Archive of Our Own ^beta

It wasn’t quite that people were drinking like it was the end of the world: it was that the world had already ended a dozen times during the year, so people were drinking like they had no way to pass the time before it began again.

At any rate, that was Paul’s cursory sense of the mood that evening. He, on the other hand, was just drinking. The world had little to do with it, really. 

It was early December, but inside the substantial home that occupied a part of Harrington Gardens in South Kensington, there was no sense that the weather outside had dipped below London’s seasonally mild chill into an almost inhospitable frigidity. The heat of the spirited mass brought the living room’s temperature to a near-fever pitch.

Paul, working through his fifth drink of the night – a glass of brandy poured generously into his and several other raised snifters by some partygoer in an oversized blouse – had retired to the corner of a rustic brown settee, and lost himself watching everyone around him. The Moody Blues’ latest record was on and he could just about hear it under the roaring din of conversation and laughter. In the warm half-light of the living room lamps, he didn’t recognize anyone in particular. Bodies seemed to web and weave through the house in a heedless rhythm – not a blur, more like a rushing river, where one point never stayed or returned to where it was before. 

He had been talking to someone five minutes ago, some man he only remembers for his awful necktie – a dizzying, swirling pattern, which mixed chartreuse and mandarin orange – but they must’ve drifted apart, or he’d ditched him. The latter seemed more likely. Somehow, in the span of a year or less, he had gone from finding most people generally agreeable and fascinating to feeling as though the world’s population had changed overnight. Where had all the pleasant, ingenuous, sincere people gone? Was there anyone left who wasn’t consumed by cynicism? 

Next to him were two young women, both drinking red wine. He began eavesdropping once he recognized their conversation was veering away from tranquil chatter into tense debate.

“Oh, you don't really think it’s that bad here, do you?” said one of the women, the one next to Paul, brushing her hair off her shoulders.

“You know, maybe I didn’t before, but I do now: the English might be more ‘civil’ about it, but at the end of the day, a lot of them are just as hateful of other races as Americans are,” said the other. “I mean it.”

“Sure. I mean, maybe we’re too polite to talk about some of these … tensions in our country.”

“Is ‘tension’ the right word, Emily? I would just call it racial discrimination.”

“Right, of course. It’s just difficult, though. I mean, I’m not saying that I agree with, god, someone like Powell, never in my life would I say that …”

“What are you saying then?”

“Well … did you read what he said in Eastbourne two weeks ago? It was a weird point he raised, Leela. He said other immigrants were supporting him too after his speech in April.”

“... Right,” Leela said, nodding her head imperceptibly.

“It just … it really got me thinking, I suppose. I mean maybe, inflammatory as he may be, he’s at least trying to talk about a very real situation in Britain – one that’s not just about discrimination. Because ... I really don't think we're that racialist here, is the thing," Emily said. "Certainly not like America. People are better than that here. But, I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong," she added, shrugging.

Leela looked at her friend, digesting her words. She took another drink, slightly smacking her lips after, then spoke.

“OK, if what he said is true, about these convenient immigrants agreeing with him, then … I think it only proves my point: I mean, the situation here has gotten so divisive because of what he said, we’ve got other immigrants trying to prove they’re ‘one of the good ones’ to people like Powell, who, mind you, pretend to be reasonable and honest but – if you pay close attention to what they’re saying – only care about keeping this country dominated by people who look like them – and for the rest of us to go back to where we came from, before we outnumber the ‘real’ Britons. Never mind the fact that some of us were born here.” 

Leela sighed, downed the rest of her drink, set it aside, then said, “It’s exhausting to be here sometimes.”

Emily also sighed. “I get it. But ... I have to believe our country is better than a handful of very loud bigots, right? And maybe everyone is just frustrated? About, you know," Emily waved a hand in the air, “everything going on?”

"Honestly, if people are frustrated, then I don't know what that has to do with people like me. I really don't," Leela said, reaching into her purse for a cigarette and lighting it. "Look ... maybe, you’re right. Maybe if I lived in America it would be worse. The stories I read about what happens there … But, it may not be the same thing, and it may not be that aggressive, but I just can’t take the way some people look at me, or my mum and dad — even my little brothers. And the little comments they make that they think are harmless. And how they act when they think I’m not paying attention. Nowadays, I think it would be better if they’d just tell me what they really think of me.”

Paul, taking a generous gulp of his brandy, drew himself out of their discussion. Standing beside the settee on the other side of him were two young men, passing each other a joint. He took another drink and began listening to their more relaxed exchange.

“Are you coming to the Christmas party at the office next week?” one of the lads asked the other.

“God, no,” said the one holding the joint. He took a pull and exhaled. “I’ve already made up my mind: I’m going to keep my head down, make it through December, earn a little extra so I can buy Irene those earrings she’s been hinting about for weeks. Then, in the New Year, I’m giving them my two weeks’ notice. I’ll be off to Marrakesh by the 17th.”

