I knew this was going to be one of those mornings where it’s best to just stay under the blankets. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been able to tell when something’s about to go deadly wrong. The story should not have been like this. Stories of friends, lovers, fame and fortune don’t usually end this way… not publicly, at least. Well, with maybe the exception of James Dean… How old was he? Twenty-one? I’m only twenty-four. Well, at least I’m older than Dean… Still, this is not good… It’s not good at all!

I got out of bed with a bad hangover. It hadn’t been a good night. Jane and I got into a fight, I had a whole lock of hair cut off by some bloody maniac, I misplaced the car keys, Martha soiled a towel in the bathroom and my accountant informed me my assets were frozen due to a legal battle over the paternity of some kid I wasn’t even sure was mine. This was so ridiculous: I was a Beatle, and I was broke? Who had even heard of such a thing? It seemed logical to end the day with a bottle of vodka, but I didn’t contemplate the outcome. Bad, bad hangover… And I had to be at the studio in … ten minutes? You had to be shitting me!! Screw them! I’d just bathe. I’m the clean machine!

The bath didn’t do much good, but at least I no longer reeked of alcohol and sweat. I drank half a bottle of beer to get my head back into its joints. It helped a little. Then, there was still the issue of my car keys. I had left the car at the studio a week before because I had misplaced the keys back home. Oh well… I looked out the window. It was a bright, sunny day. I could walk the distance. The studio wasn’t that far anyway, I’d easily make it in ten minutes.

I sort of fancied taking the dog out for a stroll around the park. Yeah, why not? The lads could wait. It’s not like John was that punctual himself, anyway, so I guess I thought he could handle a delay on my part. Hell, we’re all late from time to time. Okay, okay, I was pushing it, it was true. But I enjoyed the stroll with Martha anyway. It was a fine day. I needed to rest my head. The day before had been bloody hell, so it was only fair for me to take the break I was taking. Sod the world!!

I went back home, let Martha in and grunted when I knew I could no longer avoid going over to the studio. We had agreed to meet two o’clock… It was coming up half past five. Okay, enough was enough. One thing was to be a little bit late, the other was to flat out leave them all standing like morons. So, okay, I braced myself for the scolding, and headed to the studio.

As I walked past the girls, the gate birds that always stand vigil, I saw Marcee, the reception desk girl, smile at me. “They are sooo cross…” she said with a wince.

“Good afternoon to you too, Marz.” I smiled back and took the pen from the desk to sign my entry. “Bloody hell, I don’t even know the date!!”

“November 8^th, Paul… The time? Quarter to six, pm…” She chuckled as I signed my name on the pad. “John’s gonna have your liver.”

“Not the first and not the last time, I’m afraid.” I smiled, trying my best to keep my humour. I was not going to have this day ruined as well. I put the pen down and tried to appear as charming as I could be. I inhaled deeply and smiled at her as I walked away. “You smell good today Marz.”

I began to get butterflies as I approached the inner door to studio number two. The typical feeling a teenage boy gets when he’s been out all night and hasn’t called home. He knows his dad and his brother will have been up all night, sweating bullets and not knowing where to begin to look for the third member of the family… and he knows his dad is taking off his belt and shining the buckle with a tissue the moment he hears the keys rattling at the door. It was that sort of feeling. John could be worse than my father… except for the belt part. John would resort to the old reliable fist if things got really ugly. I hoped they wouldn’t.

I pushed past the door after taking a deep breath and was met with six very sour faces.

“Hello, lads.” I spoke with a smile. I knew I was being cheeky… I should have just sat down and got on with the work instead of being polite… or cheeky….

“Well?” John broke the silence that came after my greeting. “We can’t wait, Paul. What was it this time?”

I swallowed hard and looked at him. “Bad ‘angover and a dog bursting for a leak.”

He looked at me and smiled. I didn’t like it. It wasn’t one of his “real” smiles. I knew by now that John Lennon had three smiles. One was the “real” smile, where he was like an open window and was easily recognizable as the most kind-hearted bloke the world had ever known. One was his “gotcha” smile -- that one took me a while to pin down, but I eventually got the hang of it. It was the one he always used to hide his real emotions. I had a couple of those myself. They always worked wonders for me. But John was a bit more transparent, I’m afraid. His “gotcha” smile became popular as the John-The-Witty smile that was plastered on posters, album covers and magazines. Most people who saw him like that thought that that was his real smile, the poor bastards.  Then, there was his “murderer” smile… the one I was getting at that precise moment. Always helped him to control himself… It was a bit similar to his “gotcha” smile, except that it was easy to tell that nothing but sarcasm and anger hid behind it. The key? His eyes changed colour. John’s eyes were, in essence, light brown. But when he was angry, they’d spark a mix of hazel and green, and his pupils would go so tiny they’d almost disappear. And from the other side of his glasses, that particular trait was enlarged to the point of it looking a tad scary. Yep… I was beginning to feel scared.

