Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

18. Return of John Lennon's Dressing Gown (Paul)

Carnival of Light

18.

There were birds waiting by the gate when Paul pulled up out front of Kenwood.

"Fucking hell," he sighed and ran a hand over his face, taking a final drag off his cigarette to prepare himself before he ducked out of the car.

"Alright, girls," Paul greeted them, flashing a smirk but avoiding eye contact as he sidled up to the buzzer. "It's Paul," he said shortly.

Paul scribbled his name on a few freshly-pressed copies of Revolver, smiling and thoughtlessly replying – "Oh yea?" "Oh, thanks" "Yeah, cool, thanks" – until he was back in the car, safely ensconced and free to let out a tense breath that didn't seem to fully leave his lungs.

He had another fag lit by the time the gate rattled open far enough for him to pull through to the Lennons' driveway, the gate birds gathering to stare at the house before the gate rattled shut again. Paul parked in his usual spot beside the Rolls. A gardener gave him a cheery wave, which he returned as he pocketed his keys and walked up to the front door, yawning. He'd hardly slept in days since all the Bigger Than Jesus bollocks started. No matter how much grass he smoked, Paul just couldn't get to sleep.

John was waiting for him at the front door, slouching in the doorway like he couldn't be bothered to stand, his hair a mess, squinting because he wasn't wearing his glasses. He was wearing that god awful dressing gown again. It was the most depressing dressing gown Paul had ever seen, even more so because John was the one wearing it. It seemed to drain all the life and energy out of him.

"What's happened now?" John asked flatly, pushing the door open wider for Paul to step through. "Lemme guess, they're burnin' me in effigy."

"That's not fucking funny, man," Paul sighed, and John shrugged half-heartedly.

Paul followed John through the house into the sun room, which was looking even more oppressively lived in than usual. There were newspapers everywhere, old cups of tea and heaving ashtrays. Paul's eye was drawn to the oversized ornate cross in the corner, which seemed especially sinister to him that afternoon.

The cricket was playing on the telly, England versus the West Indies.

"Where's Cyn?" Paul asked, falling into his usual spot in a cracked brown leather armchair, which sat perpendicular to John's usual spot on the yellow chaise lounge.

"I dunno, shopping, with her mum, somewhere," John plucked up a half-smoked joint from an ashtray and lowered himself onto the chaise.

A cat jumped up beside him, but John took no notice. Paul watched, mesmerised, as the cat climbed up John's shoulder to get onto the back of the chaise. Climbing him like a piece of furniture.

"Ta," Paul mumbled, accepting the joint and leaning back, his eyes lingering on John as he settled in to watch the cricket.

Paul knew for a fact that John had about as much interest in sport as he did – none – but it seemed he just wanted something to stare at. That was fair enough. This visit to Weybridge was as much about needing a distraction for himself as it was about checking on John. They would leave for America in four days, and who the fuck knew what would be waiting for them.

Paul took another drag off the joint, holding the woody smoke in his lungs as he looked out at Kenwood's gardens through the sun room's large windows. They were lucious and green and infinitely less depressing than men in white outfits jumping around on the murky little telly screen.