It was the day after he�d had �the talk� with John and Paul was having serious doubts as to whether he should go through with this.
The Beatles were waiting around in the dressing room, preparing for their first concert in months. They were all slightly nervous, but one of them much more so than the others.
Paul had just finished getting dressed for the show and was now sitting on one of the sofas, staring at the opposite wall and biting his fingernails. He looked around the room every so often, taking in the two police officers standing on either side of the door that led into the hallway.
Officers Connelly and Henshaw�Henshaw and Connelly. They sound like some famous detective duo, Paul mused.
The fact that they both seemed quite sturdy did very little to relieve the tension he was feeling. For some reason, he felt like they were taking their orders to �keep an eye on him� a little too seriously; he could practically feel their eyes watching him and it was making him feel very uncomfortable.
George, John and Ringo had given up trying to make him feel at ease since they had hardly managed to get a response from him. When they did, they usually ended up getting their heads bitten off. So they had just decided to leave him be for the moment. Besides, they didn�t feel very comfortable with the entire situation themselves.
Mal walked in, carrying a newspaper with �BEATLE PAUL SUFFERS NERVOUS BREAKDOWN! IS THE END NEAR?!� splashed across the front page. Beneath the headline was a huge picture of Paul looking rather upset as he half-ran half-walked through a mob of journalists.
The Beatles had already decided to ban all newspapers from their rooms today. It seemed as if every newspaper editor in the country had dug up pictures of Paul in which he looked even remotely tired and put them in with the article about Paul�s �breakdown�.
�For God�s sake, Mal, get that away,� Paul snapped, instantly coming to life when he saw a huge version of himself on the front of the paper.
Mal gave him a confused stare, and then looked down at the paper in his hands. �Oh, I�m sorry, Paul, I was just going to throw this in the bin. It was on the floor outside the door.�
Paul only nodded and resorted to pacing; much like Ringo had done so many weeks ago. It wasn�t like he�d never been nervous before, but this was so much worse. He felt like he was about to be sent out to his execution. Maybe he was. Maybe he was about to be executed. What if some barmy idiot decided to simply shoot a hole in him? What if someone were to throw a knife at him from the audience? What if�?
Suddenly, Paul made a mad dash for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. The three remaining Beatles looked at each other and winced when they heard the retching sounds coming from the other side of the door.
Mal made to go after Paul with a sympathetic look on his face, but Ringo stopped him. �Mal, trust me, he doesn�t want anyone to see him like that. Just leave the lad be for a minute.�
�Right, right,� Mal said, trying hard not to listen to Paul�s retching. �Well, uhm� is there anything I can do for you, lads?�
Ringo rose to the tips of his toes and threw an arm around the large man�s shoulders. �Why don�t ye take a break for a minute, Mal. Let�s go and watch a bit of telly.�
*
A few minutes later Paul came out of the bathroom, looking pale and drawn, but quite composed. He moved over to the sofa - carefully avoiding the concerned glances he was receiving - plopped down and reached for a pack of cigarettes that was on the table. He didn�t know whose cigarettes they were nor did he really care.
Paul�s hand was trembling as he brought the cigarette to his lips.
�Christ, you won�t even be able to perform, the state you�re in,� John commented. He leaned forward and also took a cigarette out of the pack on the table.
�Aye, stop nickin� me ciggies,� Ringo said from the other sofa, where he was still watching TV with Mal.
�Well, don�t leave your mess lying around then,� John remarked, leaning against the sofa beside Paul.
Paul scowled at him, leaning forward to tap the ashes into the ashtray on the table. However, as he did so, the left sleeve of his jacket came into firm contact with John�s cigarette.
John instinctively jerked his hand back, yelping: �Watch that!� but it was already too late.
There was a sizzling sound and a minute later Paul was inspecting his sleeve and saw a significant black scorch mark on the light grey colour of his suit.
George, who up until that point had been engrossed in a magazine, looked up and sniffed. �Aye, somethin�s burnin�.�
When he found he was being ignored, he stood up and curiously joined John and Paul to see what was up.
�Oh,� he commented when he spotted the scorch mark. �You�ve got a hole there, mate.�
�Nothing gets by you, does it, George?� Paul responded dryly.
�Shit,� John muttered, eyeing the ruined sleeve. �Sorry, mate.�
Paul sighed, sounding more tired than anything. �S�Alright, I�ll get Neill to fix it.�
Mal looked at them over his shoulder. �He�s out talkin� to the sound people,� he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the hallway and starting to rise. �I�ll go and fetch him.�
�Nah, I�ll go find him myself. Ta, Mal,� Paul said. He needed to be on his own for a little while, to try to calm his nerves. However, before he could even so much as take a step towards the door, officer Connelly was beside him.
�I�ll be tagging along, Mr McCartney,� the officer announced.
John sniggered at the exasperated look Paul gave him before he walked out the door, the police officer at his heels.
A minute later, however, a loud, ominous bang startled them out of their wits. A bang that had sounded an awful lot like a gunshot.
The men in the room looked at each other, all of them sitting bolt upright. Each mirrored the expression written on the other�s face: terror.
�Paul!�
