Missing You...

Chapter Nine

Sunday, 30 November 1980

"Paul? When was the last time you had a proper sleep?" John asked suddenly.

"Don't know..." Paul mumbled, his eyelids drooping. "Not for a long time..."

"Has something been bothering you? Do you want to tell me about it?"

Paul shook his head so violently his neck clicked. "I can't. It's stupid."

"All right." John said, helping an exhausted Paul onto the sofa. "You wait there and maybe shut your eyes for a little while. I'm going to go run a bath. You look like you need some pampering."

"Shut up." Paul moaned, clutching the sides of his head. "I've got a headache."

"That's what happens when you don't sleep for ages!" John sighed, then added quietly, "I should know."

"What was that?"

"Uh... nothing." John replied quickly, then he scurried out of the room.

"John's keeping something from me." Paul muttered to himself, "He's been getting calls from solicitors, he's losing sleep, he's actually being kind to me! I wish I knew what was up."

* * * * 

Five minutes later Paul was relaxing in the bath, up to his nose in heavenly-smelling bubbles. It felt so nice to be at peace for once instead of constantly worrying over small, pointless things like bad dreams and uncertainty. Paul glanced around John's bathroom. There was a lot of mess and clutter on both the floor and the shelves, mostly dirty laundry and damp hand-towels. Paul spotted an empty vodka bottle lying on the tiles and several plastic shot glasses surrounding it. Paul had never known someone to drink in their bathroom. He reached out and picked up the bottle, wondering why on earth John would have alcohol in the bathroom.

"You all right in there, Paulie?!" John called, bashing his fist on the door.

"Yeah! I'm fine!" Paul replied. He quickly shoved the bottle back among the pile of shot glasses, trying desperately to cover his tracks. He didn't want John to know he'd been snooping, especially since John was being so kind. It seemed quite bizarre to Paul. He and John had argued so much during their career together, and now here he was taking a bath in John's own tub! Paul suspected something was going on but he wasn't too sure what it was. 

"Paul!" John shouted, bashing even harder on the door.

Paul jumped. "What, John?!" he called, slightly agitated, "I'm fine!"

"All right. I'll just be in the kitchen. Wait there." 

Paul heard John's footsteps fading away as he walked down the hallway. He heard John opening the creaky kitchen door. He heard John rooting around inside the fridge. Paul was about to sink back down into the frothy bubbles and try to drown his problems when he heard something else. Quite a familiar noise from out in the kitchen. He heard a bottle clinking against the rim of a glass. He heard someone taking deep gulps and hiccuping, then there was a loud crash and lots of swearing. Paul tried his best to ignore it, but it was hard.

* * * *

Paul had been lying in the bath for about fifteen minutes now. His skin was all creased and wrinkled like a prune, and the water had been lukewarm for a long time, but he didn't move. He was too scared to leave the bathroom. He knew the person in the kitchen was John. He knew John was drinking. 

He remembered how scary John became when he was drunk.

"Paulie?" John called from outside the door. Paul listened carefully to the tone of his voice. John didn't sound drunk - not so much as a slur in his voice - but Paul was still wary. He quickly grabbed a back-scratcher from a pile of clutter on the floor, just in case John was in a bad mood.

"I'm coming in!" John announced, flinging the door open.

Paul shrieked, then said angrily, "John! Don't just barge in like that!"

"Why not?" John asked, garbling his words a little.

"I'm fucking naked!" Paul shouted, reaching out and fumbling for the towel on the rail. John dove in and snatched it up. He waved it in front of Paul's face as if he was a hypnotist. Paul clawed at John, trying desperately to grab the towel back. John tutted at him and shook his head.

"Naughty, naughty, naughty!" John said, waggling his finger.

"Enough games, John! Give me the bloody towel!"

"What's the point?" John strode towards Paul (who, by this time, was trembling with fear). He slipped on a puddle of water, his arms flung out flamboyantly. "Whoops!" he said stupidly.

"You're drunk, John." Paul said solemnly, although he felt like crying.

"No, I'm not!" John cried, "I want you, Paulie!"

Paul's face went white. His throat became dry, as if a small sandstorm had taken place inside his mouth. John leaned over further, his hands planted firmly on the rim of the bath. He was so close Paul could smell him. John's frightening, bloodshot eyes watched his every move. His face had mostly been hidden by his long fringe and glasses, but Paul could feel his hot breath on his neck. John took hold of Paul's arm, pulling him clear out of the bath and throwing him on the tiled floor. 

"John!" Paul screamed, his voice hoarse, "What are you doing?! Stop it!"

"No, no, no!" John cried. "I won't stop! Come here, Paul!"

Paul lay there on the floor, bare and helpless. He didn't know what to do. It had been a long time since he had to deal with John's drunken moods, and the last time he had it wasn't at all like this. Paul propped himself up on his elbows, scared and shivering, terrifying thoughts flashing through his mind. He noticed he still had the back-scratcher in his trembling hands. He knew what he had to do. This was the last straw. 

"I'm sorry, John." Paul said, practically crying. "I can't let you do this!"

"What are you talking about, Paulie?" John mumbled, "I thought you loved me."

"I do, but not like this! Stop!" 

"No!" John shouted. He seized Paul's wrist, his grip like iron. This was Paul's chance. He took the back-scratcher in his free hand, aimed, and smashed John over the head with it. John cried out in pain, clutching his forehead. His expression turned cloudy and he looked ready to strangle Paul, but he soon softened and fell to the floor in a sobbing heap. Paul sat still, breathing heavily, sweat running down his face in waterfalls.

"John?" he said softly.

John mumbled something indistinctly, his body shaking as he wept. 

"I'm so sorry I had to do that." Paul said. "You get out of control when you're drunk. Maybe when you're sober we can talk this over."

John didn't respond. He stayed motionless on the floor, sobbing loudly. Paul grabbed a towel, quickly wrapped it around himself, and ran out of the bathroom.