Chapter Text
Paul got a lot of phone calls in the days after.
The number of them - the sheer bloody quantity - didn't seem to decrease at all. Not even in the weeks after, countless messages of condolences flooding through.
It seemed, for an age, that all Paul could hear was the shrill ringing of the telephone - so much so that he considered throwing the damned thing out of the window.
Every single time it went off, it reminded him. And Paul doesn't need reminders.
It's all he thinks about. It's all he can think about.
It's everything he thinks about.
Paul, at some point, stopped answering the phone. He only answers the odd one, every now and again; just to see if at least one person can stop themselves from talking about it. They can't. Or they won't - Paul doesn't know, and he doesn't care to hear any of it.
Sometimes, he imagines that it's John ringing - he hadn't known how much he'd miss their routine calls. Until he'd lost them, until he'd lost John.
Until he'd started to forget what John sounded like. Which was, quite frankly, ridiculous; because he could just turn on a record whenever, or grab a tape of an old interview, or anything like that. In fact, he could turn on the news; and there would be at least one segment dedicated to showing sorrowful clips of his departed best mate.
No, Paul wasn't exactly forgetting John's voice - just the intricacies of it, the inflections. How Paul would know, without even needing to see John's face, the sort of mood the other man was in from just the way he breathed.
Despite this, Paul still had dreams about John - and they'd be so clear, and so vivid, it was like Paul hadn't forgotten a single thing. That he would never forget. That John would be on his mind until the day he died; which seemed unbearable, if he was to be honest. Because it was already killing him now, and it hadn't even been a month.
He'd wake up in the night, shaking. Not after a nightmare, not after he'd had bad thoughts, or he'd dreamed about John - no, nothing like that. He'd just shake. It was something involuntary, and he'd lie there wondering if it was his time, too. If his heart would just give out, at last; because he really didn't know how he could wake up in a world without John Lennon in it.
He couldn't believe any world could exist, without John in it.
Maybe that was the issue, though. Paul wouldn't allow himself to believe John was dead.
No matter how many times Linda told him she was sorry, no matter how many times he shook as though he'd never stop. No matter how many times nosy bastards pestered him for interviews.
Or how many times he'd called John. How, whenever he rung John's line, it'd go flat.
He keeps hoping that John will pick up. John never does.
Paul thinks he's dying. It's all he thinks about.
Paul's eyelids hurt, under the glare of the sun, and he silently cursed whomever opened the curtains.
Paul was up at five in the morning, every morning. Which was surprising - considering how waking up was his least favourite part of the day, because everything came rushing back to him.
Or, maybe, it was surprising that he'd woken up at all; evidence that he had slept, even if he'd spent the majority of the night tossing and turning.
What wasn't surprising was that Linda was nowhere to be seen. She'd been a great help, despite the growing distance between them.
Paul tried to focus on Linda, his wonderful wife - tried not to linger on thoughts about John. When he failed, he chose to tumble ungracefully out of bed.
Even with Linda's help, Paul wasn't exactly the type to be comforted. He'd get on with it, as any English bloke would do, and he'd cry on his own.
By quarter past, Paul was already dressed - hair combed, boots on, days-old shirt over his head. The rot in his mouth ached; but he didn't bother with brushing his teeth, too. That'd be more work than he could manage.
What, with how, at thirty-past, he needed to be alone in a field somewhere. So that he could just shriek, and cry; and curse God, the whole bloody world. And.. Just, well, all of it.
Curse about how the bastard who shot John was probably locked away somewhere, walking about, entirely alive; and how John wasn't. Which wasn't fair - because that's what Paul told himself everything boiled down to.
The unfairness of it all.
The anger of it; even bigger than the grief. The anger is what got Paul out of bed every morning; what kept Paul from finding the nearest body of water, and drowning himself in it. He could say it was his kids helping him with all of that - but that'd be a lie.
His whole life was a great, big lie. And he didn't need John's death to help him realise that - but it did.
It did, and it had made him realise how much time he'd wasted pretending. How he'd have to go on pretending, because - with John gone - there wasn't much else Paul had to live for, otherwise.
Paul tripped on the bottom step, even though he'd been intending to be quiet and sneak out - as he'd been doing for the past few weeks, or so - but, of course, he'd been a clumsy tit, and had alerted Linda to his presence.
