For Jason, who inspired this story and who will always have a place in my heart...

********************

The young man woke in a light green room, all alone. He raised himself on his elbows and peered about; he couldn't see much without the hated glasses he refused stubbornly to wear. God, how he wished he had them now! Where the hell was he?

"Bloody fuckin' hell," he muttered, rubbing the back of his head with one hand. He began fishing for his cigarettes and realized that he was no longer wearing his own clothes.

"What the fuck is goin' on?" he demanded of the empty room, then he stopped dead, a look of shock upon his handsome face.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?" he shouted, and he was suddenly very frightened, too frightened even to be angry. He could barely hear his own voice; it sounded very faint and far away. He saw a metal pitcher of water on a table beside him. He threw it to the floor; no sound.  Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he winced again at the pain in his head. Something pulled gently at his arm, and he looked at it, astonished to see an intravenous tube protruding from a bandage on his forearm. So, this was a hospital, then. He ripped the needle out, stood up, and stalked to the door. Putting his head out into the hallway, he shouted once more, "WHAT THE FUCKIN' HELL IS GOIN' ON? WHAT'M I DOIN' HERE?"

He did not really hear this either, but everybody else did, and a nurse and two orderlies came running down the hall towards him.  Startled, he backed into the room and the orderlies and nurse came in, presumably shouting excitedly at him.

They looked agitated, to be sure, and their mouths were moving, but no sound was coming out.

The young man's light brown eyes were wild with terror, but he drew himself up and demanded again, his voice shaking ever so slightly, to know just "what the fuckin' hell is goin' on here, anyroad?"

More mouth-moving, no sound.

"Look," said the young man in an exasperated voice, "Whatever you're sayin', I can't fuckin' hear you. Christ on a crutch! I can't even really fuckin' hear meself! " His bravado dissolved, and his face crumpled. He looked very young and very frightened. "Jesus," he said softly, and let himself be put back to bed, unresisting. He closed his eyes and someone touched his hand. He looked at the nurse; it had been she who had touched him. She handed him a piece of paper.

What is your name? was written upon it.

"It's John," he said wearily. "John Lennon." The nurse smiled kindly; she was really pretty. Under other circumstances, he would have been trying to act cool, doing outrageous or funny things to get her attention. But not today. John was far too frightened and far too tired to even think about the girl's appearance. Right now all that he saw was the gentle concern for him that was plain upon her face. Knowing that someone actually cared made him feel a little better. The nurse wrote something else, handed it to him, and waited for him to read it.

What do you remember last, before you woke up here?

"I dunno...I was with someone, a girl, dunno her name--yeah, her boyfriend saw us together and started up with me. I tried to explain that I didn't know she was spoken for, but he wouldn't listen. I had to defend meself, didn't I? There was a fight; I remember he was bleedin'--then he got in a lucky punch an' I lost me balance. I think the bastard kicked me in me fuckin' head--anyroad, it all went black an' I woke up here-- an' I can't hear a fuckin' thing, I can't hardly even hear me own voice!" That voice was rising; he was realizing the seriousness of the whole situation. "That won't do--I'm a fuckin' musician, for Chrissakes--DO summat about this, cantcha?"

He watched impatiently as she wrote; he was getting awfully tired of this, not to mention royally pissed. He snatched the paper from her hand.

John shot her a withering look. "I should certainly fuckin' hope so," he replied, "I'm a musician. If I can't hear, I might as well be dead," he added miserably."  And me fuckin' noggin hurts like bleedin' hell."

Writing again--I'll get you something for the pain.

He nodded and closed his eyes. Maybe this was all a horrible dream. After a few moments, he felt a needle prick his arm. He swore mildly and didn't open his eyes. After a while, he felt a bit better and, incredibly, he slept.

A sudden shake of his shoulder jarred John back to reality.

"Gerroff, ya--" he began, then felt his heart sink. It was real; he could not hear a thing. He squinted at the person who'd shaken him; they had prudently backed away when John had awakened in one of his usual cheery wake-up moods.

"C'mere, I'm not gonna peg ya," said John gruffly.

