part2c

Chapter 3

All Paul felt was blinding rage. He had so wanted to grind John's face against the brick wall of Abbey Road Studios. But the presence of the fans and the fact that George and Ringo had come out had been enough to stop him.

"Nosey prick," he muttered, stomping along the sidewalk, running a hand through his hair like he always did when perturbed. He viciously punched in the security code when he reached his house, pretending with childish glee that the buttons were John's eyeballs.

It had been hard enough to listen to John prying about the experience with Lucia, but even more mortifying to hear himself blurt out the truth about his nonexistent sex life. And, damn him to everlasting hell, John did know him, and he was right. Paul was suffering; he was miserable. Lucia did still have a hold on him, even from her grave, if that's where she really was.

He shuddered as he unlocked the front door. The wind whipped up again, shaking the trees, and he could swear he heard her husky voice whispering, "Paul, Paul." Tossing off his coat and throwing his keys on the side table, Paul headed directly to the liquor cabinet. A stiff drink was definitely in order. Martha bounded down the stair, but he only gave her the briefest pat before grabbing a bottle of scotch and drinking it straight. He flipped on the television for at least the company of some stranger's gabbling voice and flopped onto the sofa.

Some hours later, Paul was sufficiently numb. His fogged mind knew it would probably be better if he got up and made himself something to eat, but the effort of that seemed quite unappealing. The telephone rang and rang again, but he didn't bother to get up to answer that either. Eventually, his heavy eyelids closed and the half empty bottle dropped from his relaxed fingers, spilling sideways onto the rug, and he fell into an exhausted sleep.

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"Well, he does have a point, you know," George said with a frown. "How would we ever get a shrink to keep his mouth shut about seeing a Beatle...and for something as far out as this?! Paul would never live it down. He might end up in worse shape."

"I probably couldn't do it," Ringo agreed.

John shook his head and sighed. "I know, but this is tearing him apart. He's trapped by a woman who's dead. She's got no power over him--but in his mind, she does!"

...I do...

John stiffened. "What was that?" he asked, looking behind him.

Ringo and George exchanged confused glances. Now John was going to start getting loony?

"Never mind, " John shrugged. "It's getting late. I don't know the answer. But I don't think he should be left on his own. Ringo, you've always been able to keep the peace with Paul. D'you think you can go over and spend a little time with him tonight? He obviously doesn't want me within fifty miles of him right now."

Ringo sighed, thinking of Maureen waiting for him at home. But Paul was in trouble and his wife would understand that. "Just let me call Mo," he said.

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Standing out in the cold winter dusk, Ringo laid his hand flat against the buzzer at Paul's gate for the fourth time. "C'mon, mate," he muttered, trying to keep his teeth from chattering, "Answer the bloody door. I can't climb the fence like John can!"

"'Ello?" Came Paul's voice finally.

"Paul, it's me, Ringo. I'm freezin' me bleedin' arse off out here!"

The gate clicked as Paul released the lock, and Ringo sprinted for the front door. It opened to reveal a rather disleveled Paul with mussed hair and sleepy eyes. The telly was on in the living room.

"Hey," Paul said, then was stopped from saying anything else by a huge yawn. He rolled his neck around on his shoulders and Ringo could actually hear the vertebrae pop. "Fell asleep on the couch."

Ringo sniffed. As John always liked to tease, his big hooter could detect odors before anyone else. And now he was detecting alcohol. "Leave a drop for us, luv?" he asked. "I could do with a drink to warm up."

Paul stared at him, puzzled for a moment. "Oh shit," he said unexpectedly and hurried, in a somewhat wobbily fashion, Ringo thought, into the living room.

"Oh shit," he said again, "It spilled everywhere."

Ringo followed him into the room and surveyed the sideways bottle and the large wet spot on the rug in front of the sofa. "Waste of good scotch, that," he commented lightly. "Ah well, a hot cup of coffee will work too."

"Coffee?" Paul was still looking dazed.

"Never mind, Paul, I'll do it; I know my way around here after all." Ringo smiled and patted Paul on the shoulder before turning to the kitchen.

