�Aye, good morning sleepin� beauty,� a gentle voice spoke, with a hint of sarcasm.
Paul turned his head and found John sitting in a chair beside his bed.
�Mornin�,� Paul answered in a raspy voice. He wrinkled his nose at himself and cleared his throat. He glanced at the bedside cabinet to his right and noticed that one of the nurses had been thoughtful enough to leave him a cup of water. He carefully hoisted himself up on the elbow of his good arm, noting that his chest was feeling a little better. Probably another load of painkillers, he thought ruefully.
John helped him prop up his pillow against the headboard and Paul settled back against it. Then he reached for the cup, just as John was about to hand it to him. Paul nodded gratefully, put the cup to his lips and took a cautious sip. Raising an inquisitive eyebrow at John, he asked, �How long have you been sitting here?�
John glanced at the clock above Paul�s bed, it read 8.30 a.m. �Oh, about half an hour or so.�
�So you�ve been watching me sleep,� Paul said with a frown.
�Well, Paul, you know watching you sleep is one of my favourite things to do,� John replied with a smirk.
Paul rolled his eyes, took another sip and handed the cup back to John, who put it back on the cabinet. Paul leaned back against the pillow and closed his eyes.
John studied him. There were dark shadows under Paul�s eyes and his face looked pale and drawn. �You look tired,� John observed.
�I AM tired,� Paul responded, not opening his eyes.
�The doctor told me they had to give you a sedative last night,� John began awkwardly. �He said you were having one hell of a nightmare.�
Paul opened his eyes and looked at John. He considered telling him what he�d dreamt, but decided against it; he didn�t want to sound soft. �Yeah, it was just a side effect of one of those drugs they gave me,� he lied. Though, thinking about it, he wasn�t sure whether it was entirely untrue. Lots of drugs had that effect on people, he mused.
John raised an eyebrow at him, not completely convinced, but decided to respect Paul�s privacy�for now.
�Geo and Ring are down in the hospital cafeteria, getting themselves a cuppa,� John said, changing the subject. �Mal, Neil and Brian are coming by later on.� John left out the reason why they were going to be later; they had to cancel numerous concerts and arrange other things that needed to be taken care of.
Paul nodded, his eyes drifting closed again. There was so much he wanted to ask, but he was just so tired. He forced his eyelids open. �When�s our next concert?�
�Don�t be daft, Paul! We�re not doin� any concerts till you�re well enough to play again,� John replied matter-of-factly. �We sound like crap without you, you know.�
Paul looked at him, a warm feeling coming over him.
John suddenly felt a bit embarrassed and got up from his chair. �Don�t tell anyone I said that, they�ll think it�s my fault you got so bloody big-headed,� John said to mask his embarrassment. �I�m off to grab a cuppa meself,� he said gruffly and strode from the room.
Paul smiled to himself, closed his eyes and was asleep within minutes.
*
The next day, Paul was delighted to hear that he was allowed to go home. He was given a small bottle of painkillers and a similar bottle of sleeping pills, together with strict doctor�s orders to have lots of rest and to regularly change the bandages around his arm.
Of course, �home� in this case was a hotel room, since they were still in America. However, Paul was relieved to hear that Brian had already made arrangements for them to fly back to England the next day.
And so, four days after the horrible attack on Paul, he was comfortably lying in his own bed, in his own room, in his own home, in London.
His three fellow Beatles visited him every day to see if there was anything they could do for him, to keep him company and of course, to annoy him.
Occasionally John would take a song he�d just written over to Paul to have it looked over.
Paul also received thousands of �Get Well� cards and letters from fans all over the world. Naturally, the attack on the Beatle had proven to be impossible to keep quiet. It had been on the front page of newspapers in almost every country.
However, Paul had no interest whatsoever in reading any of the cards or letters. He simply refused to open them and had the tons of mail bags stored in his basement to throw away later.
Of course, John, George and Ringo found that perfectly understandable since the fan mail was what had started the whole thing off in the first place. In fact, they all had gotten quite reluctant to look through them.
Brian did, however, send out a press release that Paul was now feeling much better and that he appreciated all the well wishes.
Paul was recovering much faster than expected; the fact that he hadn�t had anymore nightmares since he�d been home was also very encouraging. Paul just dismissed the bad dreams as a side effect of one of the painkillers he�d been given in the hospital.
A few days after the Beatles had returned home, John was sitting on the floor of Paul�s room strumming his guitar, attempting to write a song. Paul lay in bed, listening, and sometimes suggested a line or a lick. He was beginning to feel rather frustrated that he was unable to make or write any music himself.
His left arm was still quite useless and he doubted he would be able to handle the weight of a guitar against his injured chest.
As John continued to pluck the strings of his guitar, Paul suddenly threw aside the covers. John looked at him, eyebrows raised. �What are you doin�?� he demanded.
Paul sat up slowly, holding his breath to keep the pain that was radiating from his chest to a minimum. He carefully put one foot on the floor and then the other.