“Well, that’s fine then, isn’t it? It’s not like you wasted yer fuckin’ time, or anything…”

John’s sarcasm. Gulp. “Okay, John, I was late, but I feel like bloody shite at press time, so leave off a bit and let’s get to work, eh?”

God, I always put my foot in my mouth at the best of times! Of all the times I should have remained quiet, I had to choose this one to get all sassy. That was all it took. I gulped even harder as John’s pupils literally disappeared. I turned my back on John and went down the long flight of stairs into the studio, where I sat behind the piano. From below I saw how John was shouting at our manager Brian. Yeah, just like John. Always blew steam in the wrong direction. I was only a flight of steps away, why didn’t he just come down and tell me what he thought to my face?

Ringo joined me in silence, and sat on the floor, smoking a cigarette.  We remained silent, staring up at the sound booth a few feet above us, until he turned to look at me. “Bad hangover, was it?”

“Yep.” I nodded, and looked back at the piano. “Although if he’s really upset about work not being done, I can’t understand why he’s up there being pissy and I’m down here waiting to play.”

“You took it a bit far, lad.” Ringo stood up. “Have you checked your watch?”

“Nope, left it with my car keys, I’m afraid.”  I plinked randomly at the piano. “Lost ‘em… somewhere around ‘ere, I think…”

“Well, you’d better fuckin’ get off yer folded arse and look fer them!” John shouted from the speaker. “Looks like you bloody need the fuckin’ watch!!”

“Ooops, didn’t know the speaker was on!” I giggled and shrugged. I knew I was pushing it, although I will never know what made me get so bratty.

That was all it took. John and George rampaged down the stairs, reminding me of the holiday where I had taken Jane to see the angry bulls in Pamplona. George had his jaw set and John looked short of puffing steam out his ears and nostrils. As he reached me, he shook a finger to my face. “This is one time too many, McCartney!” he raged, his face red. “Last month we nearly got stuck in fuckin’ San Francisco because you were having breakfast! Last week, you missed out on a press conference, and only two days ago you left us standing here like idiots because you fuckin’ lost track of time! And now this??? We’ll never get this bloody fuckin’ record done, and all because Prince Paul’s not fuckin’ capable of being a shaggin’ grown up!”

“Oh, look who’s being a grown up now.”  I laughed, still staring at the piano. “We can still get the shit, done, mate, you’re being a dick.”

“That’s not the point, Paul!” George huffed angrily from the back. “You just keep doing this over and over! It’s like you don’t give a shit any more!!”

Okay, this was serious. George was usually very mellow; now, here he was, also bawling out like a mutt in heat.  I must have done something really, really bad.

“Okay,” I nodded. “Fine, I fucked up, I’m sorry.” I huffed and stood up. “Now can we get some bloody songs down, or should I just go home???”

Everyone sighed. John sat on his corner, still snorting and grunting like an angry piggy. Ringo looked glum and saddened, George was, as always, visibly tired. George Martin and Brian were flustered, to say the least, but apparently, we’d finally get into the groove and lay some tracks down. About time, too!! We had gone through similar stuff before. We always ended up having to concentrate on our work instead of our personal issues. Studio time was expensive, and if I had already managed to make poor Brian spend a good three hundred pounds in waiting for me, I didn’t see the point in just sitting there like a quartet of Mona Lisas and making him spend even more. So we just put everything we had into it. I had a couple of good ones. 

It seemed for a while there that John was forgetting his anger spout and actually took time to listen to my songs. “Here, There and Everywhere” was nice and mellow, and “Good Day Sunshine” was my usual gooey, cloying little happy-go-lucky Beatle tune. John would detest it… but he knew people would love every bit of it, commercial and cute as it may have been.  We got those down in two takes each. Easy as pie. George showed us something called “I Want To Tell You” and we all agreed to record that the next day.

It already was the next day…

Between the bickering, the recording and re-recording of the material, a good nine hours had gone by. It was now 3:30 am, Wednesday morning. Stupid bloody Tuesday had almost been ruined, but I didn’t let it, thank the maker! Only one more song, I knew… I had fallen asleep on the couch, but now I was stirring to the sound of a very acid sounding guitar.  John wanted to show it off. It was called “She Said, She Said.” Tantalizing, like most of John’s songs. Brilliance at its best! God, I could not wait to get my hands on that.

Then it all began.