'Darling,' she called from the kitchen, 'is that you?'
Of course it was him. Who else could it be? The children were all asleep - but he still didn't reply, just in case she didn't know. She knew.
'Yeah, s'just me,' Paul muttered, walking reluctantly into the kitchen, not looking at her when he sat in the chair opposite. Was too late to make his get away now, so he'd just have to put up with the small talk until he could get away and wallow in his own misery.
Since when had it become like that with Linda, though? She'd never been a chore. Any normal man would be relying on his wife like a pillar, right now - yet all Paul could do was push her away.
He still didn't look at her, and settled for picking a loose thread on his shirt instead.
Linda didn't touch him; though, before, she likely would have rested her hand on his. Or come to sit in his lap. Or kissed him. She didn't do any of those things, not any longer, and Paul was grateful for that.
'Up early,' she remarked, though Paul knew she was trying to get at something. What, he didn't know.
'Yeah, suppose I am. Just as every other mornin', I am.'
Paul looked out of the window, watching as a particularly big bird stretched to life. He wanted to shoot it, and he supposed his ways of strict veganism didn't match up to that. So, he looked away, and finally made eye contact with Linda.
He'd almost forgotten how beautiful she was. Stunning blue eyes, gorgeous hair - blonde, but not gaudily so. Like honey; and yet, Paul still thought auburn was the best colour in the world.
She didn't look away from him, just stared head-on; and, for the first time in a while, he felt something other than self-righteousness. He didn't know what it was, but it was there.
Paul smiled at her, weakly, and he got up to turn the kettle on to boil. He stared at it, until it whistled.
When it went off, Linda had gone.
Paul drunk his tea alone. At six, he poured dregs down the drain, and he set off outside.
A lone figure, outlined by a great expanse of green hills. Nothing beyond them.
Paul returned before twelve - having figured his time for acceptable wallowing was up.
See, he'd long thought that - by now - his ''grieving period'' had already gone on for far too long.
When Mary had died, Jim hadn't seemed to grieve at all - had just focused on raising the kids, and hadn't bothered with moping like Paul was doing. Jim had found his purpose in stepping up as a Father.
Paul thought that's what losing someone should look like; a new purpose. Paul doesn't feel as though he has any purpose at all.
That was apparent when he returned, and the kids were playing, but he didn't bother to join in. Just watched them with a vague disinterest; moving only when he ushered Mary away from him. The girl in question only trying to play.
He'd always been good with kids. That's who he was, that's who he was supposed to be. Who was he? Who had he been, all this time?
Paul took a cigarette from his pocket, and - before he lit it - he looked around to see if the coast was clear. Linda had never approved of smoking around the children, or in the house, but he'd never understood the big deal. Especially not now, when he can hardly be bothered to light it in the first place, let alone walk outside.
Paul breathed in, a heady exhale, then stared at the ceiling blankly; watching as the smoke dispersed. These times were the best of all of them. When he didn't exactly feel anything; just a question of what the point is, in all of this.
The cigarette burned to ash. His children ran around, laughing like they didn't think the world was ending - and maybe they don't.
Paul doesn't hate them for it. He doesn't know how he feels. Not about them, not about anything.
The leaves are quiet, a cold summer's night.
A rare day, among many, upon which sweat was not the only reminder of the season; but the ice-cream van that lay parked on the corner, discarded.
In his dreams, Paul waits outside of the empty van for a lolly. Something to stick his teeth into, to bite away the freezing cold; and the headaches, and the memories - and oh, but nobody's in the van.
He still waits. He waits because the stars are out tonight, and he remembers looking at them with John.
He can't see him, he can't even see the colour of his eyes - but he can see John's hands, long and slender, brushing against his face.
Paul loves him, but it isn't enough; and morning comes, and there's a hoard of children swarming around the van; and John is pushed to the side. He screams, cries, hits and bites; and he can't get through. They're blocking his way, and John gets lost.
When somebody comes to get Paul, it's not George. It's not Richard, either.
It's not John.
He's never felt as alone as he does on the nights he remembers.
Mornings start the same each day, it's as though they blend into one another.
