�Wake up!� a voice growled.
He hurt. Terribly. For a brief moment, he didn�t know where he was or what had happened, but that was quickly remedied when he was roughly shaken by two harsh hands.
�Wake up, McCartney. You�re not going to deny me the pleasure of seeing the fear in your eyes while I slowly choke the life out of you!�
Paul�s eyes flew open once his brain had processed this news. His survival instinct kicking in, he found that the various aches and pains in his body were being pushed to the back of his mind, enabling him to try and do something about the heady situation he found himself him. He looked up and saw his assailant hovering over him, a smirk on his face.
�Ah, that�s more like�-� the man started as he moved to pin his victim down, but he never got to finish his sentence.
Paul had drawn his legs up to his chest and kicked out with all the strength he could muster, catching his attacker square in the chest. Even though the man was about twice Paul�s size, the force of the kick and the fact that it had been so unexpected sent him crashing into the opposite wall.
Paul scrambled up as fast as his body would allow and looked wildly around what appeared to be a large storage room, desperately looking for a door that would lead him to safety. He found it, but to his horror his attacker had moved right in front of it, cutting off his sole means of escape.
The man glared at Paul. �It would seem that I underestimated you, Mr McCartney,� he spat. �That will not happen again.�
Paul looked around for something � anything - he could use as a weapon, but all he could find were brooms and plastic stage props. They weren�t exactly lethal weapons, but he grabbed one of the nearest brooms anyway.
To his surprise and irritation, the man opposite him burst into laughter. �What are you going to be doing with that? I�ll snap that thing in two just as easily as I will snap you.�
Paul felt his hands grow sweaty and his heart was pounding in his chest with fear. A memory came to him suddenly; a voice that had called his name right before he�d passed out. They were looking for him, his mates, the police, he didn�t care much which. But he realized he needed to buy some time so they could find him. That�s what the heroes in Ringo�s favourite movies always did, and they usually lived happily ever after in the end.
What a pity this wasn�t one of Ringo�s movies, and that Paul was no hero.
�What the bloody hell do you want from me?� Paul shouted, hoping his voice sounded steady and at the same time trying to create enough noise for someone on the outside to hear.
�What I want from you? Why, revenge, of course,� the man replied calmly.
Paul almost rolled his eyes as he stared at the man. Revenge? It was a common theme in Ringo�s movies. He couldn�t think of anything he�d done to anger this man to the point that he�d actually seek him out to get revenge.
Something nagged at him, and it took him only seconds to realize what it was: the man was speaking with an American accent. He was sure that, when he had impersonated officer Connelly, for Paul now assumed that that was not his real name, he had spoken in a British accent.
�Who are you?�
The man sneered, baring his teeth. As though he had read Paul�s thoughts, he answered, �I used to work here as a concierge. That�s right, I�ve lived here in Britain for a good number of years. How else do you suppose I can speak in a fluent British accent?� He started to close in on Paul. �When I heard that the famous Beatles were going to be playing here, I saw my chance.�
�What the hell do you want revenge for? What have I ever done to you?!� Paul backed away until he felt his back press against the wall.
�Wouldn�t you like to know,� the man said, an odd grin on his face. �I�m afraid you�ll never find out.�
Paul could feel tiny drops of sweat forming on his forehead and resisted the urge to wipe them away. He could not afford to let his guard down. Something dawned on him. �You were the one who set off that firecracker, weren�t you?� he asked, desperately grasping at every straw that might buy him some time.
It worked. For about ten seconds.
The man paused, a frown between his brows. �Well, no, actually, that was as much an unpleasant surprise for me as it was for you. Otherwise I would�ve grabbed you then and there.� He grinned. �Enough chatting.� With those words he threw himself at an unprepared Paul.
Paul barely had time to raise his broom in defence before the body of the man slammed into him. His already sore head hit the wall behind him; stars danced across his vision as he went down, a heavy weight instantly pinning him to the floor.
Fight! His mind screamed. Fight!
He tightened his hold on the broom, knowing it was his only weapon, and blindly thrust one end of it upwards. An enraged growl told him he�d at least managed to hit his attacker. His brain registered blood spurting from the other�s nose, and Paul felt a brief flash of satisfaction before the broom was yanked from his hands.
Pain exploded in his jaw as it came into contact with a large and unyielding fist. He tasted blood in his mouth.
Hands closed around his neck.
�I�m going to kill you.�
And right then, Paul wanted to cry. He was going to die here, horribly and alone. But tears didn�t come. Instead, he struggled, clawing at the man�s face, kicking and bucking.
The pressure around his neck increased, and no matter what he did, his vision darkened. His struggles lessened, having to concentrate more and more on gasping for breath.
�Stop�� The word was not much more than a ragged whisper to his own ears. �Please��
The man ignored him.
Paul clawed at the man�s hands, but he could feel his strength leaving him. He heard the blood rushing through his veins; it reminded him of the calming sounds of the sea, and he suddenly felt an odd sense of peace.
His vision greyed and turned to black, arms falling limply to his side, legs no longer kicking. He tried to draw one last breath, but his lungs refused to work. Or maybe his throat would not allow any air through. He didn�t care anymore.
As awareness slipped away, he didn�t care about anything anymore.
*
Hushed voices roused him, penetrating the oppressive darkness. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton and there was a dull ache behind his eyes. Shifting slightly, he became aware of several aches and pains, but, to his relief, nothing too bad. Until he tried to swallow.
Christ, that hurt.
Then he figured he must�ve made some kind of pained sound, because suddenly someone was quietly calling his name, repeatedly. With a sigh, he slowly dragged his eyelids open, and immediately closed them against the harsh lights. Where the hell was he?
He tried again and this time he squinted heavily, but did not close his eyes again. Eyes slowly focused and he recognized a woman standing beside his bed. It took him a moment to realize it was actually a nurse, and not an angel. He must still be alive then.
Only then did his brain register that the nurse was talking to him, asking him how he was feeling.
�All right,� he croaked, thinking he�d better reply.
�Are you back with us, Paul?�
Paul turned his head towards the male voice, and smiled ever so slightly. " 'lo, John,� he said, his voice barely a whisper.
John grinned back at him. �We�re gonna have to work on that voice, son.�
Paul just nodded, his eyelids drooping. He was so tired. But he fought to open his eyes again, just in time to see the dark-haired nurse smiling gently at him. �It�s all right, Mr McCartney. I will get the doctor to check on you. You just rest.�
Paul simply nodded, closed his eyes and listened to the nurse leaving the room. Just before he drifted off, he felt someone gently pat his hand.
�Good lad, Macca,� he heard John whisper before Paul fell into a dreamless sleep.