"It's good you got some sleep though," he said over his shoulder.

"Ah," he heard Paul, "That rotter John sent you."

Ringo continued into the kitchen, ignoring that last remark. He knew Paul would be following after him in any case, as he started to pull out the coffee pot.

Paul stood in the hall, staring up at the ceiling but not really seeing it. He sighed, then went into the laundry and grabbed a handful of rags, blotted up as much scotch as he could from the carpet, and went into the kitchen where Ringo was obviously making himself at home.

In fact, Ringo was poised in front of the refrigerator sadly viewing its nearly empty interior. "Don't go shopping much, do you?" he asked. "I haven't eaten yet, have you?" He already knew the answer to that from the lack of plates in the kitchen, but he was trying to put Paul at ease.

"No," Paul said shortly. "Look, Ring, what is it you want?"

Ringo turned his big blues on him in mock hurt surprise.

"Oh come on," Paul said, nearly smiling. "Don't try that on me after all these years."

"Well then, since you asked, I reckon I could use some Chinese take-out. With egg rolls."

Paul rolled his eyes but did actually smile as he tossed Ringo the telephone directory from a drawer. "You silly git. Ok then, here, you win."

About an hour and a half later, they were sprawled on the floor, backs against the sofa, in front of Paul's large coffee table with take-out containers scattered across it, and a mindless variety show on the telly. Ringo had chosen another bottle of scotch from the liquor cabinet and now poured a generous dollop into his remaining coffee.

"Ah, that was good," he sighed, patting his belly. Although his sensitive digestive tract kept him on a rather bland English diet, he was fond of the occasional mu shu chicken.

Paul swallowed a burp, pounded lightly on his chest and let out a groan. "I haven't eaten that much in ages. My stomach is going to burst." He helped himself to the scotch, pouring it into his empty coffee cup.

Ringo rummaged through his pockets to find his ciggies and lit up, leaning back with a satisfied smile. He watched benignly as Paul helped himself to Ringo's pack as well.

"So,"

They had both said it simultaneously and now grinned at each other.

"You look better than you did this afternoon," Ringo said cautiously.

Paul sighed. A couple of hours of snatched sleep got him through the days, but it got nowhere near to solving his dilemma.

"I'm better," he said noncommitally with a shrug. "But John's still a pushy bastard."

"That surprises you?" Ringo asked, tapping his ash into one of the take-out containers. "Look, I hate to, but I'm going to get into this. I was there too, you know. I saw...her. What can we do to.. well...make her go away?"

Paul averted his eyes, touched by Ringo's honest desire to help him. He looked out the dark window, at the shadows of the trees moving in the wind, before turning back to face his mate.

"I see her everywhere, Ringo. I hear her, I smell her. I'm never going to be rid of her. Sometimes I think she's determined to take me to wherever she is. His hand trembled as he reached to pick up his cup.

Paul's desperate and panicked admission chilled Ringo. "What do you mean, Paul?"

Paul plonked his elbows onto the table and laid his head into his palms, covering his eyes. "I know. I know what it sounds like. But you weren't there. You weren't there when she..." He stopped and raised his head, eyes darting nervously around the room.

Ringo realised just how badly Paul was still shaken. "Do you think it would help..." he hesitated, trying to judge Paul's reaction, "Would it help to go see her grave?"

Paul's eyes widened in horror. "Oh god, no!" he said in alarm. "That'd be like letting her out again, don't you see?"

"Paul," Ringo tried to interrupt, "That's crazy."

"Well," Paul laughed a short, bitter laugh, "Maybe that's exactly right, Ringo! I am crazy!"

Ringo set down his cigarette and grabbed Paul by both shoulders, forcing him to look straight into his eyes. "She's dead, Paul! We watched her body get scraped up off the pavement, remember?"

Paul stared at him with wild eyes, his mouth dropping open and then moving as if he was going to say something. Then, tearing out of Ringo's grasp, he ran to the bathroom, just reaching the loo in time to get violently sick.

Ringo groaned. Shit, that was real bloody helpful, Ritchie, he scolded himself.