His friend Paul's choirboy face came into soft focus. Paul's mouth was moving, but of course, no sound penetrated the very loud and noticeable silence in John's head.

"Save yer breath, Macca," John told him, "I can't hear a bloody sound. They said they'd do what they can, but in the meanwhile, this is fuckin' brutal."

Paul nodded sympathetically, then, holding up his index finger to tell his friend that he would be right back, he stepped out into the hall.

Paul returned a moment later with a pad and pencil; he was followed by George, who was looking very worried indeed. George walked over to John's bedside and put his own hand briefly on top of John's, giving it a reassuring squeeze. His expressive chocolate brown eyes seemed to say, "You'll be alright." John nodded and George sat on a small chair beside the bed. Paul had been busily writing, and he handed the pad to John.

We've a show tomorrow noon, remember?  Are you going to be up to task, or should we look for a replacement? We can't cancel.

John read the note and threw the pad down angrily.

"I'd just like to see you try replacin' me!" he shouted. "I'm fuckin' deaf, not mute--I c'n still work; me hands aren't broke, and I c'n still sing, I just can't really hear meself. Besides," he added in a small voice, "mebbe this'll all be over by tomorrow noon."

Paul retrieved the pad and wrote:

Okay, then. I'll ring Pete and tell him the show's a go..

John nodded wearily and closed his eyes again. After a moment, there was another, tentative touch on his forearm. He opened his eyes to see George smiling sadly at him. His friend held up a note:

Don't worry. Everything is gonna be fine..

John managed a weak smile and said, "Tell that pretty blonde nurse that the pain stuff they gave me is wearin' off."

George nodded and followed Paul out into the hall; John watched them go and closed his eyes once more, his head pounding.

John checked himself out of the hospital the next morning, against the doctor's orders.

The doctor followed John as he stalked down the hall. John ignored him, putting on his shirt as he walked.

He scribbled on a piece of paper, and John snatched it and read:

You have a concussion. You can't just walk out of here..

"Yeah? Just watch me," replied John, tossing the paper on the floor. The doctor wrote again:

I won't be responsible for anything that happens to you if you leave, and thrust it at John. Taking the paper and glancing at it, John muttered, "Yerokay. Yer off th' hook." and after seeing the doctor's satisfied nod, out the door he went, startled by the complete silence despite the busyness of the street.

"Christ," he said, staring at a silently crying baby being wheeled past him, as he continued down the street towards Paul's house.

Half an hour later, the two young men were sprinting behind a slowly moving bus.

"Just like you to forget to tell me yer hadn't any zonies," complained John, gasping for breath between words, "Me head hurts like fuckin' hell and I've gotta make it worse tryin' to bunk on."

Paul figured it wasn't worth replying, since his friend couldn't hear him anyway, and quickly pulled himself up onto the lumbering vehicle, taking John's hand and helping him haul himself aboard as well.

The pair plopped into the rear seat and John fished out a cigarette and patted his pockets, looking for a match. Paul produced one and John took it without a word, dragging deeply on his smoke. Paul snapped his fingers in his friend's face to get John to give him a drag as well, then wrote,

What did the doctor say?

John blew out a cloud of smoke and snorted with disgust.

"He said he wasn't responsible for anythin' that happens to me," he replied. "I told him okay and he was made up perfect; couldn'tve been happier. He just turned right around an' let me go.He couldn'tve cared less, long as his precious arse was covered!"

Paul hesitated, then wrote:

What's it like? Can you hear yourself?

John sighed and stretched his legs out in front of him into the aisle. He faced his friend and said, "Only just. It's as if I was far away from me own ears--like I was listening to meself from underwater, or summat. It's dead weird, is what it is. I think I c'n make it with me singin', but I'm not gonna be able to hear the guitars, or even the drums. Mebbe I c'n feel the drums through the floor, I'll hafta find that out.It's not gonna be easy sailin', though. Truth to tell, with this headache and not hearin' a fuckin' thing, I feel kinda cabbaged, and this headache is right fierce, a real pounder."