The collared doves sing a pretty song outside, and Paul wants to shoot them down. Then, he wants to feed them - so he opens the latch on his window, gathers some mouldy bread left on his nightstand, and throws them the food.
He's surprised Linda hasn't thrown away the bread, yet. Then again, it's not like she comes into their bedroom that much, not anymore. She probably doesn't even know it's there.
The birds peck at it. Lose interest, and fly off. Paul hears a thousand words in his head, and none of them make sense over the sound of flapping wings.
Paul knows his mornings are just accumulating into one big blob of things he wants to do. But he wouldn't do any of it, and he doesn't exactly know what he wants in the first place.
Paul got out of bed, again, at five o'clock. This time, he didn't bother getting decent - just threw on a dressing gown, and called it a day.
He hummed a stupid little ditty to himself, finally deciding to brush his teeth. It's distorted over the sound of the water hitting his gums.
Paul ended the tune on an imperfect cadence, then descended the stairs, ready to spend the rest of his morning staring at a very familiar ceiling - and wait for the rest of his household to wake, to spend their lives without him.
Maybe he's dead. He feels it, most days.
Paul let out a groan when he sunk into the sofa, propping up his legs on the coffee table, and debating whether or not to turn on the telly. He decided against it, and turned his face to the wall; nibbling at his nails sporadically.
Maybe he's not dead. Maybe he's just going crazy. Insanity - that was always John's thing. Not his. Paul isn't anything like John.
At some point, Linda had asked Paul if he wanted to go out and have a walk with the kids. He'd said no.
So, the house is empty now; with Paul sat on his arse, like a deadbeat - and he's stood in front of a mirror - hopelessly plucking the greys out.
Since when he did he go grey? Going grey was for people like his Dad; people who had lived long enough to reach the end of their time. Paul felt as though he was nowhere near the end yet.
Didn't see that much difference between himself now, and himself at twenty; even if the gap between them was an entire world.
God, Paul just wants to see them all again - not even John, even though he's the only one who's not coming back.
He wants to see Richard, and George, too. Just them, he'd be happy with.
He can't remember the last time he'd spoken to the lads without feeling the need to put on airs, a performance.
Once, it'd been easy. Everything had been easy, and he'd been too busy being excited for the future to realise everything he had was already perfect.
Paul gave up rooting for the stray hairs, and went to cook himself something in the kitchen. His hands shook so badly he couldn't make anything other than beans on toast; but, well, he'd been eating just that for the last week. He wasn't exactly expecting cuisine.
He was just about to take a clumsy bite, when the phone went off. He jumped, almost dropping his toast on the floor, and he cursed as bits of bean splashed about.
Trust some bellend to call just as he was about to tuck in. It was probably a do-gooder trying to say, 'sorry about John, and all,' but none of them really were sorry. It's just what you did.
Paul knew the whole song and dance. He'd had to go through it all with Mary.
He hadn't gone out in a bit for that exact reason. The only thing more sickening than apologies were the glances of pity sent your way. Paul didn't have time for such nonsense.
Paul glared at the phone, waiting for it to ring out. And, when it did, he glared even more malevolently because it began to ring again. An insistent bellend; how rare. Most of them gave up after the first try.
Paul got up, hobbled to the phone, and picked up aggressively - thought it would be funny to say, 'whatever you're selling, I'm not interested.'
There was a silence on the other end, and Paul waited impatiently for a pathetic voice to come simpering in his ear. He twirled the cord, and muttered, 'hello?'
'Paul.'
Paul froze, hands going still. Instantly, any irritation he felt drained out as if the voice were a sharp needle next to a balloon - and he let out a stifled cough. The voice was unmistakable. Though not an intrusive woman, she wasn't exactly forgettable.
'Yoko,' Paul whispered, urging his voice not to crack. Because, in a moment, he was about to be the one sending condolences, and simpering; and he'd prefer to avoid that. 'Hullo, uh - how are you?'
Vague enough question to not be about John. Entirely about John.
'Alright. I'm fine. Listen, Paul, I needed to - I must tell you this, if only to get it out of my mind,' Paul tensed, waiting for Yoko to go on. 'Because I think he would have wanted you to, uh, know.'
Paul held his breath, and the silence went on for a while, until Paul remembered to breathe; likely already blue in the face. 'Right, alright. By, 'he', ye mean…?'
