbroker Belt” suburbs of London were quiet that early morning, which wasn’t entirely different from the state of the area during most of the day. The front lawns of important business men, and well, stockbrokers, were immaculately groomed, an expanse of lush green grass stretching out as far as the eye could see. The tops of impressive homes could be seen high above the treetops, their stately roofs towering above the branches, as if overseeing their domain. The sky, blue and clear, perfectly complemented the luxuriousness of the expensive, albeit stuffy, neighbourhood. Not exactly the kind of place one expected rock stars to inhabit.
Surprisingly enough, John was up and about that morning, puttering about the house and no longer lying motionless in the main living room, crammed into a small sofa in front of the telly. He was busy in the kitchen, fixing himself a pot of tea, granny glasses perched on his nose as he attempted to work the high tech appliances. With a triumphant look on his face, John soon had a kettle on the stove, steam pouring out of the spout once the water was ready. Pouring the boiling liquid into a cup, John let a teabag steep as he carried it to the living area, holding a plate of biscuits in the other hand.
Placing the plates on the table, John switched the telly on, switching from BBC to BBC until his eyes alighted upon something of interest. On the screen in front of him sat Paul McCartney in the midst of an interview, those wide eyes staring right back at him. Startled, John turned the volume up, as he sat forward, listening intently.
I was asked a question by a newspaper and the decision was whether to tell a lie or tell him the truth, television Paul related, hands folded and resting on his crossed legs as he leaned back in his chair comfortably, his relaxed pose bellying the slightly exasperated expression on his face. With a hint of anger, Paul continued. I decided to tell him the truth, but I really didn’t want to say anything, you know, because if I had my way, I wouldn’t have told anyone. I’m not trying to spread the word about this, but the man from the newspaper is the man from the mass medium. I’ll keep it a personal thing if he does too you know, if he keeps it quiet. But he wanted to spread it so it’s his responsibility, you know, for spreading it, not mine.
With a sigh, John slumped against the cushions, his head leaning far back as he stared at the ceiling. “Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered to himself, with a roll of his eyes, no longer paying any attention to the television. After a few minutes of simply sitting still, John stood up and walked to the television and turned it off with a click, before leaving the room, his tea now cold and forgotten.
John paced the length of his ground floor, stalking through the rarely used rooms, each time ending up in front of phone. After the fifth time, he reached for the receiver with a growl, dialing a number savagely as he placed it up to his ear, glowering slightly as he listened to it ring.
Time passed and after what seemed like minutes, someone on the other end finally picked up.
“Hello?”
“So, I woke up early this morning and turned on the telly, hoping for some mindless entertainment,” John began, slightly out of breath and without preamble, launching directly into his diatribe. “And what should I see but your face, talking about that bloody drug issue again.” John paused, attempting to gather his thoughts and catch his breath.
A long suffering sigh came through the phone in the pause, “John…” Paul started in an even voice, but was soon interrupted by John’s second wind.
“What were you thinking, Paul?” John raged, as he started pacing again, the distance paced, however, was severely limited by the length of the phone chord. “Why must you always talk to the bloody reporters whenever they besiege you?”
“What the fuck was I supposed to do, John?” Paul yelled back, his voice loud over the phone. “It’s not like I had anything to hide! If I turned the bastards away they’d just think that I wasn’t being honest the last time and it’d just create more shite.”
“But why did you have to be fucking honest in the first place?” John shouted, his pace growing more hurried, his skin flushing uncomfortably as his eyes narrowed. “They had no business knowing about whatever bloody drugs you have or haven’t done.”
“Right,” Paul seethed venomously. “Because covering me face and closing door on them screeching ‘Leave me alone, I don’t do any drugs because I’m a good lad,’ would’ve been so much better,” Paul finished incredulously.
“At least we all wouldn’t be bloody attacked by the media and the CID if you had only lied about all of it,” John retorted angrily.
“Since when are you so fucking scared of the media and the coppers, Johnny?” Paul asked angrily. Pausing as if to catch his breath, Paul continued, his voice low and spiteful, “From what I remember, you were the one who got us into fucking shite a few years back with that daft “Bigger than Jesus” comment of yours and that had us fearing for our lives.”
“That’s not the point, Paul,” John spat out, as he stopped his angry pacing, his tense frame positioned in front of the phone. “The point is, is that George and I had been trying to get you to use LSD for over a fucking year and then suddenly, I see you on the telly talking all about it. Not once, but twice!”
