Chapter Text
A gust of icy wind surges from behind him, the crinkled map fluttering about in his hands wildly until he can pin it down to the hood of his car with both hands. He strains a look down to the convulsing page, the small dot within a wonky circle drawn in black pen, and then up to his temporary home. It’s a sobering vision, the seaside retreat for a brooding creative type he pictured for himself turning out to be an underwhelming cottage standing on its lonesome against the grey sky. He hardly cares anymore, a bag in each hand and scarf ends whipping in the wind as he marches up the incline to the front door. The chipped wood is painted cherry red, the grey and earthy stones stacked together that make up the walls of the house are smooth to touch. The door swings open and a middle aged woman wearing a bottle green coat beams at him, ushering him in quickly.
“Don’t worry about the cold, dear, I’ve just started the fire,” she tells him within moments of the door snapping shut behind him. She gestures to the fireplace to his right, now emitting an orange glow that warms the emptiness of the darkened room. There’s a couch with thin cushions and a wooden coffee table that stands on short thick legs, otherwise it’s barren space.
“Thank you, Mrs Grant,” he lowers his bags to the wooden floor, the gentle thud seeming to boom in his ears as the sound bounces off the walls. The whole house is so dark, thin curtains drawn over small windows that barely allow much light in the first place.
“The kitchen is over there, a dining table too,” she directs his attention to his left, where the room indeed stretches into a small kitchen. On the small dining table pressed to the wall is a basket with a small greeting card propped up against it. He takes it between his fingers.
Welcome! Enjoy Your Stay. - The Grant Family
The basket is filled with apples, radishes, celery, eggs and a small loaf of fresh bread. It’s a bundle of warmth and Paul is overwhelmed for a moment. He turns on his heels and smiles at her, really smiles at her, and thanks her.
“Just to start you off, love, that’s all. I’m sure you want to have a good sleep before you go out to town to shop. You can get yourself cod and mussels for cheap tomorrow morning,” she tucks her hands in the pockets of her wool coat, nodding towards the wall, “There’s your bathroom, and across the hall will be your bedroom. There’s a desk for you there. Should be enough blankets, but if not, you call me and I’ll bring over what I can find.”
He stalks down the creaking boards to inspect the rooms, just a quick polite sweep of his eyes, and then accepts the key Mrs Grant drops into his palm. He doesn’t know what to say, feeling suddenly very aware of his loneliness here. Mrs Grant says farewell, and then she’s gone. He walks back to the living room to watch the fire, the sizzling flames sprouting from the firewood, charred and glowing. The silence ringing in his ears makes him feel uneasy, he leans closer to the fire just to hear those small sounds. The journey here had been the rumbling of his car engine, the wind hitting the glass panes, the radio chirping with old jazz hits under fuzzy static. Sounds to fill the emptiness. He peels off his scarf, draping it over the couch, and decides to unpack his bags before he can steep further into his own thoughts.
Buried deep under jumpers and trousers he had packed he finds the blazer Jane had bought him months ago, a charcoal garment with blue lining. He holds it up with both hands and stares at it like an actor might hold up a prop and launch into a monologue about lost love. He can’t run from the ache, though he was hoping it wouldn’t hit him so soon. He takes a deep breath and lowers himself onto the bed, the mattress groaning under his weight. He wonders what she’s doing now, as pathetic as it is to sit here and wallow in it - in vague suspicions of men now hopping at the chance to take her out.
He loved her. That’s the most baffling thing, he loved her and he lost her. She lost him? He hardly knows. He can’t replay their last fight without the sickly churning of his stomach demanding he think of something, anything, else. Anything besides the emptiness of her eyes when she told him they were done, her dainty hands clasped at her front as she watched him make grand promises for change. Desperately throwing lifelines he didn’t possess out at her. Should he write to her? Tell her he’s wasting away in a small seaside village in Scotland because it hurts that much. That London doesn’t have its heartbeat without her being his home, so he ran away and left everything behind. That it’s her fault, that she should have tried harder. That she never respected him as much as her beloved greying film directors that reproduce the same tired tropes over and over.
He had written her a letter just before he left, all his miserable wrath scratched into paper.
Jane, You think that I’m just a working class boy wearing a mask. I will not apologise for never having had all the things you were fed with silver spoons. Those glittery things, the sparkling words that mean nothing .
You’re not worried about London’s effect on me, you’re worried about my effect on London. That those interesting people I can have real conversations with are going to change things for the better and you would have missed your chance to be a part of it.
In the end it all proved hardly cathartic when he read it over and felt completely empty. He had just dragged his hands over the page, white knuckling as he scrunched it to a ball and tossed it over his shoulder. When did he become so spiteful? So stupid and cruel? And now, he can’t think of anything to say to her. He looks down at his muddied boots, chewing on his lip. The house shivers as the wind bursts against the windows, the frosty glass rattling. There’s no electricity here, so the house will be blanketed in shadow until he lights some candles - a task that somehow feels too strenuous right now although he’s getting restless, pacing back and forth through the kitchen and the living room, trying to think of what he really wants to say to Jane. How do you unearth the truth within yourself when you spend so much time burying it?
He should write to his Dad and brother, make up something about an idyllic writer’s retreat. And Neil should be notified that Paul will be absent for...how long? He hadn’t planned that far ahead, the instinct to flee blurring out the necessity for detail. He decides to write when his mood is less sour, and puts out the fire before he grabs his coat and scarf again to find that bar he saw when he passed through town.
-
The Octopus’ Garden is a cosy bar sitting snugly between the butcher and a small cafe. There’s at least fifteen other patrons, mostly fishermen with raggedy beards and wind-whipped faces, crowding around small tables and chatting quietly. He orders himself a scotch on ice and unknots the scarf around his neck. He can still smell seasalt, the crisp of it rising above the flowing pints and old furniture. He curls his posture further over the counter, thanking the bartender quietly when he slides the glass into his hand.
“On me, mate,” he tells him, and when Paul looks up he finds the bartender is smiling kindly at him with bright blue eyes, “You’re renting the old Grant property?”
“Oh, thank you,” Paul takes a swift sip of his drink, “I am indeed.”
“Ringo,” he stretches out a hand for Paul to shake, still smiling that soft closed-mouth smile. Gentle, is the word that comes to his mind.
“Paul,” he nods, half disappointed when Ringo turns back around to tend to the plate of greasy chips being passed through a small window behind the bar. The radio is playing an old Billie Holiday song, a sweet little number that conjures up pale impressions of sitting cross legged on the floor while his mother knitted hats for him and Mike, radio humming softly - always too softly for his liking - as he swayed along to the steady beat.
A chance to sail away to Sweetheart Bay
Beneath the stars that shine
A chance to drift, for you to lift
Your tender lips to mine
“Is there a post office nearby?” he asks Ringo once he walks back over to sort loose change into the til.
“Oh sure, just up the street,” he points his thumb over his shoulder, “Across from the church, can’t miss it.”
His knee is bouncing, fingers twitching over his glass. The sunset lighting and the deep murmuring fills the room, his eyes slowly rolling up and down the sticky counter, trying to wrack his brain for questions to ask a trusty local. There’s nothing but hollow. Hollow thoughts and hollow feelings. Empty, empty, empty.
“How long are you here for, Paul?” Ringo asks, refilling his glass when Paul tilts it towards him with a bashful smile.
“Oh, I dunno, really,” Paul shrugs a shoulder, tipping the glass up to his pout, “A few months, at least.”
“Months?” Ringo chuckles, nodding to himself, and Paul can’t decipher whether he’s impressed or amused.
“Yeah, I’m- Well, I’m from London, ye see,” Paul explains, “Thought I might go north for a little while, get away from that hassle.”
It’s not a hassle, though, is the problem. London was lively, London was unending nights and stage plays and boutiques with Parisian clothes and restaurants of every cuisine ever conceived. London was his . And now he hardly knows himself. You’re looking everywhere for answers to your spiritual questions without me, doesn’t that make you wonder why you’re still with me at all? Jane hadn’t meant for his foundations to crumble. Or maybe she did. Maybe she could see how fragile things really were underneath Swinging London and his screenplays being raved about in the papers before he did. Underneath that slick shine of brilliant success was him and everything he carries in the pit of his chest. Everything he can bury and push aside. Ringo doesn’t say anything, just nods to himself like he understands and continues his quiet work.
