AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

Stage Fright chapter ten

The next morning John stumbled into the private dining area of the hotel, fully dressed, but with his eyes still half-closed. He was greeted by a rather pale looking Paul, who sat picking at his breakfast.

Paul looked up briefly as John plopped down on the chair opposite to him. "Mornin.'"

John grunted something in return which Paul assumed to be a kind of reply to his greeting. He watched as John hungrily attacked his food.

After they'd sat in silence for a few minutes, John looked up from his plate. "So where are the other two buggers?" he asked around a mouthful of toast.

Paul shrugged. "Dunno."

It wasn't until John had nearly finished his breakfast that he noticed Paul hadn't even touched his food. His spoon was halfway to his mouth when he stopped and looked at his writing partner enquiringly. "Aren't ye gonna eat that?"

Paul shrugged and pushed his plate aside. "I'm not hungry."

John studied him. "You and Ringo have a wild night then?" he said, waggling his eyebrows.

"Fuck off, Lennon."

"Well, aren't we in a sunny mood today?" John said sarcastically, though he was starting to get a little concerned. Paul was actually always like a little ray of sunshine in the morning, which usually annoyed the hell out of John. However, now he was just quietly staring down at his still full plate and John suddenly realised that he had been like this every morning over the past few days. In fact, ever since they'd been touring again.

He narrowed his eyes as he munched thoughtfully. Dark shadows had gathered under Paul's eyes and his face looked exceptionally pale this morning, which made him seem much younger than his 22 years.

John put down his spoon, pushed his now empty plate away and looked his band mate in the eye. "Alright, let's have it. What's the matter?"

Paul sighed annoyed. "Nothing!"

"Go on, you stubborn git, you look like shite!" John remarked bluntly. He suspected it had something to do with the attack a few weeks ago. He hadn't forgotten about it, in fact, he'd been wondering when Paul would start showing signs of cracking up. John had known from the start that the whole thing was not going to blow over smoothly, not for any of them, no matter how hard they tried to forget it.

Still, he'd hoped that somehow Paul would be able to leave it behind him, with his ever-positive attitude. Though over the years John had come to realise that Paul's optimism was as much a mask as John's cynical wit.

Paul glared at him. "Ta."

"Well!" John replied. "Look, Paul, either you tell me now or I find out myself later, I know it has something to do with the attack-"

Paul stood up abruptly, interrupting him. "Sod off, John!" he snapped and stormed off, leaving a stunned John behind.

As he stalked out of the dining area, Paul passed a surprised-looking George and Ringo, who had just entered. George and Ringo looked at each other, eyebrows raised. Then George shrugged, turned around and went after Paul.

Ringo looked around and spotted an annoyed John getting up from his table and he made his way over to him.

"What's up with Paul?" John asked, cutting right to the chase.

"Well, good mornin' to you too, John," Ringo replied wryly.

"Answer the question, what's the matter with Paul?" John repeated impatiently.

Ringo glanced at the door, through which Paul had disappeared a moment ago. He wanted to tell John about Paul's nightmares, but he wasn't about to break Paul's trust. Besides, he didn't think it was his place to tell anyone anyway. So he just shrugged. "You'll have to ask him that, mate," he said.

John frowned; something was being kept from him and he didn't like it one bit. "I did ask him, but the stupid git wouldn't tell me."

"Then I won't tell you either," Ringo said simply.

John had always admired Ringo's great sense of loyalty, but now his loyalty was proving to be a royal pain in the arse.

"Alright, be that way! But I'll find out myself anyhow," John replied, stalking off.

"I hope you do, John," Ringo muttered to himself.

Meanwhile, George had caught up to Paul, who was on his way to the lift. George put his hand on Paul's shoulder to slow him down. "Paul, calm down! What's goin' on?"

Paul slowed his pace, but did not reply. When he reached the lift, he pressed the button and then leaned his back against the wall next to it and waited.

George looked at him. "What's the matter, Paul?"

Paul closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation. "Please Harri, don't you start too."

George scratched his head, unsure of what he wasn't supposed to start. "Ok."

He watched Paul leaning against the wall, his eyes still closed and now it was George's turn to notice how tired he looked. He was about to ask Paul something, but changed his mind when he remembered Paul's exasperated request. So instead he just leaned against the wall opposite to Paul, mirroring his position and waited with him.

After a moment, George decided to break the silence. "So…where were you storming off to anyway?"

Paul shrugged. "Dunno."

George nodded. "Ok," he said, as silence descended on them again. George racked his brain, trying to think of something to say. He knew something was wrong with his mate and he wanted to know what it was.

"Paul, you can talk-"

"George," Paul warned.

"Right, ok."

To his relief, George spotted Ringo and John emerging from the dining-area. He waved them over and looked down at his watch.

"Aye, Paul," he said, suddenly remembering why he and Ringo had been looking for John and Paul in the first place. "Brian told us to be ready at eleven for a press conference."

Paul glanced down at his own watch. "Well, we'd better hurry then," he said, straightening up. As he did so, he saw John thundering towards him.