“‘George and I,’” Paul repeated angrily. “Always fucking ‘George and I,’” Paul replied angrily, his voice shaking over the line. With a growl he continued, “‘Oh, Paulie, you wouldn’t understand because you didn’t experience it like we did.’ Or “Oh, you’re such a wanker Paulie, just one trip. George and I have been on dozens of them.’”
“Paulie,” John sighed, the anger slowly leaving his body. “Just…”
“You know what, John?” the younger man interrupted harshly. “It’s fine. It just doesn’t matter anymore.” In an overly sweet voice, Paul continued without pause, “I’m sorry that my tendency to open my fucking mouth has made your life a living hell. I’ll try not to do so anymore, good…”
“Paul!” John exclaimed desperately, “Wait! Just fucking calm down, okay?” With a sigh, John closed his eyes as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the wall. “I’m sorry, all right,” the older man apologized. “It’s all just…” he sighed, “It’s all becoming a bit too much, you know. The media is down our backs fucking 95 percent of the time, and now that we’re not the “lovable mop tops” anymore they just keep sniffing around for more shite to print about us. Just gets hard sometimes.”
Paul sighed on the other end, “I know, John,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, too.” His voice lightening somewhat, he continued, “How about I call them back and tell that it was all an elaborate joke and that I was lying the whole time?”
John laughed softly, “Yeah, you go do that.”
Both men sighed, the anger and tension slowly draining away.
After a while, Paul spoke up, “Uh,” he said softly, “I have to take Martha out for a walk. She’s been circling around me desperately for the past 10 minutes,” pausing slightly he continued, “Want to come by afterwards?”
John glanced out the window, noting the light sunlight filtering through the trees, an idea popping into his head.
“How about I meet you at the park?” he asked out of the blue, surprising even himself at the words that came out of his mouth.
“What?” Paul exclaimed in a surprised voice. “You want to go out for a walk?”
“Sure,” John replied off-handedly, warming to the idea. “I could use the exercise.”
A snort could be heard over the line, “Yeah, John Lennon and exercise. I never thought I’d hear those two words in the same fucking sentence.”
“Hey!” John exclaimed indignantly. “I enjoy exercise. Just the other day, I ran out of breath walking from the couch to the kitchen to refill my teacup.”
“Right, I believe that,” Paul replied, laughing lightly. “So, you really want to meet me for a walk?” Paul asked, disbelieving still.
“Sure,” John answered. “Hampstead Heath, right?”
“Right,” Paul confirmed. “I’ll see you in a bit then?”
“Yeah,” John replied softly. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
With echoing farewells, John hung up slowly as he straightened up, moving his neck in a slow circle as he tried to work the kinks out. He moved towards the coat closet and grabbed a light coat, the early morning still cool despite it being June. Slowly slipping the coat on, John opened the front door, eyes squinting in the early sunlight as he walked to his colourful Rolls Royce. With a quick glance back at his home, John slipped into the car and started the engine, driving down the narrow lanes towards London.
The windows of 7 Cavendish Avenue, St. John’s Wood, London were darkened, the only light in the home’s vicinity emanating from the street lamps that lined the lane past the gates, the small lights casting its yellow glow upon the home. The lane was eerily quiet, absent were the gaggle of noisy fans that usually sat by the gates, hoping to catch a glimpse of their object of affection as he zoomed past in his sage green 1965 Radford Mini Cooper ‘S’ on his way to and from EMI Studios. Similar to other times of the day, the impossibly high gates were shut tight, but despite their height, many a young fan had succeeded in scaling their tops, landing on the other side only to be escorted back through mere moments later.
Suddenly, the phone rang within, an incessant and high-pitched shrill that shattered the silence. It was quickly followed by boisterous swearing and a loud crash as Paul stumbled gracelessly into a chair on his hunt for the source of his daytime nighttime suffering.
“Bloody fucking hell,” Paul yelped as he tripped over a lone boot that lay dejectedly in the hallway. With a growl, the irate man pulled his foot back, aiming at the fallen footwear, only to encounter the wall instead as he went in for the kick. The resulting bellow mingled with the continuing buzz of the telephone.
Stalking over, Paul snatched up the receiver, growling an extremely vicious “Hello?”
“Fucking hell, Paul,” the man on the other end yelped in pain, Paul’s fierce greeting hurting the man’s ears. “Are you planning on ripping of me bollocks and shoving them down me throat?”
Eyes squinting as he turned on a lamp, Paul exclaimed softly in surprise, “John?”
“Yeah, mate,” John replied. Clueless as usual, he followed up with a “Is this a bad time?”