“How long have you been set up here?” he perks up, sipping lightly. Billie Holiday drifts into Ray Charles, slightly more upbeat and less obscure.
“Since I was small, actually. Parents split up and I came here with me mum, she had family here - fishermen that stuck around after the war. This bar was here but Mum did it up and let me name it. Fancy getting your ten year old to name a bar.”
He laughs, and Paul notices the streak of grey through his hair above his ear when he turns his head. His beard is trimmed well enough so as not to hide the softness of his features, the brightness of him.
“It’s nice, really nice,” he looks up to the wall above Ringo’s head to a painting of an octopus curling its tentacles around its treasure - a collection of seashells and coral and gold coins and jewels.
“Ah, isn’t that great?” Ringo points at the artwork, “Good ol’ John did that as a gift to liven the place up, thought we needed something besides old anchors and fishing rods nailed to the wall.”
“I like it,” Paul smiles and doesn’t ask Ringo if his mum is still here, he knows how that goes, “Say, is there a chance I could get myself something to eat as well? Long journey over here, can’t be stuffed cooking when I get back home.”
The man nods enthusiastically and slides over the menu, a yellowed piece of paper on a clipboard with fingerprint smudges and curled aged corners.
“Egg on toast would be great,” he pats over his stomach and reaches for his wallet as Ringo calls out his order through the window to the kitchen.
“No need, mate, on the house,” he waves his hand, and Paul feels a sense of calm wash over him, warming him to the bone.
-
The loneliness of the damp cold house creeps in hour by hour, Paul curled into thin blankets on his bed trying to fight off the sinking feeling that he has no idea what he’s doing, how he’ll ever make it through. Last night he had barely slept, the hollow shell of his dwelling grating on him. Restless, tossing and turning under the quilt pulled up to his chin. He retains little warmth, just enough so he isn’t shivering, but the frostiness of the air still manages to be felt in the emptiness behind his ribs. After hours of intermittent sleep, he had slipped outside as the sun was rising. Even with the cold biting at his exposed skin, even with the horrible tangled heartache that never leaves him, he found some kind of peace watching the flash of gold against a watery grey sky. He sat on the rocks, overlooking the beach, tall grass swaying in the breeze. When it had gotten too cold to stand, he walked down to the sand, walking along where the ground wasn’t so damp. He swore he had heard music, a car radio from the road uphill, perhaps? That moth to a flame instinct he had possessed since he was a teenager, dreaming of being Elvis, draws him towards it. ‘Come Go With Me’, was it? A dreamy pull towards the familiar, the aching need to find himself underneath the rubble of heartbreak. By the time he made it back up to the road, the music was gone. He might have dreamt it all, if it weren’t for the shock of the cold against his ungloved hands making the harsh reality very well known to him.
October, 1966
Part of me hopes that you’ll never know how painful you leaving has been for me. Part of me hopes that you do, and that you’ll know enough to somehow reach out to me and ease my mind.
Is it selfish? To want that for myself?
I’m proud, sometimes too proud, but I’m not so foolish that I can’t see that this pain is frightening and real. I face it alone, but still want you here.
Love always,
Paul
He’s clutching the small bundle of envelopes as he pushes through the heavy door of the post office, muddied boots leaving prints on the worn carpet. The counter is unattended, so he waits for a moment, looking over the framed paintings of local buildings and horizons breaking over the sea. He busies himself with noting every odd and end displayed on the walls, because going back to his cottage would be facing empty, unending time and excruciating writers' block.
He hears the sound of muted footsteps from the room behind the counter, faint whistling becoming more clear -
A young man appears in the opened doorway with a cardboard box cradled in his arms, looking at ease and relaxed. When he spots Paul looking back at him he freezes, startled at the quiet presence.
“Oh,” he grunts, stepping forward and dropping the box onto the counter, “Alright?”
His jaw is set tight, looking sharp against the high neck of his navy blue sweater. His eyes are a warm amber hue that absorbs too much of Paul’s attention before he can correct himself and hastily slide his envelopes over the counter, “Yeah, just posting these, thanks.”
The man nods and swipes them into his hand, fishing for the round specs sat in his pocket and sliding them over his long nose with the other, “These won’t get very far without stamps.”
Paul stills, a warm flush of embarrassment rising when the stranger looks up at him with sharp eyes, the corner of his mouth quirked in slight amusement, “Oh, right, sorry. Uh, yeah, I’ll buy some, uh, stamps.”
His skin feels hot under the man’s stare, fingers fumbling for a small sheet of stamps with nautical imagery sitting in a small box off to his side. He chuckles at his own clumsiness, scratching at the side of his jaw, “One of those days.”
He accepts the handful of coins Paul passes him, “Cloudy?”
Paul huffs a shy laugh, “With a chance of heavy downfall.”
The stranger half smiles at that, angular features lighting up a little as he regards Paul with a sweeping glance, “You’re here, aren’t ye? Sounds like the down already fell.”
Paul slips his hands into his pockets, laughing quietly, “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. It’s really nice here. Fresh air and all that.”
He presses the first stamp onto the envelope addressed to Mike with his thumb, humming a non-response. Paul takes quick note of how lovely his hands are, like sculpted marble in movement.
“See how that optimism fares when winter really hits us,” he says, thin lips pressed to a straight line as he checks over the addresses again. Paul feels a pang of unease at the bluntness of his words, the way his eyes seem to avoid him as he organises the envelopes behind the counter.
“They’ll be sent out before the end of the week,” he looks up to Paul, thick brows rising a little as if to convey, ‘ what are you still doing here ?’.
“Alright,” Paul nods, rubbing the back of his neck and stepping back, “Thanks for that.”
“It might help to know,” the man pauses and Paul notes the colour in his cheeks, “That phone outside works no matter what you put in it. Hell, a button from yer coat would work it, or just a firm smack on its head. Exclusive local knowledge, right there.”
Paul smiles, “I’ll remember that, thank you.”
“Best to get a hobby while you’re here too, it’s lonely up by the lighthouse. Take it from the poor fuck that’s lived there for half a decade,” he says, fingers hooking under the collar of his sweater and tugging at it for emphasis.
Paul raises a brow, “Oh, I’ll be fine. I’ve brought work with me, but yeah, thanks.”
The man nods, fumbling with the contents of the box, “Ah, right. We had a psychiatrist living there for a spell. Was writing his memoir, if I recall correctly. Gave up on that real quick.”
Paul bites down on his lip, “I happen to like my work as much as any hobby. Quite lucky, in that respect.”
He smiles at that, a crooked kind of smile that makes Paul’s stomach swoop when their eyes meet, “Well, isn’t that grand for you?”
His pulse stutters for a long moment of feeling his flesh warm under his gaze, “Five years is a decent amount of time, you must like it here well enough.”
A casual shrug of his shoulders, mussed hair lighting up a more striking shade of auburn when he cants his head towards the light fixture, “I’m one of a kind.”
He holds a serious, wistful expression for a beat before an almost goofy smile cracks his façade.
“I believe it,” Paul smiles, throwing a look over his shoulder towards a shelf of books for sale sitting up against the wall just so he doesn’t give away the thrill that’s zipping through his blood whenever their eyes meet, “Any other words of wisdom, village elder?”
He laughs, a bright flare of a sound that lights up the space between them in gold, “Village idiot, more like. Village drunk on regular occasions, too.”
Paul runs his hand over the thick fabric of his scarf, “Only thing I was really wondering about was why the radio reception is utter crap.”
“Have to get close to town before you pick up anything half decent, I’m pained to say. You’re staying with the Grants?”
“Well, I’m in their cottage. The one with the red door?” Paul braves a step back up to the counter, watching as the bloke shuffles through slips of coloured paper and organises them into small piles.
“Ah, right,” he adjusts his glasses in an endearing motion, “Could order yourself a record player from a catalogue, there’s a few of them lying around back here.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Paul hums, “Right then, I suppose I best be off. I might see you around?”
He stops his work and looks over his glasses, scanning over Paul with an unreadable expression, “I’m here eight days a week, you can count on that.”