Paul's deep brown eyes were full of sympathy for his friend, and he nodded slowly and looked out the window. They were coming to their stop, and Paul stood up and indicated that they should disembark. A few of the older passenger stared disapprovingly at the leather-clad duo, and several teenage girls whispered excitedly and made sheep's eyes at them.

The pair jumped from the back of the bus and headed down Mathew Street to the Cavern Club, where they were to meet George and Pete and play their regular lunchtime session.

John opened the door, and the heat blasted out over them.  They descended the eighteen steps to the club and immediately saw that George and Pete were already here, setting up for their session.  John swore under his breath; the club was crowded with people, yet it was entirely silent, making him feel as if he were watching everything on the telly with the sound turned off. The two young men passed the loos on their left, dodging patrons as they proceeded to the back of the room, where the stage was located. The lighting was none too bright, except for the stage area, which was lit by floodlights. They reached the stage and were greeted by their bandmates.

George handed John a note: Feeling all right? Are you up to this?

John nodded impatiently. "I'm fine," he replied, "Forget about that an' let's get started before Bob starts gettin' nervous an' starts up with us.  Which songs?"

Paul wrote a list:

KANSAS CITY

RED SAILS IN THE SUNSET

SOME OTHER GUY

ASK ME WHY

it read. At the bottom, he'd added,

John snatched the paper out of Paul's hand, holding it close enough to be able to read it, and shoved it into his pocket for future reference. They were ready now, and Paul was speaking into the microphone, addressing the audience. John watched him and began to play as soon as Paul nodded to him.

It was a lucky thing that The Beatles were such a tight band; it went off without a hitch.

Even though he ran through the familiar chords and sang in all the right places, and nobody in the audience could have known that there was anything wrong, John was convinced that he had done poorly when they headed backstage after their first set.

"C'mon, then, Paul, tell me the truth, how bad was it?" he asked, afraid of the answer, yet wanting to know all the same. Paul was scribbling furiously.

John looked at him doubtfully. "Yeright, yer just sayin' that," he accused. "It was fuckin' awful, I'll bet."

Paul shook his head emphatically, writing again:

No, seriously, we did fine--YOU did fine, bob on..

Pete touched John's elbow to get his attention, and nodded affirmation. George handed him a note:

John relaxed a bit, and Paul handed him the list for their second set. He glanced at it, nodded, and headed back to the stage, calling over his shoulder, "Right, then! Let's get back t'work--I don't wanna think about anythin' else just now."

John was threading his way through the crowd to the loo during their next break, and someone grabbed his shoulder from behind. He turned, anger clouding his handsome face. His eyes flashing, he came face to face with his girlfriend, Cynthia.The pretty blonde was apparently shouting angrily at him.

"Haven't ye heard?" he asked, his voice almost invisible in his own head. It sounded to John as if he were whispering too softly to make out the words, but he was almost shouting. "I'm fuckin' deaf! I can't hear a bloody fuckin' word yer sayin', so whatever yer yammerin' on about, ye c'n just fuckin' save it, that is unless ye'v got a piece of bleedin' paper, Miss Powell!"

Cynthia appeared to be thunderstruck. She stared at him for a second, then looked to Paul, who'd come up beside them during John's tirade.

"It's true, Cyn," said Paul, handing her his notepad and pencil. "He can't hear you. He had an accident--" he paused; he couldn't tell her the real reason for the fight, so he improvised. "Some bird was comin' on to him and her fella decided to jump on him. He got a good kick to the head, and he woke up in hospital not bein' able to hear.  If you wanna ask him somethin', you'll have to write it down."

Cynthia took the pad, began to write, then dropped the pad and pencil and threw herself into John's arms, in tears.

He was taken aback, and did not react for a second, but then his arms went around her and he held her close, kissing her hair, feeling guilty for the reason he'd gotten into the fight in the first place.  He hoped Paul hadn't explained that--but no, she was obviously not angry. He glanced at Paul, who was holding up a note. Seeing John's puzzled expression, Paul moved the paper closer; of course, he couldn't read it without his glasses from so far away.