Rolling his eyes, Paul responded, “I was just…” he trailed off with a sigh. “What do you want, John?” he continued, changing his mind.
“Oh, well…” John hedged. A sigh coming over the end, he continued, “It’s over,” he said without preamble. “Cyn and I, that is.”
Paul’s eyes widened as he very nearly dropped the phone, “What?” he said, shocked after he regained his grip on the receiver.
“Yeah, the marriage that was over before it even began, is now fucking officially over,” the older man responded in an offhand manner.
“Bloody hell,” Paul swore softly. “Should I be offering my condolences?” he trailed off, sounding a bit uncertain.
“No need, mate,” John replied breezily. With a derisive snort, he continued on, “I mean, I was expecting this for a long time anyway. It’s a bloody relief, I’ll tell you that. You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this bloody sham to end.”
Eyes dropping shut, Paul braced himself against the wall as he whispered softly, “Actually, I do.”
John simply ignored what Paul said, moving onto his next question. “So, mate,” he began, “I’ll need a place to say, seeing as how I’ve been kicked out of my own house.”
Paul started, a bit surprised at the request. “Uhh,” he said somewhat uncertainly, going over the appeal in his mind. He paused for a second, his face taking on a hesitant expression before grudgingly replying. “All right,” he acquiesced with a sigh. “Do you need me to pick you up from anywhere?”
“Oh no,” John replied breezily. “Although, I would appreciate it if you’d open the gate.”
An expression of surprise flitted across Paul’s face. “You mean to tell me that you’ve been outside my house all this time?” he asked incredulously.
“Yeah,” John replied. “Been sitting in my Rolls, I’m on the phone I had installed a few years back.”
Shaking his head, Paul answered, “You know, you could’ve told me so earlier, and I would’ve let you in.”
“Right you are, Paulie,” John replied somewhat casually. “Always thinking, aren’t you, mate?” he continued with a slight sarcastic bite.
Sighing, Paul answered, “I’ll be right out,” shaking his head as he quickly lowered the receiver.
Paul quickly went into his room and wrapped himself in a robe as he slipped his feet into a pair of sandals. He quickly exited his chamber and descended the stairs, turning on the downstairs lights as he walked towards the front door. Not seeing his chauffeur around, and disinclined to awaken him so late, Paul quickly ambled towards the gate and opened it himself, moving back slowly as the psychedelically painted Rolls Royce drove past. Shaking his head, Paul followed slowly once he had shut the gate, coming up to the car just as the driver’s side door swung open.
“Ta, mate,” John said as he stepped from the car. “You don’t know how much we both appreciate this.”
Squinting his eyes in the dark, trying to make out any other possible figures, Paul asked curiously, “We both?”
”Yeah, Yoko and I,” John replied.
As soon as her name was uttered, the passenger side door opened with a squeak, revealing the diminutive Japanese woman, her unsmiling face obscured by the oft-parted heavy black hair.
A slightly disgusted look quickly darted across Paul’s face, but it was soon masked by one of indifference. He gave Yoko a short nod of acknowledgement before turning his back on the couple, motioning to them with his hand to follow him into the house. Once they were all inside, Paul quickly shut the front door, his trembling hand lingering on the latch before turning around, fighting to retain his composure.
“Well,” he began in a brisk tone. Gesturing towards the far side of the house he continued on, “The guest room is down here on the first floor, so, you two should be all right in there. If you need anything, just let me know.” With a sigh, Paul turned away, as if to walk up the stairs to his own room.
“Ta, Paul,” John replied, as he and Yoko started to make their way towards the room.
Despite his better judgment, Paul whirled back around. “John,” he called after the older man’s retreating back. “Could I talk to you for a second?”
With a shrug to Yoko, who fixed Paul with a distrustful stare, John motioned to her to go ahead without him before turning to face his mate, hands stuffed into his trousers as he affected a casual stance. “You wanted something?” John asked, a bored look on his face, eyes unreadable behind their glasses.
With a sigh, Paul leaned against the banister, “I was just wondering what exactly happened,” he said softly.
Shrugging, John looked down at the floor, the colourful carpet holding his interest. “Cyn came home from her trip with Magic Alex and Jenny and found Yoko and I in the living room.” With a smirk, he looked up, fixing Paul with a look, “Cynthia found Yoko sitting around in one of her, that is, one of Cyn’s dressing gowns. Needless to say, she didn’t take it very well.”
“Oh,” Paul replied faintly, closing his eyes briefly at the image.
