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 eleven
John, George and Ringo quickly went to follow Paul.
"Boys, do you really think that's such a good idea?" Brian's distinguished-sounding voice came from somewhere to their left.
John turned to face him. "No, Brian, I don't. I think this whole fuckin' tour was a bloody bad idea. And here I was, thinking you were going to take more security measures after what happened to Paul, but obviously you didn't," he spat.
Brian stared at him. "I did, John, believe me, I did. Do you really think I'd want anything to happen to you?" Brain said indignantly.
George studied Brian. Suddenly he didn't look at all like the dignified gentleman he was always posing to be. His cheeks were slightly flushed and he actually seemed angry. George supposed the whole thing had startled and worried Brian just as much as it had them.
Brian took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. "Look, boys, I'd arranged for quite a few policemen to keep an eye on things, but somehow something must have gone wrong and only two of them were where they were supposed to be. Now, I intend to find out what exactly went wrong and I would feel much better if I knew that at least you three are in your rooms, safe and sound," Brian continued, his eyes pleading them to comply.
John was about to protest, when George put a hand on his shoulder to silence him. "Brian, you can't expect us to just sit about and wait for Paul to turn up. We're goin' to look for 'im."
Brian looked from George to John and then to Ringo and saw the same determined look on each of their faces. He sighed submissively. "All right, but please take Mal or Neil with you. However," Brian said, heavily emphasising the word, "if you haven't found him in half an hour, I want you back in your rooms, is that understood? And try not to be too conspicuous," he added as an afterthought.
Try not to be too conspicuous? We're the fuckin' Beatles! John thought cynically, but before he could say anything, George and Ringo had already begun to steer him towards the door.
"Ta, Eppy!" Ringo said over his shoulder, giving Brian his most reassuring smile. "I'll make sure they'll behave themselves!"
At that, George looked at Ringo. "Aye!" he said in protest.
"Well!" Ringo replied, a smug look on his face. "I'm the oldest, you know."
"Aye, but you're also the littlest," John piped up as they reached the door and proceeded to lift Ringo up and carry him into the hall, which caused him to protest loudly, shouting, "Mal!" George followed, trying to get his sniggering under control.
Brian shook his head exasperatedly as he watched his boys disappear. Really.
Paul McCartney stared at himself in the mirror. Christ, I do look a fright, he thought, as he studied the dark shadows under his eyes and the paleness of his skin. Thank God for stage make-up!
His head was still pounding and his hands felt rather sweaty. However, his feeling of panic had been replaced by anger. Actually, he was fuming. Of course he was angry with the journalists, but he was absolutely furious with himself for letting them get to him.
Paul shook his head at himself and sighed. Bending a little closer to the mirror, he noticed that his eyes were slightly bloodshot. He sighed again and turned on the tap, then he cupped his hands, capturing the cool water. After a moment, Paul bent forward and splashed the water into his face. It felt both soothing and refreshing and he cupped his hands again, watching the water flow. Then he splashed it into his face again. He rubbed his eyes as though he was somehow trying to scrub the shadows away and then looked into the mirror again, water dripping from his nose and chin, to see whether it had done any good.
Instantly, his heart skipped a beat. He'd seen a dark figure suddenly move from behind him. At least, he thought he had. He whipped around, sending small drops of water flying everywhere. Paul's eyes feverishly searched the lavatory, but he saw nothing, except for three open cubicles.
The adrenaline flowing through his body enabled his ears to pick up a soft creak. He whipped his head towards the sound and saw the door that led to the hallway swing ever so slightly. However, there was absolutely nobody there. Had there been anyone when he'd come in earlier? He didn't think so, because surely somebody would've come up to him; after all, he was a Beatle.
Paul hesitated for a moment and then went inside each cubicle to make sure there really wasn't anybody there. After having convinced himself that he was indeed the only occupant of the – he suddenly noticed – amazingly clean lavatory, he let out a long breath and turned back to the mirror. "For Christ's sake, McCartney, get a hold of yourself. You're startin' to have nightmares with your eyes open," he told himself sternly.
He reached for a paper towel to dry off his face when the lavatory door suddenly banged open, startling him so badly that he nearly poked his own eye out.
A figure appeared in the doorway. "Aye, lads! He's in here!" John Lennon called over his shoulder as he entered the lavatory, then he turned to Paul. "We've been lookin' all over for ya, Macca. Next time you decide to do yer disappearing act, leave us a note."
As he recognised his friend, Paul felt his legs grow weak with relief.
John went to stand next to him. "Alright, Paul?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, just had to take a piss," Paul replied.