The delicate grasp he had on remaining composed falters as a belated and clumsy introduction tumbles from his mouth in slight desperation for a more firm promise of a second encounter, “I’m Paul, by the way.
“Alright, Paul,” he lifts his head, palms flat against the counter and shoulders hunched up as he smiles like he’s in on a joke, “I’m John.”
He doesn’t trip up entirely and make an awkward show of reaching out to shake his hand, but he finds the quiet walk back towards the door akin to walking over hot coals. Christ, he’s usually smoother than that.
The day is crisp, deep green leaves skipping along the pavement by Paul’s boots as he walks toward the grocer. It’s a small setup, a few shelves in a white tiled room with buzzing ceiling lights that make everything glow with a tinge of white-blue. He hadn’t thought to bring along a basket, but manages to carry what he purchases in his arms back to his car. Under the seat is a box with his typewriter packed securely, and he knows he ought to start writing again today - that his isolation has to birth something of value. As he’s about to step into his car he takes a moment to pause and look over the street behind him, the various small stores and brick homes that line the battered road. His heart twists, something urging him to stay where there are people to surround himself with and burrow into the lifestyle and get swept up with it. Where is the line drawn between running away from his sorrows and simply seeking out companionship? Seeking out warmth and life and inspiration? He doesn’t know anymore.
The breeze rustles through his coat, his narrow abdomen shuddering from the shock of the cold. He slips into the front seat and turns the radio on, music soothing him for a long and much needed moment before he braves impending doom and drives back to his new home.
-
Act One
A soft and lonely tune plays on a flute, sound of wind whistling. Curtain rises.
We see THE FOOL (Jeremy) leaning against the hood of his car - a small, battered, sun-paled vehicle with an obvious flat tyre. The backdrop is of a long and winding road leading to a far-away city. Wildgrass sways gently. Jeremy is weary and evidently lost. Dressed in a long worn tweed coat, he looks defeated.
-
The soft light of the afternoon spills from the window over his shoulder as he types away, quiet clacking sounds filling the room. He scribbles ideas in his notebook with a soft pencil, a cautious unpeeling of protective layers. The chair he’s sitting on grants him no comfort, the small of his back starting to ache, tight and sore. Dusk falls in a slow blink, wind settling down and sky falling darker as the minutes pass. When his mind hits the heavy concrete of writer’s block, he gives in with a pained sigh and walks to the kitchen to prepare dinner for himself. The kitchen is cramped and awkward to shift side to side in, and truth be told he feels the weight of latent depression beginning to drag down his energy and motivation. The simple act of cutting vegetables into small pieces for a basic stew seems to take everything he has. Eating alone at a small table, lanterns burning warm and bright, doesn’t feel intimate or relaxing. An anxious tapping of his heel against the wooden floor and the clinks of his spoon against the bowl ring in his ears and flares up his restlessness.
He digs through the remaining items in his bags later that night in the hopes of finding a distraction. He flicks through his old copy of The Miller’s Tale on the couch while the fire burns away. The words don’t sink in, his mind barely registers them at all, but he keeps going. The illusion of being productive, of not completely wasting his time, is the only motivator. The slow drag of the hours tortures him, the tight feeling in his chest is distracting him from his desperate effort to read. He wants to claw out his own mind, reset everything to how it was, how it was before he lost his spark. He grits his teeth, jaw set tight and slightly aching by the time he pulls himself off the couch and heads to bed.
The days that follow are more the same. He scribbles out a few ideas, lines and dialogue that may or may not be used - that may or may not be clever and profound, he can’t tell anymore. He’ll try to read, try to draw chairs and coffee tables and faces that he has fuzzy memories of. Mrs Grant’s features escape him, but the shape of her face is there, the softness of her hair and the kindness of her smile. The face of the bartender, Ringo, those clear blue eyes with that almost melancholic shape about them. Who else had he met? He taps the tip of his pencil in the bottom corner. John? He draws a basic outline, only barely recalling the angled length of his face and the shape of his mouth. Thin lips, weren’t they? He draws round specs, because he isn’t sure about the eyes. The soft waves in his hair come to him more easily though, the kind of fluffiness of it where it curls just around the tips of his ears.
In the morning when he blinks awake the dull mist outside swallows the house, the brisk cold creeping in and around his bed. He tugs up the quilt to burrow further within it, squinting against the intrusion of pale light into his eyes as he peers at the time on his alarm clock sitting on the bedside table. It had been a gift from Brian, a passive aggressive gesture that Paul might have tossed away if it weren’t for Brian’s fierce belief in him, the genuine desire to see him grow into the prolific playwright that he - deep down - knows he could potentially be. Engraved on the back is the slightly amusing message:
TO PAUL, TO KEEP ON TIME, TO ACHIEVE GREAT THINGS. FROM BRIAN.
He eventually drags himself out of bed sometime in the afternoon, a pressing weight over his shoulders as his weary frame navigates the cottage. Heating up water to wash with is a somewhat soothing routine. He sits in the tub and lathers himself with lavender soap, scrubbing the sleep from his skin in an attempt to rid the lingering exhaustion now settled into his muscles. He listens to the slosh of soapy water run over his back and feels the drag of the washcloth over his arms leave a trail of goosebumps when the warmth is lost. The sting of the cold hardly phases him, he scrubs the oil and grime from his scalp, body coiled up to retain warmth. He feels like a boy again, sitting with his arms curled around his knees in a space too small for him. In one of the many precious memories he has of his childhood, there is a distant but horribly familiar recollection of sitting in a full tub as a small boy. He can smell the cheap soap, the froth of bubbles that he could scoop into his small hands. He remembers looking over at his mum, sitting on the edge of the tub, her smiling back at him and gently instructing him to wash behind his neck. And he can remember the feeling of settling into bed afterwards in his flannel pajamas, a hot water bottle tucked just next to his belly as she bent down to kiss him on the forehead, wishing him sweet dreams. The snug and secure feeling of being tucked in, heavy lids falling closed as she quietly shut the door behind her.
His eyes glaze over with a wetness he curses himself for. He’s used up all the water now, just sitting with his damp hair still dripping and teeth chattering. When he can’t stand it any longer, he lifts himself from the tub and swipes a towel from a wooden peg nailed into the back of the door.
He makes scrambled eggs for dinner along with a small portion of the dwindling vegetable supply on the side of his plate. He will sit in front of the fire, occasionally standing up and walking over to the window to look out. Past the tall grass and rocks, past where the land takes a sudden dip, and out to the beach. He can see a slither of sand and the stretch of water, dark blue - grey ribbons of seafoam illuminated by moonlight as waves tumble over each other. He looks to the stars, admiring the brightness that they don’t have in London, and takes a deep breath. Burning firewood, seasalt and lavender soap. And he realises that this is where he has to be. Alone, contemplating. He couldn’t have kept it up - racing around London, trying to fill the void in his heart with counter culture types and the budding trends within the crowd. He winces when he imagines the shrill ring of his telephone, messages left unanswered as he lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling of his London home.
He feels more settled in the routine now. The gentle ebb and flow of the day and its simple tasks. The day ends when he blows out the candles one by one as he journeys back to bed. But it doesn’t fill the vacuum, and at night when he blinks against the dark, fingers curling around the blanket’s edge - that’s when he feels most alone.
He stirs awake at daybreak, and the dense blur of sleepiness lifts too quickly to be able to fall back. So he trails to the bathroom, splashes water over his face, brushes his teeth and pulls on proper clothes and a coat and scarf and steps outside for the first time in days.
The path that leads him down to the beach is awkward and steep, and he learned the hard way the last time he came here that he’s not as fit as he assumed he was when it came time to stalk back up the incline. He takes his time, boots meeting sand when the sun has emerged from the water fully and brightens the sky with eggshell light. The water isn’t as rough as it had been last time he came, but he’s heard stories of people being deceived by the apparent calm of the ocean. He isn’t tempted to go swimming, but he does wonder what it would be like to brave the dive into the freezing abyss. He walks along the sand, trying to conjure up ideas for his new script. It’s a stubborn thing, no real solid plan to act as a foundation. The last one he wrote did well, rave reviews by critics who probably had originally had their noses turned up to this fresh new face on the scene. He had written it about London and the kind of colourful characters that populate it with all their eccentricities and wisdom in fair measure. The seduction of the city, the enlightenment that came with fully delving into it. He used to be so sure of what he was saying with that screenplay.