Neither spoke for a few seconds, and with another shrug, John started to walk away, but before he got far, Paul called him back, his voice shaking slightly.
“John,” he said in a hoarse whisper, his eyes downcast. “Is this the end?”
Feigning ignorance, John fixed the younger man with a scathing stare, “What have I just told you?” he asked in an irritated voice. “Cynthia and I are over.”
Swallowing, Paul looked up, “Not you and Cyn…” he trailed off softly.
His expression unreadable, John stared hard at Paul. “I’m with Yoko now,” he said shortly, his voice impassive.
With a slight nod, Paul squared his shoulders, before looking into John’s eyes, his own gaze now cold. “Goodnight, John,” he replied, his voice devoid of emotion as he turned his back and ascended the stairs.
As soon as the younger man was out of sight, John’s shoulders slumped miserably, a flash of pain flickering across his face as he simply stood rooted to the spot. Minutes passed before John moved, his feet taking him to the base of the stairs. An uncertain look on his face, John grabbed hold of the banister, his grip painfully tight as he placed one foot on the first step, the desire to go upstairs plain on his face.
Just as John was about to take a second step, a faint, lightly accented voice was heard from the guestroom.
“Are you coming, John?” Yoko asked, causing John to drop his hand from the banister as if it burned him.
Closing his eyes, he struggled to get his emotions under control before answering, “I’ll be right there, Yoko,” and with a last look towards the stairs, John walked away.
From the second storey, Paul looked down at John’s retreating back as he stood at the railing, partially hidden in the darkness. Deathly pale and with a look of anguish etched into his features, Paul quickly turned away and walked into his room, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Abbey Road was eerily quiet that sunny afternoon, quite a rarity for the usually busy studios. On any given day the distinguished white building was bustling with frenetic activity, people of all shapes and professions running out of offices, phones ringing off the hooks, and discordant melodies squeezing through the shut studio doors. Even the ever-present Apple Scruffs were glaringly absent; the colourfully garbed female fans having abandoned their post, not one of them standing outside on the sidewalk in front of Abbey Road, passing out flowers and hoping for a glimpse, possibly a word from those whom they worshipped.
Dressed in his usual brown fur overcoat, John wandered aimlessly through the building, bespectacled eyes peering into studios and offices, only to find them empty, or close to it. For the first time in over a year, he was alone, the Japanese woman who was forever at his side glaringly absent. Puzzled, John climbed the stairs to the upstairs offices, encountering two to three people on the way, and even fewer when he reached his destination. A confused look on his face, John suddenly bumped into Neil Aspinall, the younger man rushing towards the stairs with a preoccupied look on his face, manila folders of varying thicknesses held under one arm.
“Neil! Neil!” John called out as the other man brushed past him, exasperation evident in his voice.
Stopping in his tracks, Neil quickly turned around, a brief smile alighting upon his features when he caught sight of John.
“Hello, John,” the young man greeted quickly, as he turned back around, striding towards the stairs once again.
Perplexed look on his face, John called out again. “Neil, wait!” he cried as he jogged towards the busy man, placing a hand on Neil’s arm in an attempt to get his attention for a moment. “Wait a second will you,” John complained. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
“Oh, just some CID bullshit,” Neil groused, brandishing the stack of folders in his hand. “I was at home looking through some papers, when I got a call from Pattie saying that that bloody Sergeant Pilcher just busted in with a team of men, a pack of dogs, and a search warrant.” With a harried sigh, Neil ran a hand through his swept back hair. “They found some 120 joints and have now taken both George and Pattie in for marijuana possession.” Taking a step away from John, Neil turned away, “So, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get going.”
“Fucking hell,” John sighed, with a roll of his eyes. As Neil was about to descend the stairs, John called out as he looking around the 2nd floor, John turned back to Neil, asking quickly, “Where is everyone then? Most of the office staff seems to have disappeared and Paul and Ringo have gone missing.”
“Oh, well, you know the ‘top notch’ staff we have around here” Neil replied sarcastically with a roll of his eyes. “I don’t know where Ringo is, but Paul is down at the Marylebone Registry Office.”
John raised his eyebrows, “For what exactly?” he asked, puzzled.
Going down the stairs, Neil threw his last words over his shoulder, “To get married, you git!”
Shock coloured his features, as the words registered in his mind. John quickly moved towards an unoccupied desk and sat heavily down in the soft leather seat, his eyes staring ahead of him.
“Bloody hell,” John whispered to himself, a shaky hand running over his face as he slumped forward, elbows resting on the desk before he buried his face in his upturned hands.