I told her the chippie was coming on to you-- otherwise, I told her the truth. the paper said. John looked relieved and nodded, still stroking Cynthia's hair. Why had he done it ,anyhow? he wondered. Didn't he have all he needed right here in his arms right now? He just couldn't seem to help himself.  He'd see a pretty face and forget to control himself. He shook off the thought.

"Ssshhh, hush, girl. S'okay, I'll be fine. This isn't gonna be permanent," he said into her hair, hoping with all his heart that what he was saying was true.

Later that night, John was lying with Cynthia in her bed. He tried to keep his voice low, so that he would not wake her mother, who was sleeping in the other room. She had the bedside lamp on with a towel over the shade so the light was not noticeable from the hallway. She handed John a note, and he peered at it, holding it close to his face.

Is there anything I can do, she had written, to help you?

"Just be here for me, girl," he whispered. "And don't let go of me tonight."

He was more scared than he had ever been before, and he didn't know what to do. How could he fight this intangible enemy? He had to go back to that doctor again, that was for sure, or maybe a different one. He didn't think he could stand living this way. He was just dead scared.  Cynthia was warm beside him, and her arms were soft around him. He found that he could no longer hold back the tears of frustration and fear, and he began to cry, soft, strangled sobs shaking him, his face pressed against her shoulder. He knew that she would be murmuring reassurances, and he cried all the harder because he could not hear her sweet voice.

As soon as it was getting light, John let himself out and headed towards towards Paul's house. The McCartneys had a phone. He would ask Paul to make an appointment with a doctor for him.  He did not want to go home; he had not been there since he'd been hurt.  He did not feel ready to face his auntie just yet.

Nobody answered the door when he knocked, so John went around to the back door; perhaps they were in the kitchen.  To his surprise, even at this early hour, Mr. McCartney was out in the back garden, tending his dahlias and snapdragons.

"Good morning, young Mr. Lennon," said Paul's father. John watched his lips but found that he could not make out a word.

"I was lookin' fer Paul," he said, and Mr. McCartney turned to collect a few snippets of his lavender hedge. He would take this strong-smelling herb inside and it would help to mask the smell of smoke from the innumerable cigarettes the boys smoked.

"Come 'ead, then," said Paul's father, and John followed him, hoping he'd been invited. It was plain that the older man was unaware of John's problem, and he considered telling him, then passed on the idea.

Paul came into the kitchen just as they were coming in from the back garden. He was rubbing his eyes sleepily, and he looked astonished to see his friend at such an early hour; John was not a morning person, and he never had known him to rise with the sun.

"I was wonderin' if I could talk t'yer," said John, nodding in the direction of the older gentleman, whose back was turned as he snipped the lavender into a saucer. "Alone."

"Sure," replied Paul, nodding. "Come 'ead."

The two young men went into the dining room, then through the double doors that led to the living room. The two sat opposite one another, in their customary places for writing their songs together. Paul had grabbed a writing tablet and pencil, and wrote:

What are you doing here so early?

"I spent th' night at Cyn's," explained John, "And I had ter leave early before her Mum got up so she wouldn't get inta trouble. I didn't wanna go home yet so I came here. I have to go back to th' doctor, I can't fuckin' stand this bleedin' silence in me head. Didja know it's like th' silence is an actual noise?"

I'll call the doctor for you when his office opens. What's his name? wrote Paul.

"Christ, I can't make it out, I forget," replied John. "Just find one who does ears, why dontcher? I wasn't that keen on that one from the hospital, anyroad." Looking at John, Paul was astonished to see tears shining in his light brown eyes. "That sod didn't care a whit about me," John continued, "Mebbe we c'n find one who actually gives a fuck."

Paul looked at his friend and didn't know what to say; John looked so miserable.  Don't worry, he wrote at last, You'll be back the way you were in no time.

"I certainly fuckin' hope so," replied John, "I can't fuckin' take much more of this. It's drivin' me outta me mind.  People stand there an' talk to each other, y'know, like normal, only I can't hear any of it, an' I just feel so left out...I just wanna get fuckin' paralytic, but if I do that, somethin' really bad could happen. I need to keep control, y'know? At least that way I don't feel like I hafta be so afraid for me sanity--it's hard for me to believe that I'm ever gonna really feel like I'm in barley again, though, at this point."