He hears it, just above all the white noise. Music. His heart leaps when he looks up and sees a man sitting in the sand. And he remembers the other day, and the curiosity sprouts up again. His pace picks up a little, slightly out of breath when he is close enough to make out the auburn curls being rustled by the wind. John is sitting, arms over his knees, watching the water as a small record player sitting on a folded blanket plays beside him.
“Morning,” he greets when he’s close enough to be heard without shouting. John looks over his shoulder with a mildly startled expression. He’s wearing a moss green coat, collar popped up, gloved hands resting on his knees with fingers interlocked.
“Lost, are you? Or looking for a way out?” he looks Paul up and down, tone not particularly joyful though not unkind.
“No, not at all,” Paul chuckles, “It’s lovely out here. Beautiful.”
John folds his arms over his chest as the wind picks up, “Yeah, it is.”
Paul looks out to the waves stretching up the sand in rhythmic turns, “I think you were right about ordering a turntable or something, I’ve missed music. Hearing it just now had me almost running towards you.”
John huffs a chuckle and holds up the vinyl cover, “Gene Vincent fan?”
Paul tentatively lowers himself down on the sand beside John, “Course I am.”
John beams at that, nodding enthusiastically, “Aye, that’s the way. I might even lend this to ya if you do end up getting a player..”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Paul smiles, watching the record spin leisurely, “Heard anything good on the radio recently?”
“Nah,” John licks over his lip as he concentrates, listening out with his ear tilted to the sound of the channels crackling to life, “It’s the same scene. Folk with a dusting of Springfield.”
Paul grins, “Nothing quite like the golden era, eh?”
“That’s right,” John swipes some particles of sand from the sleeve, as Gene Vincent continues to croon away, “Just about all I listen to.”
“Are you out here every morning?” Paul asks, nodding along to the beat, “It must have been you I was hearing the other day.”
“Just about. It’s habit, really. The cats wake me up and I just sort of end up out here. It’s alright, though, no one else comes up here. They’re all further down, fishing and all that. Might see someone near the lighthouse, but that’s it.”
He gestures, vaguely towards the lighthouse, a strong pillar standing against the pale sky.
“I don’t mean to intrude,” Paul twists his fingers into the fabric of his scarf, “I jus-”
“You’re not intruding,” John interjects, flipping the album sleeve over, eyes focused on it, “As long as you shut up during the really great songs, we’ll get on fine.”
Paul smiles, bringing his knees up closer to his chest, “I can do that… So, you live near here, I take it?”
“Just up there,” John nods his head up to the peak of the incline just behind them.
He wonders why he isn’t living in town, closer to the post office, closer to people. Why he’s all the way out here, sitting as invisible as a grain of sand on the beach. A slight sadness blooms at the thought that there may be more to John’s living situation than the serenity of the beach right now. Perhaps there’s all the loneliness and confusion and emptiness that has been chasing Paul dwelling beneath that indifferent exterior.
“You suggested the other day that I take up a hobby,” he says, pursing his lips in thought, “You didn’t tell me what yours was, though. I’ll need ideas, you know.”
John tilts his head up to watch a seagull dip down through the air with outstretched wings onto the wet sand, “I’m a man of many talents.”
“Oh, are you now?” Paul bites down a smile when John looks back to him with a smirk.
“I just think it’s easier,” John turns back away, “For the worldly people that come by to stay for their tranquil retreat, going back to nature or whatever the fuck lures people out here. Damned if I know.”
Paul scoffs, “You must have known, once.”
John shrugs a shoulder, “That’s different. I didn’t come from Swinging London, I didn’t come for a holiday .”
“Guess so,” Paul nods thoughtfully and then pauses, “Swinging London?”
John ducks his head slightly, turning it to the breeze before Paul can catch a glimpse of what must be a slightly bashful look given his tone when he speaks up, “Small town gossip. Old Man Grant is always dead set on telling me every agonising detail of his day, including that of getting someone to rent his cottage. Someone from London , no less.”
There’s something about the way John says bitter words, always with a slight spark of something that indicates he’s not totally a true cynic. Or maybe Paul just doesn’t want to believe that this attractive man could possibly be a drag.
“And where are you from?” Paul asks, figuring that it’s not a horribly invasive question to ask, “I’d say Liverpool, but maybe I’m wrong.”
John grins and speaks with a comically thick brogue, “Very good, lad. Earned yourself a gold star, you did.”
Paul cracks up, laughing into his cupped hand, warm breath puffing against his palm, “Grew up in Liverpool, I did, aye.”
John places a limp hand over his chest and speaks in a mock posh drawl, “Oh, but you speak with such an inoffensive lilt, I thought you absolutely must be a prim and proper purebread Londoner.”
“Oh, I’m not that bad, am I?” Paul nudges him lightly, the contact of bulky coat sleeve to bulky coat sleeve still somehow sparking a thrill. He hasn’t touched another person since London. The realisation renders him slightly shocked, recoiling back and looking down to his hands, shoulders sagging forward.
John either doesn’t notice or just doesn’t question the sudden movement and speaks after a short pause, “No, actually, you’re alright.”
Silence. The chemistry between them dwindles down from friendly curiosity to a strange sense of displacement. Like Paul shouldn’t still be here, barging into John’s space like he is. He’s suddenly acutely aware of his own loneliness and he realises the strange desire to reach out for surface-conversations for what it is. It’s what he always does. What Jane got frustrated with towards the end. Why can’t you ever just be honest? What are you trying to avoid? He had called her a ‘ typical daughter of a psychiatrist, trying to fix me !’ and stormed off.
“I, uh, could lend you this,” John gently pats the side of the record player, truly startling Paul. He hardly knows him and yet he’s offering this important cog in the routine of his day, Paul’s stomach swoops.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that. I’m- really, it’s fine,” Paul’s face flushes when John doesn’t look away from him, thin lips curling into the most subtle of soft smiles as he watches him flounder for words.
“The offer stands,” John says just as the song transitions smoothly into something slower, a cheesy ballad. He and John look at each other, looks of mild disgust mirroring each other. Soft laughter chimes between them and John twists the dial to lower the volume.
“You said you worked at the post office eight days a week, when do you usually start?” he asks, noticing the sun sitting higher, fuller and brighter than it had been when he first made it to the sand.
“Ah, soon, actually,” John pulls up his coat sleeve to reveal a bare wrist and grunts, “Forgot me watch.”
“Here,” Paul glances at his own, “Ten past.”
“Ten past what?” John leans over, chin grazing over Paul’s shoulder, “Oh fuck.”
Paul laughs, and the two of them rise to their feet, John gathering his supplies and start to make their way up the incline.
“You don’t deliver the mail, do you?” Paul simpers, watching John bat the sand off of his pants when they make it to the top.
“Christ, no. I just sit inside and sort it all, brainless work - ‘s why they hired me,” he deadpans, shifting the glasses further up his nose, “Fuck, Fred’ll have my head for cocking up again. Reckon I can pedal my way to town in five minutes?”
Paul frowns, looking down the stretch of road ahead, “Pedal?”
“Yeah, don’t have a car, just a battered old bike,” John admits, pointing across the road where a bicycle is leaning against a short wooden fence. His cottage is almost identical to Paul’s, except his door is painted pale blue, navy framing around it.
Paul blinks in surprise, “No need for that, I can drive you.”
John screws up his nose and shakes his head, “Nah, it’s alright. I can wriggle my way out of trouble.”
“No, I mean it. I’ve got to pick up a few things in town, actually,” he says earnestly, “Come on.”
John’s mouth twitches in contemplation, casting a look to the bike and back to Paul, “Alright. We’ll just have to gun it like it’s James Dean’s last drive.”
-
The drive to town from Paul’s cottage is just over ten minutes at a reasonable speed, and Paul teeters just over the edge. Hardly James Dean, but fast enough to give a sense of speed while the car tears through the road. They zip past the greenery, alone on the open road stretched out ahead.
“What happens if it rains and you need to get home?” Paul asks, half amused but half concerned.
John gives a nonplussed shrug and turns to face the window, “I’ll just set meself up at Ringo’s place or thereabouts. I manage just fine. Not like I really need a car.”