His shoulders shaking slightly, John remained in that position for what seemed like hours, however, it had been only minutes. Slowly, he raised his head, a lost look on his face as he looked around the empty office. Looking down at the desk he was sitting at, John spied a phone, one with a variety of buttons and lights, each button corresponding to a different line. John inched the contraption closer to him, and upon lifting the receiver, he started down at the phone in fearful awe, totally unsure as to how work the damned thing. For a few minutes he simply pressed the buttons and turned odd looking knobs, until finally he found an open line.
With an expression of accomplishment on his face, John quickly dialed a phone number, sitting back as it started to ring. Biting his lower lip, John listened to the steady sound on the other end, waiting for the other person to answer.
“Hello?” a feminine voice with an American accent answered.
With a sour look on his face, John barked out, “Is Paul in?”
“Yes, just hold on a minute,” the woman on the other end replied politely. “May I please know whose calling?”
“Just give him the bloody phone, will you?” John snapped, closing his eyes in annoyance as he rubbed his temples.
John could hear the woman calling Paul to the phone, frowning when he heard the younger man’s answering question.
“Who is it, Linda?” Paul asked his voice a bit distant.
Her voice slightly muffled, Linda replied, “Not sure, but he was a bit rude. I think it was John.”
A couple of seconds later, John heard the phone exchange hands, followed by a decidedly masculine voice answering, “Hello?”
Not bothering with a greeting, John launched in, his voice hostile. “So, I hear you got married today.”
Sighing, Paul replied, “I did. Linda and I got married earlier this morning.”
“Isn’t that fantastic?” John commented icily, his eyes narrowing as he sat up straight. “I suppose you’re bloody pleased with yourself.”
“If you mean, am I happy?” Paul asked sounding a bit confused, “Then yes, I am.”
“How lovely,” the older man spat, “Did you enjoy just fucking getting married without even telling anyone?”
Paul’s voice grew cold on the other end, “I wasn’t aware that I was supposed to share it with the bloody world, and for your information, George and Ringo knew. Maybe if you paid attention to the rest of us once in a bloody while you would have known, too.”
“Oh fuck off, Paul,” John shouted, a vein pulsing in his forehead as his skin flushed angrily.
“What’s this all about anyway?” Paul snapped. “I don’t understand why you’re calling me up suddenly; after god knows how long; only to fucking complain about my getting married. Was I supposed to ask for your fucking permission?”
Standing up, John started to pace, the phone’s long extension chord allowing him to traverse the entire room. “No, what this is about is you getting married to some fucking American cunt!”
Paul’s voice turned venomous. “Don’t you fucking talk about Linda that way again, Lennon. Or I swear to god I’ll…”
“Or you’ll what, Paul?” John retorted as he stopped in front of the desk, his hands shaking slightly.
A short laugh suddenly erupted from the line, as if realization had suddenly set in. “Oh my fucking god,” Paul muttered under his breath, disbelievingly. “I can’t believe it,” the younger man said with awe. “You’re fucking jealous.”
John nearly dropped the phone in shock, his mouth falling open as he attempted to shoot off an angry retort to deny the accusation, but, unfortunately, words failed him. Paul, however, not knowing John’s desire to speak, continued.
“You have no right to be jealous, John. No fucking right,” Paul said with a deathly calm voice. “You lost that right a long time ago. I will not have you ruining the best day of my life with your childish behaviour.”
John winced at the words, the sentence, “The best day of my life,” echoing in his head.
His voice softer now, but still dripping with venom, Paul continued, “Good bye, John.” And with a low click, he disconnected the call.
John let the receiver fall, not even bothering to hang it up properly as he staggered towards the large window across the room. His body trembling, John leaned towards the window, his palms flat on the clean glass, as he stared, his blank gaze trained on the street below.
Wild winds blew across the Scottish countryside, sharp gusts with the scent of wildflowers sweeping the moor, and disrupting the lives of the multitude of plant and animal life. The sky was a stormy gray, a deep purplish-black intermittently splashed by a deep red, giving rise to the suspicion that the sun lay hidden somewhere in the background. Atop a gently rolling hill sat a quaint little farmhouse, the bright green shutters closed tight, protecting the inhabitants of the home from the fierce winds that continued to rage outside.
Paul however was unawares, holed up as he was inside the darkened farmhouse, sitting on the edge of a bed, an overflowing ashtray sitting on the floor beside his feet. Stray butts and ash lay carelessly on the side, ground into the surrounding carpet in some places, the flecks of grayish ash clinging to the bottoms of Paul’s feet.