You're going to be okay, John. You always land on your feet; you will this time, too.  We'll call the doctor in a bit. Meantime, how about some brekky?

"Yerokay," said John, listlessly.  Standing up, he asked, "say, Paul, why didntcha tell yer Dad about me problem?"

Paul thought a second, then wrote:

I figured if you wanted him to know, you'd tell him. You didn't, did you?

"Nah," replied John, shaking his head.

That's what I thought. That's why I didn't. Besides, it's only temporary. You're going to get well. You can put your money on it..

"I could if I had any," John answered, with a weak smile.

Clapping him on the back, Paul threw an arm companionably about his friend's shoulders and the pair headed for the kitchen.

"Yer know," said John through a mouthful of corn flakes, "I'm gonna hafta start tellin' people about this little difficulty o' mine if it don't get fixed soon, like."

Yeah, well, I would have already if I were you. wrote Paul.

"Nah, yer wouldn'tve," John contradicted, "Cos I am me, an' yet I haven't, have I?"

Paul considered this, then wrote:

Guess not. Why haven't you, anyhow?

"I was hopin' to wake up havin' it all be over," John told him in a subdued voice. "I guess I just didn't wanna admit that this whole thing might be permanent; but that hasn't happened, so now I hafta deal with it, no matter that I still don't wanna admit it, even to meself."  He paused, looking up at the ceiling , trying to work it all out in his mind. "I might hafta find another line o' work, Paulie," he said. His tone was rather light, but the pain was clear upon his face. "It wouldn't do to be a deaf musician now, would it?"

Oh, I don't know, wrote Paul, Ever hear of Beethoven?

Paul held up his index finger to indicate that John should sit tight, and left the room for a moment. He returned with a book, opened it to a place with a bookmark in it, and pointed to this passage:

"The following is an excerpt from a letter written by Beethoven to a friend:

'How can I, a musician, say to people, "I am deaf!" I shall, if I can, defy this fate, even though there will be times when I shall be the unhappiest of God's creatures...I live only in music...' " *

After reading this, John smiled wryly at his friend. "Yeright, but as I recall, Beethoven had t' drop back to just composin' after awhile.  He got to where he couldn't perform anymore." He sighed and pushed his unfinished bowl of cereal away. "I sure hope it don't come t' that for me, not now, just when everythin's comin' together for us as a group. We've got a steady job, we're known in two countries, who knows where we could go from here? Mebbe a record , mebbe soon. Just promise me one thing, Macca," he added, fixing his friend with his trademark, level gaze. Paul nodded and waited for his friend to continue. John heaved a ragged sigh and looked away from Paul's eyes, pretending to look out of the window instead, although he could not see that far.

"Promise me you'll go on without me if I can't keep up," said John, softly, "Go on and hit th' top- I'll be yer biggest fan." His eyes were sparkling with unshed tears.

Paul bent his head to blink away his own tears and wrote through the blur:

It's not gonna come to that. You'll be right there with us when we finally make a record. You'll see..

John nodded and said that he certainly hoped that Paul was right.

***

Mr.--Lennon, is it? John Lennon?" called the pretty nurse from the doorway.

Paul nodded to her and nudged John in the ribs with his elbow, pointing to the doorway they were to go through. They both hauled themselves to their feet and followed the nurse back to an examining room.

John sat on the examination table, and Paul took a seat in the corner.

Half an hour later, the two young men were sitting across from the doctor in his office, and he was attempting to explain to Paul what was wrong with his friend.

"He apparently has suffered some damage to his auditory nerve as a result of a blow to the head during the fight you mentioned," said the doctor. John watched him, trying to make out what he was saying. Frustrated and angry, he snatched up the pamphlets the doctor had given him and jumped out of his seat, stalking towards the door.

"Tell me whatever he's sayin' later," he called over his shoulder. "I'm gonna wait outside. I can't handle this, gettin' talked about like I'm not even here." He paused, and turned back to look at Paul. "Tell 'im I don't mean any harm," he said, ignoring the doctor as if HE were not in the room, "Tell 'im it's only th' frustration o' th' whole fuckin' situation."

