The Attic

Ten

It happened at night, when John had left to go get a drink at the pub next door to soothe some of the nerves away. Paul was sleeping, frowning it seemed, his face distorted and his lips mumbling something.

            Paul was seeing many nightmarish visions of a faceless stranger coming to him during a concert and chopping his arm off, and there was so, so much, blood—Paul could see his distorted reflection in the shining pool of red, while the roar of the concert peaked at an intolerable rush of screaming.

            Then the fingers closed around his throat—strong, insistent fingers that had no tremble of indecision in them. Paul sputtered and tried to gasp, but he couldn’t get any air; his eyes fluttered open, trying to see who it was, but it was dark and all his eyes offered him were a few dancing spots of bright light; he’d faint soon.

            Paul trashed out wildly, kicking the bed, the machines around him, even hitting his assailant once, until his trembling, desperate hand found the emergency button on the side of his bed.

            Lights flooded the hall and a wail sounded from Paul’s room. The fingers released him and Paul was left gasping, holding onto the bedframe to steady himself.

*   *   *

            “Did you see a face?”

            Paul nodded, massaging his throat.

            “Can you describe it to me?”

            “Short hair. Might’ve been a man. Jeans,” Paul croaked.

      “That’s all?” the sketch artist said, a slight note of annoyance in her voice.           

            “I was being choked! I had other things on my mind!” he said, his voice cracking from the effort of trying to shout.

            “Don’t put any strain on your voice,” said the doctor, addressing Paul, but looking pointedly at the sketch artist.

            *   *   *

            “We really can’t waste any more time, now.”

            John looked at the man. He seemed to be the one in charge of the whole big mess of officers and agents. He even wore a badge to prove he had some kind of authority.

            “I think it’s pointless to discuss whether they should be separate or not, but it’s crucial Mr. Lennon and Mr. McCartney must be removed from the hospital.”

            “Together, by the way,” John piped up.

            He was never much one for displays of authority.

            John received lots of annoyed looks from around the room, but he stared down every single person until they’d all given in and looked down in embarrassment. Give me a shiny badge, then, John thought.

            “Well they can be moved together. But immediately.”

*   *   *

            “Bye, darling. I love all of you always, and don’t forget to practice your arpeggios,” Paul said hugging Mary.

            Stella wasn’t willing to let go. “When are you coming back?”

            “I don’t know. But I’ll be there before you know it, don’t worry.”

            “Are you leaving forever?” James asked, his eyes widening.

            Paul laughed slightly at James’ innocence. “No, of course not. I’ll always come back to my family, I promise.”

            Paul picked up James in one big swoop; being the only one small enough to be picked up by Daddy, he took advantage of that privilege every possible moment. James pressed a tiny hand to the side of Paul’s face, before being put down on the ground again.

            Linda put her arms around Paul, who held her gently, feeling the weight of her chin on his shoulder. Her hair tickled one side of his face. She turned to whisper in his ear: “Will you really be able to write letters?”

            “No,” Paul breathed. “But tell them that.”

            Linda’s eyes were slightly watery when she pulled away, but she didn’t cry. She had a sort of inner strength like that.

            John could hear Paul saying goodbye, talking and talking and promising all kinds of things to his cluster of progeny. With Yoko it was different.

            She looked at him, straight in the eyes, and she understood the situation; no need to mix in apologies, explanations, or anything else. She hugged him so she’d remember the feeling of him. John looked down and Sean, and told him seriously that he’d be going and wasn’t sure when he came back.

            John hugged his son with all the tenderness he could muster. “I love you.”

            “I love you too Daddy.”

            Sean was five, but he understood the hugeness of what might happen. Daddy might not come back.