“You lucky bastard,” his friend said, smiling and taking the joint from him. “Well … guess I’ve got to commend you for bothering to come into the office every day–”

“–Most days–”

“–right, most days. If my dad was Barclays’ head of legal, I would not be working there – or anywhere, honestly.”

“I had a bash at it, didn’t I?” he asked. “I’m clearly not meant for the working world. We’re incompatible. All that mindless bollocks about ‘financial analysis modelling’ and ‘industry research’ and ‘client relationships,’ it’s done my head in. Nearly made me wanna do myself in. It was all so … fucking pointless,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

His friend passed the joint back. “It’s your life, mate.”

“Yeah … I’m never waking up before 10:00 ever again.”

“You hardly wake up before 10:00 now,” his friend said, slapping him once lightly on the shoulder. “How’s Irene feeling about Morocco then? Excited?”

“She doesn’t know about the trip yet.”

“Really!” his friend said, laughing. “You are planning on inviting her, right?”

Paul finished off his drink and pushed the sleeve of his wool-knit jumper up to check the time on his watch: 11:07. Was it too late to call Linda back at Cavendish? He’d told her not to wait up, but he was beginning to regret that. This fall he had found himself entering periods where he’d rather everyone except Linda leave him alone for about a month. They never lasted long, but they were growing in frequency. It felt foolish to be at this party and not at home with her. 

He looked up and around the room. In a coincidental parting of the crowd, he saw John and Yoko sitting together across the room, talking to each other and one other person. John was reclining on the arm of the sofa, his arm propping up his head, legs contorted on the couch. Yoko had one arm wrapped around one of his legs, leaning into him. Paul attempted to read their lips.

A year ago, if he wanted to know what John was saying to someone from across a room, he would go over and find out. Here, he sat and tried to guess.

Yoko began speaking and a languor, easy smile grew on John’s face. He sat up then, his legs dangling off the couch, leaning back, arms folded. She smiled back at him and continued talking, patting his thigh. He spread his legs, nudging his thigh against hers.

The phantom sensation of John’s thigh pressed against his own returned to him from last May, at Brian’s house for the Sgt. Pepper celebration. The four of them had sat on the couch, John next to him. His action hadn’t felt intentional: it was, really, an inconsequential part of a momentous day. If asked about that day an hour ago, for whatever reason, he would’ve mentioned Linda taking his photo, kneeling in front of him, talking to him with a keen tilt to her head, him leaning in to listen. This evening, that day was about his thigh touching John’s, its facile intimacy. The turn of his head a few moments later, that same easy smile glinting with the flash of camera lightbulbs. He spread his hand over the expanse of his thigh, trying to confirm if it was the same one.

It had come back. Or, not come back — it had become a thing. Something that was his and John’s alone, he had assumed. 

Paul stood up, swaying. The girls next to him — whose conversation had moved into a more jovial realm — looked up at him with mild concern. The lads standing beside the settee looked at him, too, smiling with bloodshot eyes. One of them wordlessly held up the joint to Paul, who hesitated before accepting it, taking a deep pull and handing it back.

He walked into the hallway looking for a telephone, catching one of the lads behind him saying, Paul McCartney just smoked my joint! and smirking to himself. After almost bumping into the wall, he found an old, black rotary phone sitting on an ornate walnut table. The furniture and much of the decor in the flat was pre-war. The sounds of the living room were duller now. That, plus the weed, was helping – his mood steadily climbed from morose to satisfied in a passive, anemic sort of way. He lifted the receiver and dialed his number.

Linda picked up after the fifth ring. “Hello?” she said with a sleepy voice. 

“Linda, hi, it’s me,” Paul said.

“Pardon, who is this?” 

“It’s Paul.”

“Oh, Paul!” she said quietly. He heard shuffling on the other end as she sat up in bed. “Sorry, I think I passed out while I was reading my book.”

“I said you didn’t have to wait up for me.”

“Yeah, I know, but I thought maybe you’d be back before midnight.”

“Why?”

“Well … something tells me I may have made you go out–”

“–You didn’t make me do anything.”

“Sure, but you weren’t really thinking about going out tonight until you got the call from Tony Mitchell, and I told you it’d be good for you to get out of the house. You’ve been cooped up here for almost a week now. Which is … weird for you.”

“Right.” He wrapped the telephone cord around his finger.

“I mean, I know how I get at parties I don’t want to be at: I sit in the corner staring at the carpet until I’ve been there long enough it’s not rude anymore for me to go.”

Paul sighed, leaning against the wall. The flowers in the wallpaper began to blur.

“I’m my own man, Linda. I decided to go.”

“Right. Well, how are you?” she asked.

“Dunno … good. Good party. John and Yoko are here.”

“Oh. How are they?”

“I only really talked to them for a few minutes when I first got here. Then I got caught talking to, erm, one of the lads. How’s Heather?”

