The next day Paul was stiff and sore. They walked to the spot where he had been attacked and questioned him relentlessly for any details.
"It was dark, I was bloody drunk, I don't really remember anything else!" he finally shouted.
Right before their nightly gig, Stu showed up with Astrid and Klaus as usual. But tonight he was tense and silent, slipping into the back room to retrieve his black jacket. John gave him a worried look and followed him in.
"Aye," he said. Stu jumped a mile and turned around.
"Christ, you scared me," he said.
"Why so jumpy, Stu?" John asked casually.
"Eh, I don't know. This isn't much fun for me anymore you know, John," Stu replied. "My playing isn't that good, the other lads get after me all the time and I really want to get back to my painting."
John looked down at the dirty floor and lit a cigarette. "Is that all, then?" he inqured, looking back up at Stu with raised eyebrows.
"What do you mean?" Stu asked apprehensively.
"You want to stay here with Astrid and paint. That's your life, eh?"
"Well, yes."
John got up from the beer crates he'd been sitting on and started pacing. "Stu, we're on the edge of something. I can feel it. We're going to do something big, really big. Don't you miss out on it!"
"John, it's your thing--the music. And I love you for it, but it's not for me. Let's face it," Stu said gently. "And after last night..." he suddenly stopped.
John froze and looked at him, "What?"
"Nothing, just the fight with Paul..." Stu stammered but wouldn't meet John's gaze.
John's eyes narrowed. "You're lying, Stu," he said in a sing-song voice, "I know when you're lying."
"Bleeding hell, John! It wasn't my idea, I swear!" Stu burst out. "I didn't even know about it until Klaus told me they'd sent someone after Paul!"
"Oh fuck, Stu," John groaned, "Fuck!" He turned and kicked the wall, balling his fists in frustration.
"They did it for me," Stu said quietly, "But now you know why I can't possibly stay with the group."
"Paul would kill you if he found out," John said through gritted teeth.
"I know, Johnny," Stu replied wearily. "It's ok--I really do want to stay here with Astrid and paint--it's me life," he said more lightly. "This just gives me another reason for it."
He put his hand on John's shoulder and said more seriously, "You go on and be that somebody, John, for the both of us, aye?"
John looked back at him, shaking his head, feeling miserable with the circumstances he could do nothing about, but knowing it was the right thing, the next step in the journey. "Alright then, Stu. Have it your way. Just stay long enough for Paul to heal up."
He turned to leave the room, then stopped and said, "Don't look back then. Just don't ever look back on it."
Stu stood alone in the dank, stale-smelling room, a slight, rueful smile on his face. He gathered his jacket, sunglasses and guitar and walked out.
Paul couldn't play guitar for the next week, so Stu continued to play with the group and made no mention of his departure from the band. Paul was getting more and more frustrated with Stu and his inability to play as he was forced to watch from the sidelines. Finally, he took John aside one afternoon. Somewhat nervous because of the esteem that John held for Stu, Paul lit a cigarette and took a long draw before speaking.
"He's no good, you know. You must see that."
John slouched against the doorway of their shabby quarters and said, "I know you're better than he is. You play better, you sing better, you look better. Hell, you probably even smell better. Everyone knows you're better. So what?"
Paul frowned and kicked a booted foot at a stray beer bottle. "You know what I'm saying. He's no good for the band. He just stands there."
"Yeah, well, if you think you can cut him from the group then I go too." John waved a warning finger under Paul's nose. Even though he already knew Stu's leaving was a done deal, he didn't like being lectured and the way the whole thing went down with him playing such a helpless role. His temper was on the rise.
"Why the bloody hell would you do that?" Paul exploded in frustration. "I know you feel the same thing I do--we're going somewhere. What's going on between you two then?"
He started to turn his back to leave. John grabbed him by his sore shoulder and spun him around, shoving him up against the wall.
"What do you mean by that?" he demanded, "Calling me a queer, are you?"
Paul's eyes narrowed. "Look, I didn't say that. Get your hand off me."
John lifted his hand away, then brought it back to shove Paul roughly against the wall again. Paul caught his wrist and pushed it away. "What the fuck is your problem, Lennon?"
John released his shoulder and stepped away, an angry scowl on his face. "I'll fucking beat the shit out of you myself if you ever imply that again."
"I didn't fucking imply anything! It's all in your head, but obviously there must be something to it!" Paul shot back.
John's nostrils flared; he slammed a fist into Paul's face. Paul staggered but didn't fall. His face was dark with anger as he rubbed his cheek. "You're fucking crazy," he stated slowly, staring John in the eyes.
John erupted, almost against his own will--it had only been a week since Paul had been jumped and here he was ready to beat the shit out of him all over again. But he just didn't understand the situation and his taunting was making it worse. Blind rage made John lash out again.
Paul ducked and stopped John's arm in mid-swing, grimacing at the pain in his injured shoulder. They began wrestling for a hold on each other, crashing back into the room, knocking over chairs. After nailing John in the nose, Paul got up off the floor only to be dragged back down by John. On the way down, he grabbed onto one of the bunkbeds and sent it crashing down beside them.