'John. I mean - yes, I mean John.'
Paul ran a hand through his greasy hair, then down his brow, rubbing harshly. As if doing so could wipe away the nausea rising in his gut.
'Okay, then. Y'know, that's - yeah, thanks much. What is it, then?' Paul spoke in a rush, angry that the cord wasn't longer; because he would have really appreciated a sit down right about now. Instead, he sunk to the floor, ignoring his protesting knees; and worried at his lip in anticipation. 'Whatever it is, I'll listen.'
Paul stared at the phone, unsettled. Yoko wasn't the type to beat around the bush, usually got right to it - a reason as to why Paul had always thought herself and John were such a good match.
John was fickle, Yoko certain; and they sort of complimented one another in that way.
Paul ignored the fact that, once, he'd also been in the exact same position as Yoko.
'Yoko? Are ye still there?'
'Yes, I am -', strange noises in the background interrupted, there was a crackle, and then Yoko's voice came back on again. Sounding flustered, which was at odds with how Paul thought of the woman, she said, 'sorry, just Sean. He's a fussy boy.'
'Ah, that's alright - they all are, at that age.' Paul's stomach twisted all the way around to his brain; dissolving into one big pool of pain.
The door opened, the sounds of laughing children accompanying; Paul's family back from their little excursion.
The clock ticked.
'You know, I think John might have been gay.'
Paul stared at the phone, then he closed the door to the room he was in. Locked it.
A coldness settled over the heat that had furled in him at hearing John's name again, and it froze like ice. 'Pardon? Think I misheard you, there.'
'I -' Yoko hesitated, as if she'd realised how ridiculous she sounded. 'John was gay, Paul.'
Paul laughed, something harsh and bitter. Yoko had lost it. Understandable, with what she'd gone through. Paul had been the same, really, after his Mother had died; making up the craziest stories about her. It's just what grief did - made you say silly things.
'No, he wasn't, Yoko,' Paul hissed, because - because if John had been…No, no.
He wasn't. Couldn't be... - 'John wasn't gay. For God's sakes, you're a woman, and he married you; didn't he? And you're hardly a bloke, eh? Unless you're hidin' a little secret!'
Paul felt bad as soon as he said it - before he'd said it, even - already struggling to breathe. A distraught widow, and he'd gone and been awful to her; because he was awful, really. Because if she was right -… But Paul had seen John. With more birds than he could count, looking like a man should with them. Right - a man should be with a woman.
Otherwise, then, Paul would have wasted everything. Wasted what? Wasted nothing - because nothing ever would have happened differently, even if this was true.
'Look, Yoko, I'm sorry. But you cannot just - go around sayin' that! Think about John's reputation, okay? I'm not - I've nothing against it, 'course not. But…' Paul stopped. Didn't know what to say. Just that he didn't want this sort of thing getting out; even if it wasn't true. Even if it couldn't be.
Yoko didn't sound upset when she responded, just slightly stubborn - 'he was, Paul. He was, and I want you to think about it. Because I've been -,' Yoko also trailed off.
Neither of them knew what to say.
Yoko wanted Paul to think about John. John was already all Paul thought about.
And this wasn't fair.
'Yoko, I'm gonna go. I'll call ye next week, though, do you hear? And - and, hopefully, we'll be sorted,' more like - maybe you'll have your head on again, and we can laugh at how stupid the idea of John being gay is.
'Well, alright, Paul. Call me, and we can talk. I won't let this go, though.'
'No, 'course not. I won't keep you,' Paul said, essentially signalling the end of their conversation.
The line cut off, and Paul barely restrained himself from throwing the blasted machine at the wall. Why'd he ever gotten a phone in the first place? Bloody useless things, good for nothing.
The fact that Yoko could be saying this - not even a month after John had passed, so soon; too fucking soon, and why'd she have to say it to Paul? John's sexual preferences were nothing to do with Paul; nothing to do with him, nothing at all.
The rest of the day went by in a frenzied haze - Paul mixed between denial, anger, grief, rage, annoyance; whatever made him feel worse, he felt it.
The kids and Linda stayed clear of him, sensing his worsened mood; and his nails had been bitten down to stubs, his thumb even beginning to bleed before he'd moved on to the next one.