“Uhh, she’s great. She went to bed a couple hours ago. Actually, before she did, we were talking about how much she loves Primrose Hill: I took her there the other day when you were at the office and she spent the whole afternoon running around with Martha. It’s a total wonderland to her. You’d think we were living in a shoebox or something in New York. Right before she fell asleep, she just sat up and went, ‘Mommy? Can we go to the hill park tomorrow with Martha and Paul?’”

Paul smiled. “We could take her to the zoo at Regent’s Park again if she likes. It’s a lot colder this time of the year, though, so all the animals might be hiding.”

Linda laughed. “Yeah, just like Central Park. I went one time to the zoo there in March, I think – all the poor monkeys were huddling together for warmth. It was really sad! Honestly, I don’t think I can stand to see animals taken out of their natural habitats and locked away like that – especially in a New York winter.”

“No zoo, then. Just the four of us in the park.”

“Sounds great,” Linda said, with a slight laugh. “When will you be back, then?” 

Paul scratched his beard. It was a weird sensation, having one to scratch, a full one. It itched. “Not sure. Maybe another hour or less. You don’t have to wait up.”

Linda sighed. “All right. I’m glad you called at least. I wasn’t worried or anything, just … hope you’re doing OK.”

Paul looked down, pensive, frowning. “I’m all right. Maybe a little drunk, but I’m all right.”

A beat or two passed. “OK,” she said. “I’ll keep the light on outside then. Drive safe.”

“I will.”

“OK … I love you.”

Paul tapped his foot against the carpet. “I love you, too.”

“All right, goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He felt a pang like a dull blade pressing into his chest. “Goodnight,” he said, hanging up.

The guitar opening of White Room came blaring from the living room. Paul emerged from the hallway and saw some people had started dancing, or were bobbing their heads and shuffling to the beat. He also saw John and Yoko still on the couch, a throng of people sitting and standing around them. He believed he recognized the other person that was with them before: Rumi Hoshika, sitting next to Yoko on the couch. John’s movements were fluid and lethargic when he talked and he had everyone’s attention.

The lads with the joint were still there. Paul tapped one of them on the shoulder and when he turned, made a pinching motion with his fingers. He smiled and passed him the joint, again.

“You diggin’ the party, mate?” he asked.

Paul nodded, taking another lengthy hit, then exhaling. “Sure,” he said, passing them back the joint, then making his way through the crowd to the other side.

“… Really, what we’re talking about is a symbol of all the insanity in our world today,” he heard John saying. “It’s all right there: greed, violence, conformity — a great, big stirring pot of mankind’s greatest ailments.”

Paul stood next to a blonde girl in a royal blue jumper, who was smoking a cigarette, one elbow balanced on her crossed arm, and listening intently to John. Also in the circle was a young man in a black turtleneck, sitting in a dining chair, and a couple, one in all velvet and the other in all corduroy, sharing another dining chair, arms wrapped around each other.

It was fun, sometimes, just to listen to John talk to other people, especially about anything for which he had a great passion. Even when Paul didn’t completely agree with him on something, like music, girls, or art, John had a way of explaining himself that made him seem the closest in touch with the truth out of everybody in the room. His sapience, no matter the context, was his triumph.

It was good to see him spirited and engaged with other people, too. It reminded him of the Hamburg days, for some reason, how John could hold his own at a table full of artistic types, prossies, rock n’ rollers and curmudgeonous club owners — even with a language barrier. 

“Remember, too,” John continued, “they’ll never allow us to know everything, the whole truth of it, and look at what we are seeing. Now, imagine how much worse it all must actually be on the ground, the things we don’t see … Paul.”

John looked away from the black turtleneck kid he was addressing and up at Paul, who gave a lazy grin.

“All right, laddie?” he asked, putting on his Scottish accent.

“All right, Paul?” John replied. “Haven’t seen you all night.”

“Yeah, I got caught up talking to… well–”

“Nigel Waymouth it was, and his bird, Sheila. They left about a half-hour ago,” John said. 

Paul nodded. “Right. Right, and then after that, I ran into-”

“–Keith and Mick. You asked them where Brian was – Brian Jones. They’re still around here somewhere if you wanna ask them again.”

The group held its collective breath. The girl beside Paul turned to look at him, smoking her cigarette delicately. Paul zeroed in on Yoko, who was pushing back her cuticles with her nails.

“And how are you, Yoko?”

She looked up with a faint smile. “I’m OK. How are you, Paul?”

Paul beamed. “Fabulous, darling, really. Hello to you, too, Rumi,” he turned and said, and she nodded her greeting in return. Then, addressing the group, he asked, “Is there a seat here for an old queen to join in?”

One half of the velvet-and-corduroy couple, the velvet, slowly got up from the chair, mumbling about wanting to get another drink. The other half, corduroy, followed, throwing a passing glance at Paul and John on their way out.

Paul took their seat and pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his trousers’ pocket. As he took one out, the smoking girl produced a silver Zippo and lit his cigarette.

“So,” Paul said, exhaling a stream of smoke, “you were talking about the plague of mass media?”