Paul drums his fingers on the steering wheel, “I’d feel too trapped without one.”
“ The real prisons are usually internal , to quote that psychiatrist from way back. I agree with ‘im though, doesn’t matter where I am or how long I’m there, if I feel trapped that’s usually because of something on me mind,” John inspects his fingernails, a stray lock of hair falling down over his forehead as he looks down. Paul drags his eyes back to focus on the road.
“I guess one is a reflection of the other,” Paul muses, reaching out to switch off the radio that is just spluttering unpleasant static, “Where you are is where your mind is. Vice versa. They influence each other. Anyway, this is a bit heavy for a morning chat, don’t you think?”
John sees straight through him, “Have you been influenced to stay here?”
“No,” Paul lies with ease, “But I’m just saying, you know, if you were feeling...I dunno, depressed... You’d end up inside all day because you don’t want to go anywhere or see anyone.”
John fidgets with the cuffs of his sleeves, “I’m not a recluse.”
Paul’s stomach twists, “I didn’t mean you specifically… I just, you know… Well, it’s true, innit? If you’re stuck in one place, everything else gets stuck.”
“Mm,” John hums, “How’d you end up here, then? Don’t writers go to Paris or Rome for creative hibernation?”
“Not always, I decided to fly North for the winter.”
“Winter?” John scoffs, “You want to stay here through winter?”
“You’re pretty dead set on me not making it here,” Paul laughs and casts a sideways glance to John, “Want to get rid of me already?”
John laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, “Just curious.”
He casually lifts up his legs and props his boots on the dashboard, extracting a wrapped chocolate from his pocket and slowly twisting the orange cellophane undone.
“A friend mentioned Scotland, and I just asked a travel agent about some remote place near the sea,” Paul purses his lips, “Wanted some peace and quiet, y’know?”
“Yeah, I do,” John casts aside the wrapping and bites into his treat, “When I first got here I just wanted to work with the other fishermen. Thought to meself that I could do that, easy. Going out early in the morning to fish and coming back to drink for the rest of the day. Lasted about a year.”
“Sounds miserable,” Paul winces, but doesn’t expand on his thoughts about soul-crushingly boring and menial work as he recalls coloured slips of paper and envelopes in John’s hands.
“T’was,” John chews, opened mouthed and somehow Paul’s eyes get caught on the slight smack of his lips when his teeth clamp down, the line of his jaw, the light igniting his profile, “Those blokes were fucking bastards anyway. Got bumped off the pier and barely anyone batted an eye.”
Paul stiffens, chest constricting a little at the thought of that horrible freezing water pulling him deeper and deeper, lungs starved, “Christ, on purpose? What did you do?”
“Yeah, the piece of shit ploughed into my shoulder while I was dragging the net on me own, toppled right back. Could have died,” John says it like matter-of-factly, ducking his eyes away from Paul’s as he seeks out the discarded wrapper, pinching it between his fingers to fidget with. Paul feels a cold bolt of anxiety swarm in his stomach at the thought of drowning. Of being so helpless against the water swallowing you whole, being so powerless. Knowing you’re about to die. He feels queasy, grip over the steering wheel tightening almost painfully.
“Fuck,” is all he can say, a tight exhale through barely parted lips.
“Maybe it was ‘cause I didn’t have a grey beard and decaying teeth,” John contemplates, casual and distant from the mild horror that Paul is feeling on his behalf, “Should’ve belted him when I had the chance, but his buddies were always around. Didn’t want to risk being tomorrow’s bait.”
Paul bites down on his tongue, a strange bubbling of fear rising up his throat like bile. He wants John to talk about anything else, something that won’t bend his mind out of shape and leave him dwelling in the dark.
“You, uh, you like the post office, though?” he attempts to sound at ease, but there’s a wavering in his voice that even he can’t ignore. John shifts his position, boots dragging back over the dashboard and onto the edge of his seat.
“Like it?” he sounds almost insulted, but softens his tone as he talks, “It’s a living, that’s all. Could change around sometime in the future if something better came along. My mate drives a truck back and forth between Glasgow and all the towns along the coast delivering stock for grocers and such. I don’t know if I could do that, I might need a home to go back to at the end of the day. But he says it’s decent. Maybe I should get that driver’s licence after all.”
Paul nods, “I think I’m the same way. Needing… I mean, having a home and relying on that, even if I’m doing a million other things and don’t come home for years. It’s human, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps. That mate is younger than I am. He’d quit if he met a girl he wanted to settle down with, so maybe it isn’t all that,” the wrapper crinkles between his fingertips, “You’re not married, are you? Or have someone back home for you?”
Paul almost laughs, vague rapid-fire memories of Jane and the engagement ring he never bought conjured out from behind all the doors in his mind he had hoped to keep shut, “No, I’m a single lad at the present time.”
He almost redirects the question back to John, but pauses, thinking about the lonely cottage with it’s overgrown grass and lone bicycle against the weather-worn fence.
“Slim pickings around here, I bet,” he settles on, though he feels he’s on wobbly ground.
John scrunches up the cellophane into a ball and rolls it between his fingers, “I’m no monk, but I’d have to agree with ye there. You hunting for a chick to lay?”
“No, I’m not,” Paul responds, almost too quickly, cheeks flushing when John quirks a brow at him, “But I’m no monk either, don’t think I’m cut out for it.”
John shifts in his seat a little, setting his boots down on the floor again, “Ye could ‘ave gotten lost in a city, could have done everything you think you’ll do here and not suffered from slim pickings .”
Paul shakes his head, “Again, it’s like you’re trying to scare me off. Why?”
John leans over, almost pressing his forehead to the glass of the window, “I’ve seen people come and go, that’s all. Same old, same old.”
“And you’re always out to warn the next victim?” Paul teases lightly.
“Not many care to inquire for my opinion on their life choices,” John clicks his tongue, pulling a face, “Can’t imagine why that is.”
“Oh, neither can I,” Paul frowns, cracking up into soft laughter as John does, “I don’t recall ever asking, though.”
“Just another notch in the wall of reasons not to bother with me,” John mutters, but he perks back up just as the town’s edge comes into view up ahead, “Christ, maybe I should buy a car.”
The offer stops just short of being spoken, but the instinct to offer to drive John to work tomorrow (and the next day?) sits in his throat. A strange strike of embarrassment renders him silent for a minute, realising how stupid the thought is.
He parks just in front of the post office, John turning around to shake his hand - smooth warm palm again his almost making Paul shiver, “Thanks for that, mate, I owe you a drink or summat. You’ll hunt me down for it, won’t you?”
Paul nods, a little lost for words as he watches John slip out and close the door behind him. He turns back around to salute him, a closed mouthed smile that makes Paul’s heart flutter. It was almost sweet, that look. Shit , Paul shakes the sentiment from his mind and quickly busies himself with determining what he needs to pick up from the grocers.
-
Back in Liverpool he would take the ferry to go to the theatre, writing poetry in his notebook and feeling like the artist his Dad would never allow him to be. His dreams were always coloured by those spotlights, the thick velvet curtains. Words and ideas poured out of him - pages and pages stuffed in a shoebox he hid under his bed. A world in which he wasn’t a playwright? Misery. Absolutely dull. Still, gambling his savings to move to London to try and make it was the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. His Dad had stood at the kitchen sink the day he left, mulling over a teacup and shaking his head. Sometimes Paul wonders if his Dad still thinks it will all snap shut one day and he’ll have to come crawling back to Liverpool. “Nothing lasts in showbiz”, he had pointedly told him over the dinner table the night before. “I will,” Paul had replied, stoic as he prodded his steak and vegetables with dull cutlery. “They’re a strange crowd, you know,” his Dad had told him in the hallway, handing him a packed lunch of leftovers. Paul could only shrug. Being strange was perfectly ordinary to him by now.
-
October, 1966
I’m still thinking of you, after all this time. I try not to let myself fall into that trap. I have to occupy my time, lest I fall back to where I began.