Yoko was so wrong, so entirely wrong; John would never - John just couldn't be gay.
God, Yoko may have been married to the man, but Paul had known him for much longer; and John had never suggested anything like it! They'd shared beds, shared birds, even - and John had never, ever suggested anything of the sort. Never made a pass, nothing like that.
You could always tell when somebody was a queer. God, Brian - bless his soul - had practically reeked of it. Thinking about Brian, John had gone off to Spain with him; but…Paul chuckled uneasily, shaking his head. Absolutely not.
Brian may have wanted something, but John wouldn't have. John had never touched Paul, so why would he have touched Brian? That just wouldn't make any sense.
If John had been gay, Paul would've known of it; and there was no point thinking of it, not now, because John simply wasn't a queer. Yes, he was fucking weird; a fucking crazy bastard, who some may have thought was - at times - a little bit effeminate…But he was still a Liverpudlian bloke, through and through, and none of that mattered.
None of it mattered. Because Paul would have known. Crying over this wasn't worth it, it wasn't true; but Paul found himself sobbing just as the sun was going down, because it really shouldn't matter what John was.
He was gone, already, and there was nothing anybody could do about it. No reason to believe it at all.
Paul found a whiskey bottle somewhere - one Linda hadn't disposed of, not yet - and he drunk it until he was too sauced to cry, too out of it to feel anything but humour at the whole situation.
John. Gay.
No. Not a chance. It was far too late, now, anyhow - even if John was gay. Not that it would change anything. Not that it would have.
Paul hiccuped into an empty glass, and let his eyes slip shut. He thought about John, as he did every single night.
Paul drifted off. He went back to the summer fete, as he did most nights.
Him and John, running amongst the crowds.
John always sung the wrong words. Paul always sung the right ones.
Hand in hand, Paul fell asleep to the sound of music. Missing John so much he could hardly stand it.
Maybe Yoko was right. It was far too late, now.
Paul croaked awake with a banging headache, hissing at all of the light filtering into the room.
He'd locked the door last night, he was sure of it, so how had Linda gotten in to open the curtains? Infuriating woman.
Paul groaned, slinging an arm over his eyes, and twisting in bed. Since when had he gotten into bed? God, he'd never bloody drink again; this was fucking ridiculous.
Was it a bed? It felt rather hard on his back…
Then, he heard something to his right, to his left - all around him, muted chatter. The muted chatter soon became clearer, and Paul immediately opened his eyes wide; staring around in fear at the commotion around him.
'You're takin' the piss,' Paul muttered, immediately starting to sweat as he was met with about a million pair of eyes.
Looks like he'd gone for a drunk stroll or something, collapsed on a park bench. Forgotten he was fucking famous, and that he'd be surrounded!
He wasn't a teenager anymore! How could he have gone and done this?!
He hadn't been out since John - since John, well…He wouldn't think about that.
Paul jumped up, frowning slightly at the odd way the people were dressed; at the fact that, for some reason, all of the trees had gained their leaves again - and there seemed to be a light dusting of summer dew over the grass.
It was winter last he'd checked; but, well, where was he, anyway? These people had English accents - not the Scottish ones he'd become so endeared to.
And, again, why were they all fucking dressed like that? Every girl in a skirt; which, sure, was normal - but not one was wearing the disco shit that had become so popular recently.
Alright. Paul could welcome a bit of traditional values. Still, didn't explain where he was; and why a gaggle of the women had begun to cry.
Paul didn't think he still had that affect on people anymore - so, it did swell his heart a little bit. And he was grateful for his lack of a hangover, surprisingly enough.
One muttered, 'aren't you supposed to be on tour?' - Paul ignored that. Because Wings had stopped touring an age ago, and he doubted they were talking about the Beatles.
'Uh, hullo,' he muttered, stepping away from prying hands, and sending them all an apologetic smile - 'seems I've gotten lost.'
A few blokes stepped forward - maybe the girls' boyfriends - and tried to act as makeshift bodyguards for him. Which Paul was grateful for, because one bird had tried cutting his hair off; and since when did they still try and do that? Paul had thoughts fans had left that behind with Beatlemania.
A helpful older woman called out, 'dearie, you're lost?'