�Paul?� John asked again, now putting his guitar aside and standing up. He watched as Paul just sat on the edge of his bed to catch his breath. John thought he looked rather white. �Paul, what are you doin�?�
Paul let out an explosive sigh. �I�ve got to take a piss, alright?� he said irritably as he pushed himself up very slowly until he finally stood. His legs felt rather wobbly and the shirt and shorts he was wearing as pyjamas didn�t do much to protect him from the chilly air of his bedroom. He shivered and goose bumps appeared on his arms.
John was by his side in an instant. He saw Paul shiver, grabbed one of the covers from the bed and wrapped it around Paul. Now almost all that was visible was Paul�s tousled mop of dark-brown hair.
�Ta,� Paul said, though he was starting to feel like a little child who needed to be looked after. He took a rather unsteady step towards the bathroom, swaying a little.
John instantly held an arm out to steady him if necessary. �Alright, Paul?�
Paul gritted his teeth to keep from snapping at him. He was growing more than a little annoyed at having John hovering around him constantly. �Yeah.�
Shuffling further towards the bathroom, Paul felt his ribs starting to ache again and he was suddenly grateful the bathroom was next to his bedroom and not on the other side of the house. He was already feeling exhausted.
John opened the door for him and Paul finally reached the bathroom. He shuffled over to the toilet and was about to pull down the front of his shorts, when he realised that John was still in the room. Paul looked at him over his shoulder. �Thanks, John, you can go now, you know.�
John hesitated. �Well� are you sure you�ll be ok using the loo?�
Paul lost his temper completely. �Well, for Christ�s sake, John! I�m not some helpless little child, you know! I�m perfectly capable of taking a piss by myself, thank you! I�m not an invalid and I certainly don�t need you to look after me!�
John�s face became unreadable as his anger rose. �You could�ve fooled me, the way you�ve been actin�. You�ve been like a pathetic prima donna with all your aches and pains,� he said acidly. �Ow, me ribs! Ow, me arm! Ow, me head!� he imitated in a high-pitched voice. Though John knew the opposite was true; Paul had hardly complained at all. However, he was hurt by Paul�s words and being John Lennon, instead of showing his emotions, he resorted to using his sharp tongue.
�Well, piss off then!� Paul snapped, his own anger rising. �I never asked for your help so stop hovering around me every time I move my arse!�
His chest now felt as though it was on fire. Breathing caused him enough pain as it was, having a shouting match with John only added to his discomfort. The strain was also making him feel a bit light-headed and he quickly put his good hand against the wall to steady himself. The blanket that John had wrapped about him dropped to the floor in the process, causing Paul to start shivering again.
John shook his head incredulously, oblivious to Paul�s growing distress. �Do you have any clue at all why I go through the trouble of looking after your sorry arse?!� Not waiting for an answer he continued, his voice increasing in volume. �Of course you don�t, you selfish bastard! It�s because I feel fuckin� guilty, that�s why!�
�John�� Paul was slightly panicking now; his chest was feeling increasingly heavy and painful and black dots were swirling in front of his eyes. His breath was coming in short gasps, making his chest hurt even more and his legs were trembling underneath him.
�No, shut yer yap, Paul! For once you�re going to fuckin� listen to me! I � Christ!� he exclaimed as he lunged instinctively to catch Paul as he suddenly pitched forward.
However, Paul�s unexpected dead wait dragged them both down and they ended up sprawled on the floor, Paul on top of John. John quickly shifted position so that Paul�s head rested on his leg. He looked down at his mate anxiously. �Macca?�
Paul�s eyes were open, but they seemed slightly off somehow. He lay there for a bit until John saw his eyes come back to focus.
�Macca, are y�alright?� John asked worriedly, feeling even more guilty now.
Paul blinked a few times. �Yeah, my legs just gave way for a minute there.�
�Christ, you scared the shit out of me, Macca!� John chided him. �See, you ARE a selfish bastard. You can�t even let me finish my rant without hogging all the attention,� he added jokingly, gathering his wits.
Paul sniggered. �Sorry about that.� Then his face twisted into a grimace.
�What�s the matter?� John asked, worried again.
�Fuck, I just really need to piss now,� Paul replied and John burst into laughter.
�You ok then?"
Paul nodded.
�Right then, let�s give your bladder the relief it so desperately needs,� John said dramatically, as he carefully helped Paul to stand up.
This time, as Paul repositioned himself in front of the toilet, John did step outside.
Ten minutes later, a very much relieved Paul was back in his bed, panting.
John sat down with his guitar again as though nothing had ever happened.
�John?�
John looked up. �Yes, Paul?�
�Why do you feel guilty?�
�Forget it, Macca,� John replied, trying to dismiss the subject as he turned his attention back to his guitar.
�Oh, come on, John. It�s obviously botherin� you,� Paul said.
John stared at the floor a moment, weighing off whether he should tell Paul or not. He absent-mindedly reached inside the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out and held it between his lips as he lit it.
After taking a long drag, he finally looked up at Paul again.