Paul
-
He ends up going back into town sooner than he needs to. He has a small notepad and pen tucked in his coat pocket. Having slept in these past few mornings, he finds he is vaguely disappointed when he realises he won’t catch John outside on the beach (he’ll have to tinker with the alarm clock to set it at a reasonably early time). The children are walking home from school, brightly coloured coats and rubber boots and pink smiling faces. Paul slows to a stop when he spots a young lady holding her son’s small hand as they walk. His eyes shift down to his own boots, a shot of a sickly kind of sadness spreading slowly through him. He ducks into the bar as fast as his feet can carry him.
A huddled group of fishermen eye him up and down, scruffy faces blank and void when he greets them with a polite nod. Ringo is at the bar, grinning as he slides over a plate of food to a patron sitting right up at the bar in front of him, and the auburn hair grants Paul a sense of relief.
“Christ, Rich, it’s fuckin’ theft. Can’t be fucked with the damn thing anymore,” he’s lamenting, slouched in his stool and hunched over his plate.
“Hi Paul,” Ringo greets with a small laugh. John doesn’t turn around, barely flinches at all as Paul pulls up a seat beside him. He notes with a sideways glance that John isn’t wearing his glasses, eyelids sitting heavy as he squints over at his new companion.
“Egg and chips?” Paul requests and Ringo is quick to scribble down the order and pass it off to the kitchen.
“Get you,” John snorts, “Egg and chips.”
“Ye can’t beat a classic,” Paul replies, eyeing John up and down, “How’s work?”
John grabs his pint and takes a gulp, “Fucking ‘ell, you can’t puzzle that out for yerself?”
Paul chuckles and shrugs, “Clearly not.”
“Well, it’s real stimulating work ,” John drones with a second pointed gulp of beer, “Christ, what d’ye think it’d be like sorting mail all day? Means to an end.”
Paul purses his lips, darting an amused look to the ceiling, “Lick the wrong side of the stamp today, did you?”
John’s mouth contorts sourly, “Fuck off.”
Paul nervously rakes his fingers through his hair, sensing that he really has crossed a line with John, and quickly retreats into himself and feigns interest in searching his own pockets as if he’s trying to find something, “Sorry.”
John lifts his head, “Nothing t’ be sorry about, lad. Yer talking to the village bastard.”
“Am I really?” Paul’s fingers brush against the edge of his notebook and he slowly extracts it and lays it on the bar, “You seem alright to me.”
John sinks a little deeper into his tweed cardigan, toying with the dull brass button closest to his neck, “Must spend all yer time on the bottle while you’re up in yer cave.”
“Says St John himself,” Paul laughs, “Had yer revelation yet?”
John pulls a mock-mournful expression and clasps his hands together, “No, still waiting.”
Paul grins and watches John’s hands fall languidly down to the counter, long fingers wrapping back around the almost drained glass, “Give it another little while, I say.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” John points out, tilting his head. The high spots of his cheeks are tinted rose and the hue of his eyes is so much more dicerinable when he’s this close. There’s a warmth to them that makes Paul’s skin flush.
“You never asked me one,” Paul frowns, “If you’re asking what I do all day in my cave, I can tell you, not much at all. Just writing bits and pieces. Rubbish so far. Still, early days yet.”
“Ah, is that so?” John hums nasally and waves a hand to grab Ringo’s attention, “Another one over here, Ringo.”
“Was thinking about venturing into new territory,” Paul remarks, “Something really different from what I usually write. Nothing seems to be working so far.”
“Was the old stuff not any good?”
Paul shakes his head, “It was fine. But it’s daft, doing the same thing over and over.”
“Yer telling the fucking mailman,” John mutters with an amused smirk, “Wouldn’t say it’s daft. Safe, sure. But people like safe, so it’s not totally useless. Why do ye think the same sounding pop song gets so popular year after year? There’s a formula to it and people like what they like and you sell it to them again and again.”
Paul nods, pinching his lower lip, “But that’s the thing, it’s not formulaic at all. There has to be change every now and then. Why do ye think we went from Sinatra to Elvis?”
“They’re the same,” John reiterates, accepting his renewed drink with a nod - eyes firmly fixed on Paul, “Exactly the same, in fact.”
“That’s not true,” Paul argues, brow furrowed, “You-”
John interjects, “Look, I understand what you’re getting at. ‘Course people had to test the boundaries or whatever the fuck. But look at it this way, there’s always going to be Sock and Buskin. Always going to be those same stories told over and over-”
“-but it’s how you tell ‘em. I want to be able to do it differently,” Paul cuts in.
John smirks, eyes narrowing over the lip of his glass, “Settle down there, son, we agree on that.”
Paul’s face warms as he relaxes his posture, turning around just as Ringo slides over his plate. He thanks him and makes quick work of jabbing his fork into his food, “So if we agree, why do I get the feeling you’re not convinced I ought t’ try something new?”
“You’ve got terrible instincts,” John says deadpanned, only a flicker of teasing in his voice to be noted.
Paul screws up his nose and chews his food, “I disagree.”
“What’ve you got so far?” John asks, pointing at his notebook. Paul bites down on his lip and carefully flips through pages of scribbles and doodles. There’s certainly nothing worthy of sharing, but he feels John’s eyes on him and a certain kind of strain on his chest. The need to impress. A certain unfinished portrait done in pencil in the bottom corner of a page captures his attention for a beat too long and he quickly closes the book.
“Told ya before, only got rubbish,” he pushes the notebook aside where John can’t potentially grab it and continues with his meal.
“How about a tragedy about a one-eyed fisherman named Johnny,” John muses, swirling his drink in his glass, “An’ the fish he could never catch.”
Paul titters, “Ooh, I’m hooked.”
John groans, the noise echoing in his glass, “Stuff off! The fucking nerve of ye , making shitty jokes. That’s my job.”
“You juggle that and the village bastard duties?” Paul implores, hand over heart. John laughs, head thrown back and curls shining under new light. He licks over his lips, feeling a shock of joy rattle his system at the sound.
“Juggler, gigolo,” John hums, and now it’s Paul that splutters a laugh holding his hand over his mouth.
“Not one drop of beer and yer still coughing up yer meal,” John smiles softly, hand reaching up as if to fix his glasses only to find nothing to hold onto. He scratches at his sideburns and Paul feels a quiet need to touch his hair. Just to feel how soft it would be, how each curl bends and springs into shape. How the reddish tones shine brighter in warm light.
By the time John finishes his second drink, Paul is only halfway through his meal, but he stays put. The conversation drifts from one casual topic to the next, a point of interest being that John was the one that painted the artwork that hangs above the bar.
“It’s really fucking good, John,” Paul marvels, taking in each brushstroke in new light, “You’ve ever sold your work?”
“Nah,” John taps his fingers against the glass, “Couldn’t be stuffed. A steady income or death.”
“I reckon you could have plenty of income with that sort of work,” Paul nods, turning back to an increasingly shy-looking John. He has his body facing the bar completely now, head ducked and shoulders hunched. He’s picking at his button again and Paul can’t contain the fondness bursting in his chest. The brightness seems to overflow into his voice when he speaks to him, his compliment sounding so much more than polite or even flirtatious. It’s genuine wonderment and admiration.
“I’d get roped into doing commissioned portraits of old fucks with money to throw around,” John dismisses, still not looking at Paul, “I’d hate it.”
Paul doesn’t know what to say to that, choosing instead to turn back to his food and keep his glances to a minimum. The fluttery feeling he gets when he senses John looking over at him startles him to a blushing mess, the jolt of heat when John nudges his knee with his own.
“Call me forward, but…” John’s voice sits an octave lower than normal, the sound rumbling right through into the core of Paul’s chest, “Might I request that the gentleman provide me a ride home?”
Paul stumbles through an answer, “Oh, I- Yeah, sure. I can do that, yeah.”
He isn’t looking directly at him, but he can see in his peripheral vision that his mouth has curled into a grin that makes him shiver. He thanks Ringo again as they get up to leave, tucking his notebook in his pocket and shrugging on his coat. Their shoulders bump for sweet swift moments at a time as they head towards the door.
One of the fishermen grumbles something Paul doesn’t quite catch as they pass by, but John evidently does and quickly spins around to face the offending table.
“What was that?” John’s tone is teetering on the edge of gravel and grit.
A man with ruddy cheeks and an unevenly cropped fuzzy beard sits himself upright and looks them both up and down, “I said, John’s got a little friend with him .”