George and John turned their backs on me, and began to work on it. Ringo joined in… And I was left there, standing like a dummy.

“Hey, I can’t hear all the way up here!” I laughed, taking it as a joke. They all turned to look at me. I didn’t like their looks. “What?”

“This one’s done, Paul.”  John smiled his “gotcha” smile. “Nothing you can add to it. “

“Well, I didn’t see you mind George adding his input… and Ringo.” I frowned.

“Well, mate, that’s because they were here when we agreed to meet!” He smiled harder and harder, almost finding pleasure in emotionally kicking my behind. “The song is done! We’re just cleaning it up!”

I turned to look at George. “Well, can I hear it?? I suppose I’m still Beatle enough for you lot to listen to my opinion, AT LEAST!!”

I knew at that moment that I was getting angry. And I knew this because I could see the look of delight in John’s face.

“Well, hear it then, Paul, but don’t think for a minute your opinion will count.” George turned back to his guitar. “If you’re so keen on doing things and being heard, put a little effort into it, will you?”

This was so unfair… I loved John’s work, and he knew it! They all did! It was “punish Paul” time, it seemed. I didn’t want it, I didn’t need it.

I turned to look at Ringo, hoping maybe he would take my side, but as always, he remained aloof to the situation, turning away and pretending to tune his snare drum.

“Okay, I see…” I nodded, putting my hands on my hips. “I’m being given the boot, am I? You’re all in it, eh?”

“Hey man…” John turned, as cheekily and calmly as I had done only a few hours earlier. “We can still do it without you.”

That hurt deep. I knew he wasn’t referring to kicking me out of the band. He knew he would ever do that. I guess I knew it too. But I was so deeply struck by it, that it all seemed that way to me. Beatle mutiny against Paul! Let’s all kill Paul!! Let’s all rip Paul apart! Paul, Paul, Paul! What was I, blindfolded? Deep down I knew I had to stop being such a selfish baby and take my medicine like a man, but at that moment I was too angered by whim to even begin to use reason.

“Fuck you all, then,” I bickered angrily. “I’m going home. When you decide to work as a team, you fuckin’ let me know…”

“You should practice what you preach little more often, Macca!!” I heard John

shouting from the studio as I exited out the back door. Hang on… the back door? The last time I had been in the studio, I had gone to the men’s room…I’d had my keys in my hand, didn’t I? Yes!! I put them down on the soap dish and took off my watch to wash my hands!! If I had any luck, I’d still find them there. I pushed past the door, and saw them sitting like no one’s business. It seemed no one ever used those loos with the clear exception of yours truly.

I angrily snatched them from their peaceful sitting place and walked out of the studio through the back. Okay, now I’d take my car! The streets were clear, the sky was beginning to thunder and I felt just as tempestuous as the weather. Jane was angry at me, I’d have no one to hear me out except for an English sheep dog who only cared about rubber balls and doggy treats. I’d go for a spin.

I started the engine and was slightly pleased at the sight of a full tank. I screeched off, deliberately making noise with the rubber of the tires, and sped down the empty street. No one would be out at this hour of the morning. Especially not now, when it had begun to rain. James Paul McCartney, the king of the roads!!

I raced up and down the road like an angry little baby. I knew I was being just a baby. No one had to tell me. And knowing that I was the one who had it all wrong made me even angrier. I hated being wrong!! The rain got more and more intense, and I finally decided to speed out of Abbey Road into any other place that wasn’t just a quiet empty street.

I didn’t want to go home just yet. I drove for nearly an hour, not really paying attention to the direction I was taking. I just knew I wanted to burn some more rubber. And over at Charing Cross was a long stretch of road I had always fancied as a sprint race course. I revved and revved the engine, feeling exactly like James Dean in “Rebel Without a Cause,” because that’s exactly what I was. I had no reason to be so flustered. The lads were right. And yet, I was furious. I waited for the light to go green to release all my anger at the speed of sound. This was an Aston Martin! James Bond used this car! It would hold… I didn’t know just how similar to James Dean I’d end up being.

Green light… GO!! I took the foot off the break and felt the speed push my stomach all the way up my brain in a rush the likes I had never felt before. This was better than sex! Or was it? Maybe if I could just get some head while I drove at that speed… GOD, YES!! The thought alone almost gave me a hard-on. And suddenly, there she was, standing in the rain, her clothes transparent from the water drenched fabric, unashamedly showing some fantastic curves, the dark hair reaching below her shoulders and her bare legs dripping down like an angel’s tears sliding down the perfect whiteness of a marble statue. It all seemed to be slow motion. She parted her lips, like a gasp. I could not take my eyes of her, this banshee of beauty just standing under the rain…

The light turned red at the crossing where she stood. I turned my head to find I was about to collide head on with a large van. It all continued to move in slow motion, as I swivelled to avoid killing an innocent person because of my error. Instead, a lamppost took the blame. I felt my body slump forward and my face hit the steering wheel. I don’t remember any pain, but I do remember swallowing teeth, lots of them. A quick flash of light flooded my surroundings, and suddenly, I was back at the studio. How did I ever..? When did I get back?