John raised an eyebrow. “Are you drunk?”

“Are you high?”

“I’m not low.”

“No, never you.”

“We were just talking about the war,” Rumi chimed in, “and some of the news we have read this past year.”

“Sure,” Paul said. He read news. “Well, everyone’s got their reasons for fighting. Unfortunately, I’m not sure it’s going to stop anytime soon."

The group looked at him quietly for a moment. The kid with the black turtleneck nodded his head.

“You know, even one innocent person being killed should be enough reason to put an end to the war,” Yoko said. 

“Exactly,” John said.

“In America, the idea of asking for peace is seen as radical,” Yoko continued. “Wanting anything less than complete bloodshed makes you a traitor.”

“Look, I’m not saying that I think what’s happening over there is OK in any sense,” Paul said, directed to the group. “I’m just saying both sides have got their reasons and it’s a complicated situation.”

“No, that’s what they want you to think,” John said. “They want us all to think it’s too complicated to understand, that we all just need to stick our heads back in the sand, go back to our sleepy lives and let the grown-ups take care of everything. They don’t want us questioning things because they know, deep down, what they’re doing is wrong.”

Everyone nodded as John spoke. Paul spotted the black turtleneck kid from the corner of his eyes glancing at him, then at John, then back at him.

Paul leaned back in his seat and said, under his breath, “I can think for myself.”

John narrowed his eyes faintly. “Pardon?”

Paul shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, his face somewhere between a smile and a grimace. Yoko placed a hand on John’s knee. John looked as though he was interested in following up, but relented. He picked up his drink from the coffee table, something dark in a tumbler glass, and took a sip.

“… I’m Christine, by the way,” said the smoking girl, moving to stand beside Paul. He stuck out his hand and she shook it. 

“Charmed,” he said, taking a pull from his cigarette. He turned to the black turtleneck kid. “And you are?”

“William. Will.”

Paul reached out to shake his hand. Will looked mildly horrified as he stuck out his own hand and shook.

Another lull into silence formed.

“… Love this tune,” said Christine, gesturing vaguely to the sound of the record playing.

“I can’t believe they would just decide to break up after dropping a record like this,” Will said.

“Clapton’s been playing peacekeeper for too long,” John said, taking another sip.

Paul resisted rolling his eyes.

“You know, I heard a rumour that he played on your new album, actually,” Christine said to John, pointing to him with the fingers that held her cigarette.

“I heard that,” Will said, turning to her and nodding. “While My Guitar Gently Weeps. It sounds just like him.”

“Oh yeah?” John said. He gave a quick glance to Paul. “Where’d you lot hear that bit of trivia from?”

“Well, I’ve got a cousin who works at EMI, actually,” Christine said matter-of-factly. “She’s a secretary-in-training. Says she heard someone might’ve seen him there in the studio one day. I read about it somewhere, too, some music review.”

“Oh, is that right? And you?” John said to Will.

He shrugged, meekly. “I also read it somewhere. Just sounds like him playing.” 

Paul looked at John with wide eyes. John met his gaze.

“Ah Christ,” John said with an egregious Irish accent, “but the wee ones have active imaginations, so they do.”

Paul held back a laugh. “I think people need to stop believing everything that Melody Maker tells them,” he said.

“The Beatles aren’t a rotating cast of character actors,” said John.

“Besides, even if Clapton did play on the record-”

“-We wouldn’t say that in front of Rumi!” John finished, gesturing to her, making everyone burst into laughter. “It would be in the papers by Monday morning!”

Rumi smiled and feigned innocence while Yoko hid her grin behind her hand. 

“So, if you don’t mind me asking,” Christine said, perching herself on the coffee table while flicking her cigarette ash into a ceramic ashtray, “where are the other two Beatles tonight?”

John and Paul looked at each other. Paul scratched his head and ran his hands through his hair.

“Old Georgie’s probably at home with the missus,” he said. “He’s more cerebral these days, our George is.”

“I saw Ringo earlier this afternoon,” John said. “He mentioned something about a dinner with one Mr. Pete Sellers this evening: between the six of us, Ringo has big plans for the silver screen.”

Paul feigned shock. “I thought the cinema was your calling, Lennon.”

“Ha!” John leaned back with a haughty laugh. “Someone showed me a review of How I Won the War written by this big-shot American film critic. Some tosser who’s only been writing about films for a year, apparently.”

“What’s he called?” Paul asked.

“No clue. Completely forget. Anyway, he said the movie ‘failed miserably,’” John said, starting to count off a list with his fingers, “that it wasn’t ‘brave or outspoken,’ wasn’t as good as Dr. Strangelove, and – get this – that it relied on ‘star quality.’” He pointed to himself with his thumb, laughing.

Paul scoffed. “He’s just jealous ‘cause you are a star and he’s stuck typing away in his office trying to earn his keep.”

“Of course. I mean, these critics, they take things so seriously. It was just something I wanted to do for Dick, it’s just fun. That’s the problem, you see, is it’s all so fucking serious. Sometimes you’ve just got to let yourself feel, man,” John said, clenching his fists.