When Paul came back out into the street, he spotted John lounging against the side of the building, smoking a cigarette, watching moodily as the people passed him on the sidewalk speaking to one another in complete silence. As soon as he spotted Paul, he shoved off from the wall and fell into step beside him.

"So," said John in a light tone, "What'd he have t' say?"

Paul produced a note he'd written in the doctor's office.

Paul hesitated, then produced a second note.

John read this and said in a dry voice, "I vote for tomorrow."

Paul paused to write again.

What do you think of that sign language idea?

"Whaddaya think of me breakin' yer fuckin' arm, y' write somethin' like that t'me again," replied John, increasing his speed.

Paul decided it was best to let the matter drop for now.

"Let's catch th' bus n' bunk on," said John, glancing at his watch, "We're gonna be late for our lunch session."

After the Beatles had finished their first set, John sank into a chair by the cloakroom, rubbing his temples.

"What's wrong, Johnnie?" asked the coat-check girl, "You look done in."

He did not respond, of course, and she came round from behind the counter and stood beside him, repeating her question.

When he still did not answer, the girl touched his shoulder. John looked up at her; his eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Whatever you're sayin', Cilla, might as well save it," he said quietly. "I can't hear a bloody word. I've lost me hearin'."

The girl knelt in front of him, looking anxiously up into his face.

"I guess you wanna know what happened, so I'll tell ya," he told continued. (God, but his head hurt!) "I got meself into a 'ewley and I was kicked in the noggin...next thing I know, I woke up in th' ozzie and I couldn't hear. Doctor says it might correct on its own, then again it might not; I guess I'd better start acceptin' that it could be permanent." He smiled weakly, she looked so sweet and concerned for him. "There, Cilla," he added, don't be makin' a face like that.  It's not all that bad, right now I'm just wearified, is all. I've gotta beastly headache, too. Got any aspirin?"

The girl nodded and went away, only to return with the aspirin and a Coke. She handed both to him, and he sniffed the glass appreciatively.

"Here, now, Miss Black," he said in mock horror, "Surely yer knowin' Mr. Wooler's policy on havin' spirits on the premises! It's simply not allowed! I'd best be gettin' rid o' the evidence," he added, tossing it back with a practiced air. "An' don't worry; I'm norra tattletale!"

Cilla produced a notepad and pencil and wrote:

John sighed heavily.

"I guess it's time I considered it," he said wearily. "I'll think on it, I promise. But now I gotta get back to th' fellas, we've another set to play. See ya later, an' thanks, love."

The girl nodded, smiled, and kissed his cheek. He hauled himself to his feet and headed for the backstage area.

Paul handed him the song list, and John checked it over.

"How many heads, Paulie?" he asked, adjusting his guitar strap.

Must be an easy two hundred out there, wrote Paul, Don't worry, we're doing fine, you know I'd tell you if we weren't.

John nodded and the boys took the stage.

They were halfway through the second song of their set when it happened.

"To know, know, know her, is to love, love, love her, and I do," they sang, their voices blending perfectly.

At first, John wasn't quite sure of what was happening. There was a low hum in his head, steadily rising. His voice faltered, and Paul looked over at him, a question in his eyes: Are you all right?

John nodded emphatically, and his voice soared, weaving the familiar harmonies, his eyes shining with happiness. The song ended, and the applause came up from the floor. John's heart felt full, spilling over -- HE HAD HEARD THE MUSIC, AND HE COULD HEAR THE APPLAUSE!

Paul was staring at him, an expression of alarm upon his face.

"What're yer gawpin' at, Paulie?" shouted John, above the cheering, "Say somethin'!  And none o' that soft note writin' o' yours. Listen to that," he added, cupping his ear. "Don't that sound nice! "

Paul's face nearly split with his own happy smile.

"It sounds just beautiful," Paul agreed. "Ready for the next number? Count us into it, mate, whydontcher?"

John stepped up to the microphone and shouted,

"One, two, three--FOUR!--"

And the music continued from there.

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