"You been pissin' for the past twenty minutes, then?" John said sarcastically as he eyed him critically. "You look sort of white, son."
Paul contemplated for a moment whether to tell John what he'd seen, or what he thought he'd seen. "Well, you know, I thought I saw – "
But at that precise moment, Ringo, George and Mal burst in.
"A Beatle invasion…" John observed.
"Aye, Paul, don't go runnin' off like tha'," George said to him, ignoring John's remark.
Paul sighed. "I just really needed a piss, is all. I'm fine, really."
They all simply stood and stared at him, the disbelief evident on their faces.
"Right, who're you foolin'?" John said finally, grabbing Paul's arm and pulling him along. "Come 'ead, lad, our orders are to take ye back to the suite so Brian can yell at ye." Under his breath, he added, "And I'm not through with you yet either, Macca."
Paul sighed once again. "Just what I need…" he muttered as he allowed himself to be dragged off. Mal, George and Ringo followed suit.
Later that evening, Paul and Ringo were the only ones left in the sitting-room area of their suite. Ringo usually was the one who was up the latest. He was always either still watching television in the sitting-room or he was reading a book or magazine or some such thing.
Lately, however, Paul had joined him in his late-night activities. Paul said it was to keep him company, but Ringo knew better. Over the years, Ringo had never known Paul to stay up very late, unless they were off in a club somewhere. Ringo knew it was only because of the nightmares that he sat there.
Ringo was quietly reading a book, holding a glass of scotch in one hand, when he gradually became aware of an annoying buzzing sound. He glanced up and realised with a start that the American TV-stations had stopped broadcasting hours ago. The only thing that was on now was white static. He'd been so engrossed in his book that he hadn't even noticed!
Suddenly remembering that Paul had been the one watching TV, he glanced over at his mate. Paul's head had sunk forward, his chin resting on his chest. He'd caught Paul nodding off several times already and each time, Paul's head would suddenly jerk up and he would glance around the room, wide-eyed. He seemed determined to keep awake, but Ringo realised that he was simply too exhausted to be able to do so.
Poor lad, he thought, he'll probably be plagued by nightmares again tonight. Then he abruptly remembered that he wasn't Paul's roommate today. Earlier, John had come up to him and told him that he was going to share a room with Paul this time to find out "what the fuck is going on", as John had so eloquently put it. So whilst Brian had been talking to Paul, Ringo and John had quickly moved their things.
Ringo smiled as he thought about how George had been puzzled by the whole migration. He'd stood there, one eyebrow raised, scratching his head. "Has me snorin' gotten worse than Ritchie's or somethin'?" he'd asked.
Naturally, John and Ringo had had some laughs with him before they'd finally clued him in. Paul, however, was in for a surprise and Ringo had to admit he felt a bit sorry for the lad.
He glanced at his watch and noted it was past 2 a.m. Definitely time to knock off. He tossed down the last of his scotch and brought the glass over to the counter. After that, he went to turn off the TV.
At the sudden quietness, Paul's head jerked up again, his eyes snapping open.
Ringo patted his shoulder. "Aye, Paul, I'm off to bed and you should do the same, you know."
Paul squinted up at him. "Yeah, alright," he mumbled. "What time is it?" he asked groggily and looked at his watch. "Christ…"
"'Christ' is right, mate. I'll see ye in the mornin'. And try to get a bit of sleep, alright?" Ringo said, though he knew Paul didn't have much choice in the matter.
"Ta, Ring. 'Night," Paul said, getting up and stretching. He noticed his half-empty glass of scotch still on the side-table and picked it up. He considered finishing it, but decided against it. He'd already had more than enough tonight and he wasn't exactly keen on having a hangover the next morning. So he put it on the counter, as Ringo had done only a few moments before.
Paul stood there for a moment, leaning against the counter, savouring the silence. He dreaded having to go to sleep and be haunted by nightmares again, but he knew there was little else to do. He sighed; tomorrow was their first performance since the attack and he wasn't exactly looking forward to it. Just thinking about it sent shivers down his spine.
Get a grip, McCartney, he mentally chided himself.
Finally, he decided to head for bed. He quietly opened the door to his room and was surprised to find Ringo already fast asleep, completely buried under his covers. Careful not to wake him, Paul eased the door closed and tip-toed across the room to his own bed. He slowly pulled off his clothes and then crawled into bed, wearing only his undies.
He lay there for a while, staring into the darkness. But eventually, his eyelids drooped and he drifted off into the land of dreams…and nightmares.