“I wouldn’t take it so personally,” Paul said, lighting a new cigarette with the end of his old one. “It was a good film. You looked good and you did great.”

John smiled and shrugged. “You know what else he said?” he said, taking off his glasses to clean them with his shirt. “He said he couldn’t get a handle on the British-isms. Said none of it made sense for an American audience.” He put his glasses back on.

Paul jumped into his Texan accent, leaning toward John, cigarette dangling from his lips: “Well, if only y’all had talked more like this during the movie, you’d be on your way to becomin’ a Hollywood star.”

“Honestly Paul, it never gets any better the more you do that accent,” John said. “In fact, it’s gotten much worse.”

“It’s not bad!” Paul said in his regular voice. “And I haven’t heard you do any better.”

“Because I’ve got shame and you don’t.”

“… So, just to be clear,” Christine said, smiling, “George is at home and Ringo is out.”

Paul squinted his eyes. When had they been talking about them?

The evening carried on in seamless fashion — a melange of drink, dance and dialogue the verve of which, collectively, did not abate. For John, however, as the hour drew closer to midnight, he began to withdraw from the circle’s conversation and his comments became infrequent. 

At one point, Paul – who was explaining to Will the fundamentals of learning to play the bass guitar – watched, out of the corner of his eye, as John lit a cigarette, wrapped an arm around Yoko and rested a head on her shoulder while smoking, then watched him stay that way for half an hour. It was beyond ennui – it was exhaustion.

Paul would look at him periodically, making sure he wasn’t coming apart at the seams. Funny, that: first, he had wanted to watch John talk, and now, he wanted to watch him say and do nothing. Of course, these days, being with John was no longer a definitive facet of his life, which could have had something to do with it. That thought sent his mind running through a laundry list of questions. 

When was the last time I actually saw him? It must’ve been at least a week ago. 

When was the last time we had a conversation? That was not too long ago. He’d talked to him on the phone the other day.

One that lasted more than fifteen minutes? Much longer than a week ago. 

What about the last time we hung out together? He forgot. 

What about the last time we were alone in a room together?

He turned to Christine and asked her what her plans were for Christmas. She said she was going to a ski resort in Anzère with her friends on the 18th. He told her about their trip to Obertauern a little while back and how cold it had been there. Then, he remembered that “a little while back” was actually three years ago, and thought about that as she described the chalet they had reserved, how one of her friends had almost fallen off the chairlift mid-air last time, and her excitement over the promise of an immeasurable amount of Swiss chocolate.

Sometime before 12:00, Rumi left with one of her friends, and shortly after, Christine and Will went off to smoke a joint together (and likely share a snog, Paul thought). After they left, there was a brief lull. Then, John spoke up.

“'m off to the loo,” he said.

Paul nodded. “Be careful: if you fall, your big head’ll get stuck in that toilet forever.”

John, without looking, gave him a solid punch on the shoulder as he left. 

Paul turned to Yoko. The air between them grew stilted. He rocked back and forth a bit in his seat.

“Um, do you want me to get you a drink?” he tried.

Yoko shook her head slightly and gave a small smile. “No, thank you.” 

Paul nodded. The brandy had been his last drink. He contemplated getting another.

“So … I saw Robert Fraser the other day,” he said. “He’s still buzzing about the reception from you and John’s show from back in July. Says he’s trying to figure out how he’s going to top it in the new year.”

Yoko nodded. “It was a very satisfying experience. I wasn’t sure what it would be like to collaborate with John on an exhibition of this kind, but he exceeded my expectations. He’s incredibly smart.”

“Of course. That’s our John.”

“Yes, I think his mind operates on a level not everyone’s mind does. He understands everything about life, about the world,” she said, making a wiping gesture with both hands as if feeling the surface of a globe, “and people.”

“Yeah. He does.”

Another beat of silence lapsed. Paul cleared his throat. “Any plans for the new year?”

Yoko sat forward, humming, her elbow on her knee and propping her chin up with her hand. “Not sure. It’s been difficult to work these days. It’s much harder to set up exhibitions and book galleries when I’m not supposed to be promoting myself.”

Hearing this on any other day might’ve amounted to provocation. Instead, Paul smiled.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll think of something.” 

Yoko hummed again. “What I’ll have to do is have another conversation with Derek Taylor before the year is over,” she said. “It would be great if we were able to put out the second volume of our recordings next year.”

“Yeah,” Paul said, “John mentioned you two had recorded something while you were in hospital.” He saw John’s drink on the coffee table and decided it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he had a few sips. He picked it up and saw where John’s lips had left their mark on the glass. He turned it in his hand and took a drink from the other end.

“Yes, that’s right,” Yoko said. She looked down at the carpet, then picked lint off her black slacks, her face growing pensive. “I know our record, to you, may not sound like the traditional idea of music … but, I think our ambitions should be bigger than music. Bigger than making art just to have art. We have voices and we have to use them for something important.”