No shit, Sherlock, Paul almost said in retort - instead, he chuckled, and swore off alcohol forever. 'Yeah, dunno where I am, or anythin'. How far's to Kintyre?'
A girl screamed hysterically, and fell over, followed by a few of her friends. Paul looked at them, bemused - wasn't he far too old for them? He went to run his hands through his mullet, an awkward habit of his, but instead was met with the back of his neck. When had his hair gotten shorter? Had it fallen out from all of the stress?
'The fuck is kint - kintee?' One of the men managed to push out, utterly fucking up the pronunciation.
Paul frowned, looking at him. The man just shrugged. 'Mate, this is Liverpool; not some fancy -'
Paul let out a wounded noise, which made everyone shut up - the girls finally stopping crying - to look at him with concern. Like he was the odd one out, and not them.
Liverpool! What the fuck?
Paul sat back on the bench, almost dry heaving, and would have been; if not for what felt like the billions of eyes tracking his every move.
Ever the performer, Paul managed to compose himself. 'Liverpool, alright, then.'
Had he been kidnapped? Some sort of - of juvenile prank? No bother. No bother, Paul would just take a plane, or something; drive back to Scotland.
Call Linda, first, though.
'Uh, does anyone have ten pence?' Paul muttered, thinking it unlikely that he had money on him.
The confused faces of the crowd seemed to grow even more confused. The old woman piped up again, 'ten pence? What's that, love?' Followed by the gaggle of girls going, 'yeah! What's that?'
Paul paused, shifting awkwardly. This was Liverpool, not a bunch of behind idiots - maybe they were all in on the prank? That'd make sense. All these lot ought to have been using the ten pence coin since 1968; there's no way they didn't know about it.
Paul dragged his hand across his head, then stood. 'Right, right - I'm off.'
He left, and nobody followed him. Which he was glad for. Probably because they thought he was off his rocker, just as much as he thought they were off theirs.
Paul's life couldn't get worse.
First, with John passing. Then, Yoko's bombshell about John's supposed sexuality - which Paul was still dubious about, thanks - and now…Whatever the fuck this was.
Paul felt like keeling in a corner somewhere; corners he knew well, because the crowd hadn't been lying.
This was undeniably Liverpool.
Paul stumbled around for a bit, trying to avoid prying eyes.
People would look at him, like they recognised him, then they'd look away with a shrug. He was probably so flustered that they thought he was some sort of imitator. Paul thought those types of people to be a load of nonsense…But, at least, if people thought he was a fake… He wouldn't be bothered.
A few people stopped him to ask - 'are you Paul McCartney?'
Paul would say, 'Who? I dunno - who's that, then?'
They'd clear off, after that, thinking he was a plonker for not knowing who Paul McCartney was. Some even verbalized it, calling him a wanker under their breaths. Nice to know their manners hadn't gotten better since he'd last visited, no matter how long it had been.
Eventually, Paul managed to make his way onto the Mersey; where he stumbled across a scattering of stalls, no doubt set up for the morning sales.
It was warm, so warm; and Paul couldn't ever remember it being this warm during winter, even if December was nearly over. In fact, he was sweating, and God - God, maybe he'd gotten a fever or something? Though, that wouldn't explain everyone else also sweating, and being dressed for an entirely different season.
Paul just wanted to call Linda. Just wanted to hear her voice, and then whatever was going on would be fixed.
He just needed to hear her.
Distracted by his panic, Paul bumped into some kid delivering newspapers, and he barely stopped to apologise, before the young lad was off again - leaving a few scattered on the floor.
Paul couldn't help but scan the paper; stopping short when he noticed the headline. 'Beatles: the new fad amongst youth?'
Paul bent down to pick it up - expecting his back to scream at him. Instead, he bent quite easily, and stood up just as easily; which stunned him even more than the headline.
Maybe they were talking about the band getting back together? Though, it was odd - the papers only had one thing to say about the Beatles since John had died, and well…One can guess. Paul hadn't picked up a paper in weeks, since it had happened.
Paul's hands quivered, his eyes beginning to water - and he stubbornly held the tears back. He scanned the contents, briefly. Nothing about John. Acting as if the Beatles were still together. Which was weird, or perhaps some kind of sick joke. Maybe Paul was just misunderstanding…
Then, he read the date.
August 25th, 1964.