John and George were still fiddling around the song, adding ideas. I was confused. I had no idea what had happened. Had I taken some of John’s dreaded Lysergic? You’d think I’d remember something like that… No, I wasn’t ready for acid… so what the hell was going on?

George Martin suddenly rushed downstairs, looking no longer angered, but desperately sad. “LADS!! LADS!!! PAUL!! THE CAR!!!” he was shouting.

This didn’t make any sense.

George, John and Ringo immediately dropped what they were doing and rushed up the stairs, out of the sound booth and out the main door of the studio. There, stood a policeman, explaining to them that the plates from the car they had seen parked on the front driveway of the studio a day earlier had been found up at Charing Cross in the midst of a blazing inferno. “We just want to know if the car plates are at all familiar to you, or what we believe are the remains of an Aston Martin….”

“Inside the car!!” John shouted. “Was there someone inside the car?”

“Yes, sir.” The bobby replied. “There’s a body behind the steering wheel… I’m afraid it’s been rendered unrecognisable. Badly calcinated and deformed. Dead… I’m sorry…”

“Oh, no…” George leaned against the door frame and cried.

John fell to his knees and after holding a long sob in the back of his chest, shouted a long, painful squeal that sounded like my name being uttered by a wounded, dying animal. Ringo simply slid to the floor and wept next to George.

“NO!!! NO!! I’m not dead!!” I began shouting. “I’m right here, JOHN!!!!! JOHN!! GEORGE!! PLEASE!!!” I wanted to cry, but I was stuck in between life and death. The light, the beauty goddess… the lamppost… I WAS dead!! “NOO!” I shouted. “GOD, NO! PLEASE!! NOOO!! JOHN, I’M NOT DEAD!! I’M NOT DEAD!!!!  I’M NOT DEAD!!!!

I’M NOT DEAD!!! I’M NOT DEAD!!!!!!”

“Paul, fer god’s sake!!”

I sat up, as if touched by an electric cattle prod. I was sweating, I was panting, I was crying… I was… dreaming? I had fallen asleep in the studio?

“John?” I held him by the shoulders. “I’m not dead!!”

“You’re damn right, you’re not dead, but you’ll wish to be if you don’t help us out, mate…” He stood up.

“Had a bad dream, eh, Paul?” Ringo smiled kindly.

I ran a hand through my hair and looked around. Everything was still in place. My car keys were still missing.

“Bloody hell…” I still panted. “It was so… real…”

“This is real.” George whacked me on the arm. “You scared us all to death with your shouting, you bastard. Now get off that shaggin’ couch and come over here to work!!”

I sighed and stood up. John was playing “She Said, She Said” on his guitar. I ran to him and hugged him from behind. “I love you, man!!”

“What the?  Paul, get off!” John pushed me. “I’m still not too happy with you, mate!!”

“I don’t care!! You’re right! I’m a turd!! I won’t be late again, I promise!!”

They all looked at me like I had lost one of my hinges. “You sure you’re okay?” George asked, half sneering.

“Like Ebeneze-bloody-Scrooge, mate, never better!!!” I laughed and hugged George and Ringo simultaneously. “Go on!! Let’s hear the song!!”

“We was actually thinking of calling the night.” John yawned and put his guitar down. “We’re knackered… care if we crash at your pad, Macca?”

“PLEASE!!” I  laughed. “Mi casa es su casa!!”

“Oh, God, he’s speaking in Spanish again...” John muttered. “He’s not well…”

“I’m better than well, Johnny!” I laughed.

“Okay,” George said with a grin as he put his jacket on. “Let’s go.”

“Hang on, Paul! I found your keys and your watch!” Ringo reached into his pocket and handed them to me. “They were in the men’s loo at the back.  Do we go by car, then?”

Vanessa Jayne Brand was born in 1977, of a British father and a Mexican mother. She has been writing for as long as she can humanly remember, dictating things to her mum for her to write. She was raised (mostly) in London, and currently resides in Mexico. Aside from Beatles fanfics, she is in the process of working on a novel based in Ancient Egypt, called The Widow of Wasset. She has been a Beatles Nut as long as she can remember, and she currently holds a non-paying job as an assistant for the daily radio Beatles show The Beatles Club, in Mexico City.

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