Paul smirked, tilting his head to the side. “Is there something wrong with music, you think? Has it become passé?” 

Yoko frowned. “No. I mean that whatever we do – art or music or film – it must be for a greater purpose. To help put an end to the senseless violence in this world, to change how people look at others with narrow minds and narrow hearts. We have to be a remedy.”

“Sure,” Paul said, picking at dead skin on his lip. “That’s fair. But … well, maybe people don’t want to be reminded of what’s going on in the world when they go to a record shop, or turn on a pop station. And maybe they don’t want to be told what to think by people like us.”

“Artists, do you mean?”

“People in the public eye. Celebrities.”

Yoko shook her head, her hair brushing softly against her face. “It’s not telling anyone what to think – it’s beginning a conversation. We’re not leaders, John and I. We’re an ordinary couple who believe the world needs to change – and we want to express that. Life is for saying what we feel, isn't it?”

“What’s going on?” came a voice from behind Paul. 

He and Yoko looked up and saw John had returned. He looked, physically, more relaxed than he’d been before his bathroom break, though his face was flushed and his eyebrows were knotted in vague concern. 

“I leave for one merry minuet and you’re already at her,” John said.

“I’m not at anyone,” Paul said. “We’re just talking.”

“About what?”

“Art. And its purpose in this day and age,” Paul said, slinging his arm on the back of his chair, looking up at John. “Should we say something, or should we not? As artists, I mean.”

John stared him plainly in the face. “You know how to say lots of things, lad.”

Paul recoiled, then laughed. “Suppose I do, yeah.”

Yoko rose from her seat, and John went to her side, wrapping an arm around her.

“I think that’s it for our evening,” John said. “Let’s get our coats, find what's-his-face and say our happy Christmases and farewells, please.”

Paul’s eyebrows furrowed. “That’s it? Leaving so soon?”

“It’s after midnight,” John said. “I’m knackered.”

Paul nodded. It was. The time had gotten away from him after he went to sit down with them.

“God, in the early days, you used to stay up ‘til the rest of us were already in bed. Well, George and Ritchie at least – you and I used to be up ‘til about-”

“It’s not the early days, Paul," John said, “and I’ve already lived enough for two lives.”

Paul nodded and scratched the back of his neck. “Right. I should be getting back myself, anyway, just for Linda’s sake … Well, do you both want to come in my car then?”

John and Yoko looked at each other. Paul saw Yoko’s head give a marginal nod up and down. John looked back at Paul, his eyes flitting down to his top lip. Paul knew he was looking at the faint divot where the scar used to be.

“All right,” he said. “We were going to get a cab otherwise.”

Paul’s eyes were fixed on the two beams of stark white painting the road ahead, his hands curling and uncurling around the steering wheel as he drove. It felt like the wind was tearing him open as they hurtled through the night.

He chanced a glance in the rearview mirror: John and Yoko were curled up together, one mass of brown and black fur, a cozy lump of warmth. John’s eyes were closed and his head was resting against Yoko’s chest, drawing himself into her. She was awake, staring out of the window. Her eyes closed for a moment, then reopened.

Paul looked back at the road. She had him. He had her. Weren’t they just the luckiest pair ever? Not everyone was fortunate enough to find their other half. Someone who fits you. Someone whose thoughts you never had to guess, and who never had to guess yours. Someone who could slot themselves into the parts of you that didn’t exist. Someone you stayed with when self-preservation interests indicated the more intelligent choice would be to leave. Someone who did the same for you. Someone whose gaze was your illumination. 

A fog was building in his head. He considered opening a window but feared that, at their speed now, the whistling of the air might make him dizzy, throw him off the road and send them crashing. 

They came into Central and streetlights began to flash by in the corner of his eye, pulsing in a bright, steady beat that galvanized him. The evening had clarity and purpose. This was the moment it had brought them to. It was Saturday night and he was taking John home. Nothing needed to be changed.

Eventually, they arrived in front of 34 Montagu Square. Paul parked his car beside the curb and looked at the home beside him, engine running. He got a flashback to opening The Daily Express the morning of the 19th of October and seeing a photo of John outside the Marylebone court, under a headline that read “Lennon and Yoko on drug charges.” The photo, headline and two-paragraph story occupied less than a quarter of page eleven and was squeezed in between three different stories. Across from it was an editorial about Aristotle Onassis, “the man Jackie really needs,” which took up a chunk of page ten.

It wasn’t easy to get an ideal picture of it after dark, but from the façade, the flat seemed stylish but welcoming. A good fit for John, he thought. He looked in the rearview mirror. Yoko was gently jostling John awake. She turned to Paul.

“Do you want to come in for some tea?” she asked.

Paul swallowed. Tea might be a good idea. Giving himself time to get sober before seeing Linda, an even greater one. Spending more time with John and Yoko …

“Sure,” he said, turning off the engine.