John doesn’t move an inch, staring the chuckling fisherman down. Paul looks over his shoulder at John’s profile, the firm set line of his mouth. The harshness of eyes.
“Stuff off, Allen,” John seethes, “Yer all blubber, no bite.”
At this, the man stirs, fist coming down hard on the table surface as he snarls, “Watch yerself, boy. Ye’ve got a history of stumbling into rough waters.”
John casts a look over the spectators sitting around the table with a stone cold glare, “Do I?”
A chilled moment of silence passes, Paul catching sight of a wary looking Ringo watching from behind the bar. He wants to say something, to speed them along out the door, but all this tension has him frozen in place. John eventually forces out a humourless chuckle and turns to walk briskly towards the door, hands curled up in fists. The men grumble under their breaths, their collective tone is mocking and pissed, and Paul can feel their stares burn into his back as he follows John out onto the street.
“Bastards,” John grunts, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes squinted against the wind battering his face, “Got a cig?”
Paul shakes his head, “Might do, in the car.”
John tilts his head up to the sky, jaw set tight, “Yeah, alright.”
They slip into Paul’s car, hair wind-tousled and a little wild, Paul self-consciously smooths down his fringe with one hand and searches for a pack of smokes until John mutters that it isn’t necessary. He starts the engine and watches the headlights cut through the night and illuminate the road ahead. There’s a nipping temptation to make a comment, but his throat is rather tight and frankly, he doesn’t want to risk upsetting John further.
“Didn’t bother you, all that, did it?” John asks suddenly.
“I didn’t know what to make of it,” Paul responds. It’s a half lie. A part of him has always been on guard for innuendo and mocking, and there was a certain kind of glint in Allen’s eye as he spoke. ‘ Little Friend ’. The label made his stomach twist nervously, or rather, the way it was said. It rang shrill and grating in his ears, sinking low in his gut.
“He’s just being a tosser,” John says, as if it were reassurance, “Doesn’t like it when anyone else actually has the balls to be a leader. Fucking idiot.”
“Did… Did I do someth-”
“No,” John shakes his head, arms folded across his chest, “No, it’s me he’s always after.”
“He’s the one that pushed you into the water,” Paul states, phantom cold creeping under his clothes.
“Mm,” John affirms shortly, staring out the window, “Pay him no mind, save yerself the agony of knowing him.”
Paul nods dutifully, though he finds himself tangled up in the implications of Allen’s words and feels a stirring of something not entirely unpleasant. John is arresting, as handsome of a man as Paul has ever come across, and if this was London and he was drifting about in certain clubs he would have been more explicit about it. But this is a tiny town built on seemingly very traditional family values, it hadn’t been worth the risk. Though, there does seem to be something simmering beneath the surface, just within his reach.
“Not really my sort of crowd anyway,” Paul jokes lightly, watching the town fade in the rear view mirror.
“I’ll bet,” John mutters. The hum of the engine fills the void for a few minutes of tepid silence, Paul gnawing on his lip as his mind traces back through every look John has given him, every time their body language lined up just so …
“Don’t worry about the cigs,” John says suddenly, “I’ve got plenty at home.”
“Ah, alright,” Paul drums his fingers on the steering wheel, “Did-”
“Are you nervous or something?” John speaks over him accidentally and the two of them chuckle, “Sorry.”
“No, no, that’s alright,” Paul exhales a shaky laugh, “I was just about to ask if you wanted a cup of tea at my place. I could still drive you back home, if you like. Too cold to be outside.”
“Oh,” John turns to look at him, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Paul blinks, registering a moment too late that he is out of tea bags, “Oh shit, wait-”
“Out of tea?” John simpers, and Paul ducks his head shyly.
“Know me too well already.”
“Best to come over to mine,” John says, “If you’d like.”
“I would,” Paul glances over and meets John’s eyes, smiling softly.
-
There’s a warmth in John’s home that simply doesn’t exist in Paul’s, with or without the fire burning away. From framed paintings and photographs hanging up on the walls through to the cat fur on the couch cushions, there’s a real sense of home here. A scrawny white cat with a black spot over its eye rubs up against Paul’s leg, mewing softly up at John as the two men hang up their coats.
“Hello little fella,” Paul coos, bending down to scratch lightly behind the ears of the animal, “Friend of yours?”
“That’s Buddy,” John smiles like he’s fighting it, only to notice Paul looking and quickly makes his way towards the fireplace.
The layout of the place seems almost identical to Paul’s, though the furniture here seems nicer, the walls painted seafoam blue and cluttered with pinned up sketches and letters. Paul sits himself down on the couch, little Buddy following close behind and jumping up to sit next to him. Paul strokes him gently, watching John poke at the smoldering fire. His eyes trail up the places where the fabric of John’s trousers tighten around his thighs, how the cardigan he’s wearing sits over his waist. The soft sounds of paws skittering over floorboards interrupt his train of mindless thought, and he is delighted to see two more cats enter the room, calling out to John.
“You collect strays?” Paul smiles, watching how the new pair eye him suspiciously and keep to the edge of the room as they make their way to John.
“Suppose I do,” John chuckles, “Grew up with ‘em. Cats, I mean. Can’t stand turning them away. Not like I could if I wanted to, persistent little buggers, aren’t they?”
There’s a deep fondness in his tone that Paul finds so endearing. He looks down at Buddy and continues slow and rhythmic pets, “I always grew up with dogs, myself.”
“Ah, dogs are alright. Not fussy like these guys,” John comments, standing upright as the fire begins to swell.
“Would you like me to get the tea ready?” Paul asks, pausing his doting on Buddy only to have the feline lick his hand as if to ask for more attention.
“Yeah, you can do that, and I’ll feed these three cool cats, eh?” John whistles and captures the attention of all three and starts to walk down the hall as Paul gets up and heads to the kitchen.
“What are the names of the other two?” Paul calls out over his shoulder as he navigates the kitchen.
“Ah, the ginger one is Oscar and the black one is Elvis,” John calls back, footsteps padding back to the kitchen, “Elvis is a girl, funnily enough. Learned that the hard way when she went and got herself mounted and stuck with a litter.”
“Are you saying you’ve got another hundred back there?” Paul laughs, “‘Cause I’d believe it.”
John stifles a laugh, “No, no, gave ‘em away. Me Aunt Mimi loves ‘em so she got the whole lot. It was a bit of a family joke. She wasn’t amused.”
“The joke being?”
“That the mother lives somewhere else while the Aunt takes care of the baby,” John says bluntly, watching Paul sit two mugs side by side.
“Oh,” Paul tongues at his front teeth, hands jumping out to busy himself with a search of the cupboard, “You have sugar with yours?”
John nods, “Yeah, just one.”
“Alright,” Paul takes his time, taking note of the sparse supply of cutlery, the few dishes piled up in the sink. He quickly cleans them up as they wait for the water to boil. John sits on the couch with one leg crossed over the other, Buddy curled up snugly at his side. He’s wearing his glasses now, and his cheeks are tinged pink from the heat of the fire. Paul works quietly and pours the water into the mugs, careful not to startle when Oscar nudges his ankle with his head.
“What was the last thing you wrote?” John asks all of a sudden, Paul hands him the mug and migrates over to the other side of the couch.
“Ah, well,” he blows over the lip of the mug, “It was my first major play, really. Yesterday.”
John chuckles, “I’m no theatre man, son, you’ll have to give me a neat little summary.”
Paul smiles, “It’s a silly little romantic play, that’s all.”
“Lay it on me, I’m a big ol’ softie, you know,” John smiles and pushes back the curls that have fallen over his forehead. Paul’s stomach tightens.
“It’s jus’.. You know. Working class lad, middle class girl. Nothing much to it, really.”
John is quiet for a moment, “Hm.”
“What?” Paul tilts his head.
“There’s nothing more to it?”
Paul laughs, “Well, yeah, course there is. But it’s just… Well, it’s just my first play, innit? I want the next one to be… different.”
John nods, “I see.”
“Everything I’ve written lately has been no good,” Paul looks to the ceiling, inspecting the hairline cracks and smoke-stains, “I just got stuck . And I thought that coming here would help.”
“Has it?” John raises a brow.