Just then, the lift dinged and the doors slid open.

"What the fuck did you do that for, you stupid sod!" John spat angrily when he reached Paul.

"I was tired of your naggin'," Paul replied evenly.

"So ye think I'm naggin', aye? You think yer fucking above everything, don't you, McCartney?!" John growled, stabbing his finger in Paul's face.

Paul was about to make an angry remark back when an urgent cough caught his attention. He looked at Ringo, who was standing behind John and was nodding his head towards the lift. Paul slowly turned his head towards the open elevator doors and smiled sheepishly at the hotel guests that were gawping at them from inside. From the corner of his eye, he saw that John too had realised they had treated them to quite a 'performance'.

John and Paul looked at each other briefly and then bowed simultaneously. "Ladies and gentlemen," John said in a posh accent as he straightened up, "I hope you enjoyed the show and will continue to enjoy your stay here." He promptly launched into one of his spastic dances.

"Thank you very much," Paul added, and as though on cue, the lift gave another ding and the doors slid shut again.

As the lift went up, all four Beatles looked at each other for a long moment before bursting out laughing.

The row forgotten, they went to seek out Brian together.

Half an hour later, they were seated at a long table in a conference hall, waiting for the journalists to arrive. It was an unusual situation for them, because normally, the journalists were having to wait for them to arrive. However, the Beatles had been early and the journalists had been delayed.

Paul was nervously drumming his fingers on the table, realising all to well this wasn't going to be easy. They were going to be drilling him with questions about his attack, which he wasn't very keen to answer.

"Aye, don't worry, Paul," Ringo said gently. "It'll be alright. They're just nutters, you know. They'll write whatever they want to write, whether we said it or not."

Paul smiled weakly at him. "Yeah."

At that moment, the doors banged open and Paul thought it was like a dam had broken as a mass of overzealous journalists and photographers poured in. Paul inadvertently braced himself as he watched the reporters storm at them, fully expecting them to bowl over the entire table.

It seemed the journalists had unanimously decided to make it as difficult for the Beatles as possible by forming a human hedge right in front of the table, instead of sitting down calmly on their assigned seats.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please settle down and take your seats," Brian said loudly, trying to make himself heard, however, to no avail.

Even though the table at which the Beatles sat, was equipped with four microphones, one for each Beatle, the journalists shoved their microphones in their faces.

John was surprised this was even possible. He'd thought Brian would've turned up the security level a notch…hell, a few notches even. He threw Brian a murderous glare, who lifted his arms in a hopeless gesture. Then John watched him turn to Mal and mutter something in his ear. After that, Mal hurried off.

Dozens of light bulbs flashed and the journalists started to fire off their questions.

"Paul, can you understand why somebody would want to kill you?" a voice rang out, silencing everyone in the room.

John stole a glance at Paul, who swallowed. "Well, I can't understand why anyone would want to kill anybody really," Paul replied, appearing much calmer than he felt.

Microphones were pushed even further into his face, the other three Beatles were practically ignored.

"There are quite a few boys out there who feel you are stealing their girls away. What do you have to say about that, Paul?"

Before Paul could say anything, John spoke up. "Well, that's just bullocks, isn't it? We don't 'steal' anyone away. Girls have their own minds, you know."

Even though Paul was grateful that John was sticking up for him, he was suddenly starting to feel a bit claustrophobic. The journalist were only prevented from jumping at them by two policemen who stood on either side of the table. And those two policemen suddenly seemed awfully tiny to him.

"Well, isn't that why you're in the rock 'n roll business? To be able to have any girl you want?"

"We're in this business because we love to make music," Paul replied, as he nervously pulled on his tie in an effort to loosen it. However, as his panic rose, his breathing quickened. Images of trampling feet and tearing hands flashed before his eyes and the relentless shouting and calling of the journalists rang in his ears, making his head hurt.

George, who was sitting next to him, looked over at Paul and noticed tiny drops of sweat forming on Paul's forehead.

Another journalist shoved his microphone into Paul's face. "Paul, there are people who believe you provoked the attack by presenting yourself as "the cute Beatle" and thereby making yourself desired by millions of girls, but also making yourself hated by thousands of boys. Do you see any truth in that?"

Paul stared at him as the room went quiet for the first time. Then, he stood up abruptly, only barely managed to mumble an "excuse me" and quickly weaved his way through the mob of journalists and disappeared through the door that led to the hall.

At that precise moment, Mal came bursting in with a number of policemen. Neil rushed over to meet them and pointed at the door Paul had just disappeared through. Two policemen instantly moved to stand in front of it, as though daring anyone to try and get through it.

John, eyebrows raised, signalled to Brian to wrap it up.

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid this will have to do," Brian announced.

The journalists continued to shout questions towards the remaining Beatles, but this time they were silenced by the policemen Mal had brought in. They were quickly herded towards the exit.

As soon as he saw the journalists retreat, John sprang up from his chair. "Alright, lads. Let's find out where that sod's gone off to."