Paul sat on the armchair opposite John, who was sinking into the couch. Yoko was in the kitchen pouring tea. Paul took out his carton of cigarettes and tapped it repeatedly against the armrest. 

“We don’t have any sugar, Paul,” Yoko called out. “We have milk – is that OK?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Paul called back, staring at a spread of record album covers on the coffee table. In between a copy of Make It Happen and Blonde on Blonde, he could see part of John’s naked form peaking out on one of the covers.

“John?” Yoko called. “Milk, dear?”

John, from where he was lying down, mumbled something that seemed to indicate his negation.

Paul came to from his trance. He looked at the carton in his hand and took a cigarette out, lighting it. Yoko came over with a tray on which three small, white tea cups sat, as well as a glass of water and a white, porcelain pot, steam billowing out of the spout. 

She set the tray down gently, the tea in the cups undisturbed. She handed a cup to Paul, took one for herself, then went and sat on the couch where John’s head was against her thigh, cradling her cup in her hands and taking a sip.

“Any plans for the rest of the year, then, Yoko?” Paul asked, drinking.

“We have the concert with the Rolling Stones in a week – the rock n’ roll circus.”

“Hm. Should be grand, that.” 

“Are you going to be sick?” Yoko asked John. He shook his head.

“‘m all right,” he said. “Threw up at the party.” 

“Do you want some water to drink?” She asked him. He nodded, and she rested his head on her thigh, reached over for the glass of water and helped him take a sip. Paul looked away, smoking and drinking.

Sobriety was crawling in, and it was draining Paul’s desire to fill the silence between the three of them. For a while, however long, maybe a few minutes, maybe twenty of them, they sat in the interval period of the night.

Quietly, Paul finished three cigarettes while Yoko stroked John’s hair and drank her tea. After the third one was down to the end, he dropped it in his near-empty cup of tea, making a quiet hiss.

“All right,” he said. “Don’t want to overstay my welcome. I’m going to head out, leave you two alone for the night.”

Yoko nodded. “Thank you, Paul.” 

John, slowly, moved his arm and looked at Paul. He reached over to the coffee table where his glasses were sitting and put them on. The light of the lamp glistened in the lenses.

“I’ll walk you out.”

Silently, they slipped out the door of the basement flat, closing it behind them. It was bitterly cold. The air seemed to hold itself still. The light outside the flat wasn’t on: the only way Paul could see anything was from the faint, yellow glow of the streetlight, an alien orb hovering in the midnight fog. Outside, John looked more like an idea than a person to Paul.

Paul moved to start walking up the stairs to the street but was stopped by a steady hand on his forearm. He turned back and John was looking at him.

“We all right?”

Paul nodded. “‘Course.”

John nodded. “Good,” he said, lightly.

“Yeah.”

John didn’t move. Didn’t make any gesture to suggest he wanted to walk up. He stood there, beside his door, staring at his hand on Paul’s arm.

“You all right?” Paul asked.

John shrugged and looked down. “Dunno,” he said. “It’s weird. Just feel like I’ve missed ya,” He smiled, small, self-deprecating.

Paul frowned. “I haven’t gone anywhere,” he mumbled.

John shook his head. “That’s not …”

His hand began to pull away, but before it could, Paul laid his hand on top of it. A moment ago, he almost wanted to grab it and take it off his arm, to say goodnight, goodbye, so long, and head up the stairs into the fog.

He kept it there. His thumb brushed the top of John’s hand. He brushed it back and forth. He heard the minute intake of John’s breath, with no exhale. He stared at his thumb, going back and forth. He felt his skin, rough, catching against his calloused thumb, the veins connected to his fingers, and the ridges of his bones.

“Maybe I’ve been … a bit distant,” Paul heard himself say, quiet.

“I have,” John whispered. “Not just … from lots of people.”

Paul let out a single, hushed laugh. “Am I ‘people’ now?”

They had inched closer together, somehow, and Paul could hear the rise and fall of John’s breath, along with his own. He felt the press of John’s hand around his arm, steady. With his own hand, slowly, he pressed down firmly, his fingers curled around John’s hand. He could see himself grabbing it, thrusting it against his chest and keeping them there all night — for as long as it took for someone to say something.

He felt John’s hand squeeze. He looked up. The look in his eyes burned him. Some strange pressure formed between his eyes, in the bridge of his nose. He looked back down.

John began to pull his hand away. It seemed to happen in slow motion, but it was happening to someone else, like in a movie. It was more memory than moment. He had no way to make it right in time for him to keep John’s hand where it was.

John slipped both his hands into his coat pocket. Paul then turned, quietly, to walk up the stairs, gripping the railing to avoid slipping on the steps.

When he got to the top, Paul waited, staring at the streetlight, then turned — John was lingering right outside his door, arms now crossed, leaned against the frame.

“Have a good night,” Paul said, waving. 

John gave a single wave. “‘Night, Macca,” he said. He waited, a breath of a moment, looking down. Then, he opened the door, stepped back inside and closed it. It was well after midnight and the neighbourhood felt barren, the only sound now the wind whistling through the streets and alleyways.