Head in hands, Paul sat hunched over, unwashed hair spilling through his fingers and obscuring his face. How long he sat there in the dark was by now unknown to him, the days of his self-imposed solitude bleeding into each other. Paul rubbed a tired hand over his face, the smooth skin of his hand encountering the not yet accustomed roughness, heavy stubble covering the lower part of his face.
With a groan, Paul finally rose, moving somewhat unsteadily as he began to make his way across the room, one misguided step kicking the ashtray over causing its contents to spill across the carpet. Staggering across the floor, Paul winced slightly once his feet left the warmth of the rug, only to encounter cold tiles. As he slightly rubbed his feet together to generate a small degree of warmth, Paul soon reached his destination, the small antique phone that rested on a low table in the corner of his bedroom. With an almost reverent manner, Paul lifted the receiver, gauging its weight in his hand as he gazed upon the sleek black object, a look of uncertainty moving across his face. The sound of the dial tone was deafening in the quiet house, the incessant pitch never-ending. With blood shot eyes, Paul simply stared down at the object, as if expecting it to hold the answers to his problems.
Sighing, Paul hung up the phone and moved towards the bed, flinging himself upon the soft mattress as he stared up at the ceiling. Groaning, Paul turned on his side as he reached towards the nightstand, seeking a pack of cigarettes but only finding a bottle of scotch, a small amount of amber liquid splashing against the clear glass. Grabbing the bottle by the neck, he sat up as he took a long draught, the warm liquor burning a path down his throat. Tossing the empty bottle aside, Paul leaned back again, his head resting on his folded arms. Closing his eyes, Paul let out another sigh, his body shaking slightly from barely repressed emotion.
Slowly sitting up, Paul stared across the room, his gaze alighting upon the phone, silently debating its existence. With a shaky sigh, the harried man stood up, and with purposeful strides, he advanced on the phone, lifting the receiver in his hand as he dialed a no longer familiar number, cradling the receiver by his ear as it started to ring.
“Hello?” a voice answered within seconds.
Closing his eyes in pain, Paul started to breathe heavily, an anxious flutter moving through his body. He parted his lips to speak, but no words would come, his mouth hanging open ineffectually.
“Hello?” the voice queried again, that slightly nasal voice starting to sound annoyed.
Clearing his throat, Paul tried again, but once again the words wouldn’t come.
“What the fuck?” the voice on the other end swore angrily. “Who the hell is this?” After a minute or two of silence on both ends, the man over the line said softy, “Paul?”
Startled, Paul’s grip on the receiver tightened, his shoulders shaking slightly as he remained mute. Words flew through his mind, things he wanted to say, needed to say, but voicing them was harder than he ever imagined.
“I know it’s you, Paul,” John continued in an irritated voice. “Now, are you going to bloody say something or not?”
Closing his eyes, Paul finally found his voice, “I don’t know what to say,” he whispered.
“Then why do you keep fucking calling?” John countered fiercely, frustration inherent in his voice.
“I don’t know!” Paul yelled back, upset. “I just don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
“Well, you had better figure it out, mate,” John shot back, callously, “Because this just has to fucking stop.”
His eyes now open; Paul stared at the wall in front of him, an odd sense of calm settling over him.
“You’re right, John,” Paul replied unemotionally. “This has to stop. All of it.” With a sharp laugh, Paul continued. “You had the right idea, wanting a divorce from the group like you got from Cynthia.”
Surprised, John said, “Well…” he began with slight hesitation. “Good to see that you’ve finally accepted it.”
“Oh, I have,” Paul replied, his steely gaze fixed upon an insignificant point on the wall. “After all,” he continued with a harsh laugh. “I obviously don’t need any of you lot anymore, especially you John. I mean, after being unceremoniously being kicked to the bloody curb, it’s about time I moved on. Wouldn’t you agree, Lennon?”
Silence fell upon the two after Paul spoke, a grim smile on the younger man’s face as he waited for his former partner to speak. When John didn’t, Paul barked out another unpleasant laugh.
“Hmm,” Paul spat out, “I do believe that John Lennon is speechless.” With a snort he continued, “This is a first.” His cold bravado starting to fade, Paul hurried along, “Well, John. It was nice chatting with you,” he said bitterly. “Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”
Not waiting for the other man to respond, Paul quickly hung up, his hands shaking as he dropped the receiver into its cradle. Covering his face, Paul sank to the floor, his body trembling violently as he curled into a ball on the cold floor, dry sobs wracking his body.
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