�Alright. Remember when you got that letter�you know the night that fuckin� bastard tried to have a go at ye?� John began.
Paul nodded. How could I forget? he thought.
�Well, I was going to tell Neil and Mal about the whole letter thing, you know, so they could take some extra precautions or whatever,� John said, pausing to take another drag from his cigarette.
Paul waited patiently, though he thought he knew what John was going to tell him next.
�And well, my bloody memory failed me again. I just forgot all about it and I can�t stand the fact that something that important slipped my mind,� John said, growing annoyed with himself. �I mean, the whole fuckin� thing might never have happened if I�d told Mal and Neil and you never would�ve been, you know, like this.�
Paul stared at him. �You�ve got to be joking,� he said. �Come off it, Johnny! Nobody could�ve known what was going to happen. Even if you had told Mal or Neil, that barmy fucker would�ve probably gotten me anyway.�
John was suddenly intrigued by how his cigarette, which he was holding between his thumb and index finger, was slowly burning up. He never felt very comfortable with conversations of this kind.
Not receiving any reaction from John, Paul continued. �Besides,� he added, �you weren�t solely responsible, you know. You may be our leader, but I�m quite capable of telling people things myself, you know.�
At the words �our leader� John had torn his eyes away from his ciggie to look at Paul, who gave him a warm smile.
�I�m sorry for what I said earlier, John. I mean, I do really appreciate you lookin� after me and all, I just got frustrated about not being able to do much at the moment, you know.�
John waved him off. �Forget it, Macca, I shouldn�t�ve said what I said either. It was just the heat of the moment.�
�So I�m not a pathetic prima-donna then?� Paul asked with a grin.
�Oh no, you definitely are a prima-donna, just not a pathetic one,� John replied, quickly ducking the pillow Paul attempted to throw at him, missing him by miles.
*
Five weeks later, Paul was as good as new, except for the scar he bore on his left arm. His ribs sometimes felt a bit sore, but they had healed up nicely.
Neither of them really talked about the attack on Paul. They all seemed rather keen to forget the whole thing, Paul especially. So nobody brought it up, though they did receive news that the case against Paul�s assailant, whose name turned out to be Joshua Tanning, would be going to court within a few weeks. Until that time, he would be locked up behind bars.
One evening, all four Beatles, Brian and Neil were gathered in Paul�s home. Paul had made them all a cup of tea and they were making themselves comfortable in the sitting room.
Brian however, was nervously pacing up and down the room, wringing his hands; he had an announcement to make, but he wasn�t sure how the boys were going to take it.
When they�d all settled down, Brian looked around the room and started. �Boys, we�re going on tour again.�
�When?� John asked.
�At the end of the week, but we�re leaving the day after tomorrow. It�s only about four or five concerts and they�re all here in Britain,� Brian added hastily.
�Fuck off!� John answered, glancing at Paul, who simply sat and stared at the floor.
�Paul�s been feeling much better lately�� Brian continued.
�Who are you to decide that?� George spoke up.
�Well, I�m your manager, so technically��
�Well, fuckin� hell!� John exploded. �You�re not the one who has to perform under those bleedin� hot lights!� he began heatedly, �You don�t have to be rushed in and out of cars, theatres and dressing rooms-�
�Believe me, John, I know, but the pressure being put on me is simply-� Brian tried to explain.
�Pressure on YOU?!� John exclaimed incredulously. �What the fuck do you know about pressure?!� John was getting pretty steamed up by now. �Let me tell you- � he began, rising from the sofa he�d been sitting on.
Paul, who was sitting next to him, put a restraining hand on his arm. �John, it�s alright,� he said quietly. He stood up. �It�s alright, lads. We�ll do it, Eppy.�
Brian hesitated. �Well, only if you�re sure you�re up for it��
Paul flashed his McCartney smile. �Yeah, I�m up for it! I�ve been bored to death the past few weeks and you know, I�m fine now.�
John stared at him, a strange expression on his face.
Paul wasn�t sure whether he was about to yell at him or smack him a good one. However, John surprised him by sitting down abruptly.
�Well, let�s have a vote then,� Ringo spoke up. �Paul, if you�re absolutely certain you�re up for it, I don�t really see any reason why we shouldn�t go.�
�Reasonable Ringo has a point there,� George agreed.
John glared at them all, knowing he�d been outvoted. �Alright then, have it your way.�
�Marvellous,� Brian said happily. �I made sure the schedule isn�t too demanding, boys. We�ll be going for about thirteen days in which you�ll only do about four concerts and we�ll only be doing some promoting,� he added and went on explaining how things had been arranged.
Paul sat back down on the sofa, grabbing his cup of tea from the table as he went, only half-listening to what Brian was saying. He could feel John�s eyes on him and felt a twinge of guilt; after all, John had only been sticking up for him.
He met John�s eyes. �John, I�m sorry-�
�It�s alright, Macca,� John interrupted him. �I just hope you know what you�re doin�.�
Paul nodded. �So do I,� he said quietly.