Back in his car, driving home, Paul was buried inside of himself.

The way was mostly clear on Park Road – a few other cars were on the road, people heading home from their own parties and other evening engagements. Their headlights cut through the fog every now and then, their razor-sharp spotlights like ghosts.

The moment he had stepped onto the first stair outside of John’s flat, he had begun walking toward the precipice of some unknown grief. Whatever the source of it was going to be, it was waiting for him. The longer he drove, the closer it grew.

He turned on the radio just in time to catch the end of a rock song, the DJ chiming in right after the final note.

“… Welcome back, that was The Yardbirds, “Heart Full of Soul’: a late-night request from Jeremy, one of many fans of the group who were sorry to hear about the members deciding to part ways this year. In fact, the ‘New Yardbirds’ as they were calling themselves, have already played two shows in London this fall — one at the Marquee on the 10th of October and the other at Roundhouse on the 9th of November.”

Paul stared straight ahead at the road, willing himself to absorb and embody the emptiness of the night.

“Now, these New Yardbirds will be back in town again on the 10th of December, that’s next Tuesday, under a new name they’ve been going by for a few weeks now: Led Zeppelin is the group’s new name. Yes, you heard that right: Led Zeppelin. New name, and several new members from what I’ve heard. I will say, one of our volunteers here at the station was at the Roundhouse show back in November, and he says he’s certain they’re not going to be like their namesake and sink as it were. You do with that information what you will …” 

The chatter of the radio became white noise — dangerous, as Paul felt his sobriety shift to physical exhaustion, despite the roisterous sprint of his mind.

“Once again, you’re tuned into Radio Free London, broadcasting in the Greater London and home counties area on the 255 medium wave. The time right now is 12:51 in the morning — we’re coming to the end of our evening together, listeners, and I’ve only got a couple of more tunes for you here before we say bye-bye. Here we are now: this is Stevie Wonder, with ‘A Place in the Sun.’”

The opening piano chords played, the violins swelled, and despite himself, he felt a smile grow on his face.

Like a long lonely stream,

I keep runnin' towards a dream

Movin' on, movin' on

It was all there in Stevie's voice, clear, bright, awake. He remembered himself a little better now. It was hard to imagine he had even forgotten.

Like a branch on a tree,

I keep reachin' to be free

Movin' on, movin' on

Paul hummed the tune to himself, tapping his fingers in time to the beat. He starts singing along with the second verse, calm and quiet, then louder and louder.

There's a place in the sun

Where there's hope for everyone

Where my poor restless heart's gotta run

He thought about Linda laying in bed right now. A part of him hoped she was still awake. Maybe what he needed was a trip, all three of them: he, Linda and Heather. Someplace warm and tranquil where they could enjoy each other’s company, where the world would be lucid. He could picture it, like an old film: her smile in the sunshine, a golden halo around her hair from the horizon, her hand in his, and Heather running around on the beach, making sandcastles, collecting stones and shells, diving into the water, free as a bird. 

He felt a sudden state of confoundment. It didn’t make any sense, that something so precious, so pure, something with as much promise as Linda could enter his life and co-exist alongside all of the upheaval, the paranoia, the precarity. His pain and his joy were immune to one another. Still, how could they stand to be so close together?

He turned up the radio, almost as loud as it could get, and sang along with the final chorus, in his car, cutting through the dark.

It was hard not to feel like a child getting into bed with Yoko some nights. Her dark hair was fanned out across the pillow, her head tilted to the side, her hands folded on her stomach. The only light in the room came from the moonlight outside, a silver haze pouring in. Peace emanated from her presence. John looked at her from the side of the bed and felt like he did when he was six years old, deciding whether or not to wake Aunt Mimi up after a bad dream.

Carefully, he lifted the corner of the bedsheets and gently laid himself down beside her, folding the covers over himself. The clock beside the bed read 12:47. He took off his glasses and placed them on the bedside table.

Trying not to startle her with his movement, he shifted onto his side, one of his hands underneath his cheek, and stared softly at her. He didn't expect it when, calmly yet almost immediately, her eyes fluttered open. She turned her face to him. 

“Hi,” he said.

Wordlessly, he drew himself closer to her, laying his head on her chest. She wrapped an arm around him, combing her fingers through his hair with her hand. He sighed and sank in.

He remembered his hand under Paul’s in the hallway moments ago — Paul caressing his skin. The feeling of it resisted articulation. It went beyond the mind itself, even further than the body. It wasn’t something that could be conjured, or taught, or controlled. It was innate to the nature of them. 

He came to a strange realization: there was something quite ordinary to the love they have, or had. There was never an arrow through the chest, only a dull, growing pain that seems to have become a chronic condition. 

He pressed his face against her chest and felt it grow wet with his tears. There was no sound, no wrenching sobs and moans, only the faint brush of her fingers through his hair lulling him to sleep.