Missing You...

Chapter Eight

Sunday, 30 November 1980

Paul slowly opened his eyes. He glanced around the room, everything a blurry mess gradually coming into focus. Pain was throbbing through his head and spreading rapidly to the rest of his body. Paul sat up and yawned drowsily, the terrible taste of morning breath on his tongue. Paul winced and frantically rubbed his temples. He felt like he had the worse hangover in the world.

"Where am I?" Paul wondered, gazing around the room. It wasn't properly light yet but even in the dark gloom he could tell this wasn't his house. Paul felt something small and furry brushing against his legs. He leaped about a mile in the air, lost his balance, and crashed onto the floor. Paul yelled out some impressive swear words, clutching his side in agony because he'd landed quite heavily on the coffee table. He scanned the room, trying to spot what had touched him. He didn't see anyone except a tiny white-and-grey cat, perched demurely on the sofa cushions. The cat didn't say anything but you could tell it was thinking, "Ha! Stupid human!"

Paul glared at the cat and staggered to his feet. He swore again because his side felt as if it were on fire. He picked up the cat, cradling it careful in his arms, and chucked it in the kitchen. He quickly locked the door, brushing his hands together.

"That'll teach you not to wake people when they're sleeping!" Paul said triumphantly.

"What's going on in here?" John cried, rushing into the room. He was wearing a tiny Japanese silk dressing gown and fluffy bedroom slippers. His glasses were hanging skewiff off his nose, so Paul guessed John had shoved them on in a hurry. Paul was about to explain when he noticed something.

"John? Why are you holding a lamp?"

"What?" said John. He looked at his hands and saw Paul was right. He was holding the lamp that had recently lived on his bedside table. "Oh... I don't know. I heard a loud crash and thought I was being robbed. So I snatched up the first thing I could, y'know, to use as a weapon."

"Pretty weird weapon choice, wack." Paul said, taking the lamp from John and placing it on a nearby shelf. "You won't believe this, John! I woke up on the sofa, right? And I felt something brush against my legs. I got such a fright that I jump and bashed my hip against the side of the coffee table. Someone's stupid cat had woken me up and nearly gave me a heart-attack!"

"Um... Paul?" John said. "That 'stupid cat' was my stupid cat."

"Oh." Paul said, his cheeks turning peony. "Sorry, John."

"It's all right." John chuckled. He opened the kitchen door and Elvis came scampering out. He dove behind John's legs, looking completely terrified and quivering. John bent down and scooped the shaking cat up in his arms. "You've always been a bit of an idiot, haven't you, boy?"

"Sorry for nearly killing you, Elvis." Paul muttered, reaching out and timidly stroking Elvis's furry ears. 

"Never mind." John said, placing the cat back on the floor. "We have the whole day ahead of us, Paul. How do you want to spend it, hmm?"

Paul thought for a moment. He wanted to stay indoors and have a proper, private conversation with John, telling him how he really felt. He played with the idea for a short time then shook his head. Paul decided it was too early in the game to discuss such a serious matter. John mistook Paul's head shaking as indecisiveness and proceeded to tell him about all of the best places they could visit.

"No, John. Hold up!" Paul said, holding up his hands. "You're burbling."

"Sorry." John apologised, then added, "What should we do today?"

Paul opened his mouth to speak when he was interrupted by the phone ringing. John sighed irritably and muttered a rude word under his breath. "I hope it isn't that bloody solicitor again."

"Solicitor?" Paul repeated. "Why is a solicitor calling you? What have you done this time?"

"Nothing!" John said quickly. "Well, if it is him, then I'll be in court pretty soon."

"For what?"

"For murder because I am this close from killing him!" John held his thumb and index finger up, leaving about a centimeter gap between them. He smiled at Paul, crossing his eyes and lolling his tongue. Paul laughed, tears rolling down his cheeks. John nodded at him then exited the room. He called over his shoulder, "I've missed having someone to mess around with, Paulie!"

"Me too, John." Paul breathed, "Me too."

* * * *

Paul waited in the living room. He flopped onto the couch, placing his feet up on the coffee table. Elvis was lying in his cat bed nearby, snoozing in the warmth of a sunbeam that was pouring in through the window. Paul strained his neck to try and hear what John was saying on the phone. He caught small snatches of dialogue but he couldn't make any sense out of it. 

John's voice went buzz-buzz-buzz.

Silence.

John's voice buzzed again but this time he sounded angry. Buzz-buzz-buzz!

More silence.

John shouted something (Paul couldn't quite make out what he said, but it didn't sound good), then said several rude words and slammed down the phone. Paul jumped, wondering what on earth the person on the other end of the phone could have said. John stalked back into the living room practically breathing fire. He glanced at Paul's anxious expression. Paul looked liked he wanted to say something but didn't quite like to. For once John couldn't be bothered about him. He had other tings to worry about.

"Of all the stupid, useless things!" John shouted. He stamped his foot on the floor repeatedly, again and again, until a dent began to form in the pale carpet. "This is a fucking nightmare!"

"What is?" Paul asked meekly. He clutched one of the fluffy white pillows to his chest as if it was a shield, and could protect him if John got really violent. John noticed the fear and concern in Paul's eyes. He felt terrible, scaring his friend like that. John took a deep breath, muttered something under his breath, and smiled at Paul. It didn't look like a genuine smile. John looked like his lips had been stuck on upside down by mistake. 

"Come on, Paul." he said softly, "Let's go and do something."

"What? Now?" Paul said, his expression changing from fear to surprise, "But can't you tell me what all that yelling and swearing was about first? It sounded like -"

"Look, Paul," said John, placing his fingers on the bridge of his nose and sighing heavily, "Let's not make this so difficult. You've come to visit me and have a lovely time. We need to make things right, so let's focus on that. Okay?"

It wasn't one bit okay, but Paul knew he had no other choice than to agree with John and say no more about the matter. Paul smiled falsely at John. "Great." he said, his enthusiasm more false than his smile, "Let's go and have a good time. Just us. Like the old days."

"That's my baby brother!" John said, reaching out and ruffling Paul's hair. "Grab your coat and then we'll go and paint the town red. Lennon and McCartney - the old team."