The Attic

Six

            There was only one day until Paul would be coming, and though John felt silly he’d marked the ninth with a big “X” on his calendar. Not that he needed reminding. Not that he ever looked at the calendar anyway. Well, he didn’t look at the calendar before, at least.

            He’d planned a busy day that day, maybe to try to keep his mind off… things.

            “John, tell me about the album?”

            “Well, it has songs and stuff,” John sighed, already tired from the photo shoot.

            The reporter paused and shot John an almost condescending look.

            “What about a Beatles reunion? Is that happening?”

            “No…” John said, sipping his whiskey, which was the best he could do to calm himself down.

            “How is your relationship with Yoko?”

            “We’re married. We’re fine.”

            John watched the man scribble furiously and fill pages and pages of the tiny notebook. “Are you going to write an entire story just out of that?”

           “Well, I only need a few quotes to put here and there, otherwise it’s just me making paragraphs out of observations, and previous research, and extrapolation…”

            “Underappreciated work?” John chuckled.

            “Yeah!” the reporter, Dave or something like that, chimed. “People will go and tell me: ‘That’s not a real job! Any idiot can go and ask Marianne Faithfull questions!’ Well, you know what, not many of them can fill five pages of juicy gossip from a few half-hearted answers.”

            John nodded, amused by the other man.

            “It’s like in your song, you know. ‘People say I’m crazy, doing what I’m doing.’ But I’m like you, watching them wheels.”

            He paused and looked at the singer in barely veiled adoration. “I’m a big fan,” he said unnecessarily.

            “Right. Here, some undiscovered details about John Lennon,” the musician said, leaning forward conspirationally.

            “Really?”

            “I put two sugars in my tea. Sean likes chocolate cereal. I watch the telly some mornings. I like to draw things and hang them up around the house…”

            “He seemed happy,” was Yoko’s remark once John showed Possibly Dave out of the house.

*   *   *

            “We’re about to land in New York… the weather, actually, is record weather: one of the warmest December days in the city’s history. We’re at a balmy 64 degrees Fahrenheit, so no need to pull out too many winter coats!” the speaker crackled.

            Paul wasn’t sure why he chuckled, but he did, feeling a sort of nervous churning in his stomach. He was going to see John—John, John, John; his mind got stuck on that single name and made Paul feel like he was out of breath and completely unable to breathe.

            He felt a strange sucking sensation as the plane dipped, and felt the strange queasiness of being temporarily weightless, and he felt his stomach flop slightly before he felt himself pulled back down onto the plane’s seat, the rushing now pressing into his ears.

            A bump and the unmistakable hum and grind of pavement on the wheels told Paul he’d landed, and a sigh escaped his lips almost beside himself.

            “It’s eight pm, local time. Today is Monday the eighth. Enjoy your stay in New York City.”

 *   *   *

            It was dark outside already. John felt a thrill of excitement; today was over, and tomorrow Paul would be here. This oddly elated him, and he felt himself chatting happily with his wife, with more energy than he’d been able to muster in the past few days.

            “Oh, we’ve got to get there in time to put Sean to bed,” John babbled. “If we’re back too late I won’t get to see him, and with work I’ve been busy…”

            Yoko nodded indulgently. She discreetly grabbed John’s hand and rubbed comforting circles on his palm. “You seem to be in a good mood,” she remarked shrewdly.

*   *    *

            Paul wondered what John’s reaction would be to seeing him a day earlier. Shit, he could be angry. Oh no, he’d probably get angry. Why had he done that? Why did he come a day earlier? Maybe he should just wait in a hotel until the next day.

            Paul bit at a nail. He needed to learn to control his nerves. He’d asked around, hoping dark glasses and a hat would hide his identity, and he'd heard that John had left. There was a crowd of people gathered around the Dakota already; maybe they were also waiting for his return.

            He watched them to pass the time. There were a group of three young, foreign-looking girls, waiting with their copies of John’s album, giggling together and pointing at every car in the distance with excited looks on their faces. Fans, Paul decided.

            Next there was a bored security guard, uniformed and probably the staff of the building. A man with oddly lumpy jacket and fur hat, over-dressed for the day, was trying to engage the security guard in conversation, also holding the album.

            Paul frowned. Actually, apart from the building security guards, it was difficult to find someone who wasn’t holding an album or something very obviously intended for John to sign. He looked past a middle-age woman, standing and fiddling with a bracelet. An older man pushed his way through, his hair wispy and overgrown, with a sour expression on his face. He went right past the crowd without looking and everyone.

            A small smile wound up on Paul’s face. He was a real weathered local, no album in sight. He seemed almost annoyed by all the fuss John’s presence was causing.

            While Paul watched the old man go, a small burst of shouts erupted from the crowd. Paul turned to see a limousine. Oh, this was definitely it. Paul craned his neck, like so many others around him, trying to see past the tinted windows to try and catch a glimpse of John’s face.

            The crowd pressed closer to the limousine, and Paul felt his heart almost beat out of his chest. This was it. This was really, really, it. Suddenly Paul felt a stab of fear and insecurity as the door opened, and he took a step back, away from the crowd and the door and—John.

            Paul looked at him, his angular face, and watched him stoop to pull Yoko out with him. Paul felt his throat seize up; he hadn’t seen him in so long. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, but something was nagging him, something he’d seen out of the corner of his eye, something his brain wasn’t properly seeing but still registering, and alerting the primal corners of Paul’s mind.

            Paul turned to see the man in the lumpy coat pull something out from underneath those thick folds of fabric, and without thinking, he raced forward, pushing past the blond foreigners, past the crowds, until he reached John, and barreled him over.

            Paul closed his eyes tightly shut, covering John, and waited for it to happen—the gun fired and he felt the blast rip into his back.