“I think so,” Paul lies smoothly, “Small progress is still progress.”
“Well,” John scrutinises him with squinted eyes and a smirk, “There ye are then.”
“Yeah,” Paul braves a neutral expression and decides to change the subject, “What was the last thing you painted? Do ye have any more here?”
John screws up his nose, “For my eyes only, Shakespeare. Though, if you must know, I’ve got a few old ones stored away.”
Paul sighs dramatically, pouting, “Won’t even show me a measly watercolour?”
John grins, “Not even a pitiful sketch.”
Paul would flip him off, but instead he just laughs, ducking his chin and diverting his eyes to inspect the colour of his tea, “I get that. I don’t usually like to share my work until there’s something to it, y’know?”
“And then you have to show yours to the world,” John shakes his head, “Sounds like a fantasy and a nightmare at once.”
“It can be alright,” Paul points out, “You filter out what you do and don’t show to people.”
“Well, that’s fine,” John sips his tea, “But you don’t want it to be something you don’t actually care about.”
“It’s not the worst thing,” Paul argues, “If it’s good, it doesn’t matter how you like it.”
John shrugs, “It is if it’s all you’re doing. You don’t want your legacy to be something you had no heart in.”
Paul concedes to that, but is mostly just enamoured by John in this light. The cosy fire, the way his hair is a mess and the hollow of his throat is exposed now that he’s shrugged off his cardigan.
“Is Octopus’ Garden your legacy, then?” Paul questions with a smile.
John seems to bite his own smile back, “Yeah, it is. Up to snuff, you think?”
“Aye,” Paul sips his drink, “You reckon I could commission a piece?”
“A piece of shite,” John grumbles, shifting carefully, tea wobbling right up to the rim of his mug, “I’m not open for business.”
“Shame,” Paul sinks deeper into the warm feeling blooming from the middle of his core, the bleariness of the day melting into serenity, “So what else do you do for fun around here?”
John expels an amused noise, something that is a touch mocking, “Drool into a bucket.”
“I’m serious,” Paul gives him an indignant look.
“Can’t imagine what’s left when you take swinging clubs and drugs out of the picture, eh?” John sneers, looking towards the fire.
Paul frowns, “You know I’m not-”
“Yeah, well,” John takes another sip, “We’re just fine, here. Plenty entertained.”
Paul purses his lips, guilt welling up, “I don’t mean to sound like such a-”
“Snob?”
“Yeah,” Paul chuckles, “‘Cause that’s not what I’m about. I’ve just, how do I put it without ... I’ve been running around without a break for so long… It’s scary now that it’s so quiet.”
“Scary?”
Paul bites his lip, “Not that dramatic, but… yeah.”
“I dunno what to tell you, mate,” John tilts his gaze towards Buddy, “I’m hardly the fella to go to for advice.”
“I guess I’ve never really had time to relax… I can’t stand it,” Paul admits.
“When you’re relaxed?”
“When I’ve got nothing to do,” Paul corrects.
“When there’s nothing to distract you?” John supplies.
“Yeah,” he responds, short and soft.
“I just do what I want,” John’s voice lowers in volume, there is a gentleness about it now, “Just so happens that doing nothing is what I want.”
How can you stand it? Paul thinks. Being inside your head all the time?
“It’s hard to believe you,” he says.
“Well, if I change me mind, I can do something about it, can’t I?” John smiles, a hint of mischievousness in his tone, “All sorted.”
When he leaves John’s home later that night the cold outside is biting and cruel and something primal within him wants to whip around and dart back inside. Perhaps tumble into John’s arms. Something romantic, swiped right off a cinema screen. He can see the film grain buzzing now when he turns to smile one last time at John, who leans against the doorframe, poking his upper body through the gap of the half-opened door. Is it just his loneliness that propels him to think this way? He can’t be sure. He ought to have been bolder when it was just the two of them, sitting across one another on a couch in the glow of a roaring fire. Should have touched him lightly on the arm as he offered to make a second pot of tea. Should have let himself soak in how lovely John looked when his posture sagged back into the couch and he looked Paul up and down with a bitten smile and made Paul stutter through the rest of his story.
“Get writing,” John says, “Or you’ll never leave.”
Paul smiles, “A nightmare for you, I’m sure.”
John grins, “You bet.”
“Feel free to pop ‘round,” Paul says earnestly, “Borrow a cup o’ sugar or summat. Don’t be shy, now.”
John’s head falls slowly to rest on the edge of the door, “Go on then, before you freeze.”
Paul laughs and carefully jogs out to his car, gravel crunching under his boots. The stars above are so clear and bright, the warm slip of light beaming from John’s opened door acts as a runway to follow along right to the passenger side of his car. He skirts around the edge of the vehicle, mindful of the shrubbery that catches on the fabric of his trousers, and slips into the car with a sigh of relief.
He catches himself smiling in the rear view mirror, watching the golden light pour out from John’s home until he veers left and all vision is lost amongst the dark trees.
-
In London, before things went sour between he and Jane, they would sit with her family in their living room and play word games and discuss Greek philosophers. There was something so attractive about sitting amongst this sort of scene, soaking up the little quirks of the upper middle class. The highly educated and impeccably dressed crowd that seem to delight in his childhood adventures, the odd tricks that you pick up as a working class lad. The kinks in his speech that they catch onto and inquire about the origin of. It’s endearing and worthy of rolling your eyes at all the same. Jane’s father would recline in his armchair, cigar pinched between fingers as the rest of the family buzzed around him.
“Once they moved away from the idea that dreams were divine and sent from the gods, they could play with the idea that it was internal, rather than external,” Mr Asher had enthused one evening, thanking his wife quietly as she handed him a glass of wine. Jane had squeezed Paul’s hand, as if to reassure him she hadn’t forgotten their plans for the night. The watch on his wrist ticked away, though he was perfectly content to just listen and enjoy the atmosphere of a family gathered around listening to the patriarch ramble.
“Jane once gifted me a book about what the meaning behind each type of dream is, go fetch it, sweetheart.”
Jane patted Paul’s thigh and hopped up, gliding towards the bookshelf and inspecting the rows of hardcovers. Paul watched how the thick smoke dissipated as Mr Asher spoke, the disapproving glance Mrs Asher gave her husband when he sat up too quickly and the wine threatened to spill over and onto the rug.
“Say Paul,” he beamed, “What was the last dream you had? What do you remember from it? Thank you dear.”
Jane crossed back over to Paul’s side, sighing as she crossed one leg over the other.
“Uh, dunno,” Paul chuckled shyly, “I think it was something silly. Me throwing a discus. Must have seen it on telly- uh, on the television.”
“Hmm,” Mr Asher flicked through the pages with one hand, the other holding the cigar by his pursed lips, “Perhaps it would be under ‘throwing’?”
“Dad,” Jane piped up, throwing an amused and knowing glance at her mother, “Paul and I really ought to be leaving now.”
Paul silently assured her with a gentle squeeze of her knee.
“Ah, found it,” Mr Asher hummed, “To throw an object in your dream indicates a desire to rid or cleanse yourself of something, or someone, in your waking life. If this object happens to be a-”
Paul swallowed hard and craned his neck to turn and murmur in Jane’s ear, “Just let me get my coat and we’ll go.”
“-Oh, Paul, if you see Peter will you please tell him that his audition is at three the day after tomorrow,” Mrs Asher called out as he darted towards the coat rack in the hall. He mumbled some kind of affirmation, but his words had been swallowed up by the nervousness of his tone. He noted the thumping of his pulse, the prickling of his skin as he recalled the endless effort of throwing the discs into the nothingness ahead. The grey smooth object in his hands morphing into stones too heavy to carry with one hand alone. They had worn down right in front of him, crumbled and battered like old gravestones. He took a sharp breath, centered himself, and grabbed his coat. He stood and waited for Jane, listening to his watch tick along.
“Don’t mind my father and his theories,” Jane told him later, the two of them in the back of a hired car rolling through SoHo, “I saw that it spooked you.”
“I wasn’t spooked ,” Paul waved away the notion, looking out the window to the glittering streets.
“It’s like blood from a stone with you,” she sighed into his shoulder. He had to grit his teeth and bear the sick churning of his gut as they continued their ride in tense silence.
She had murmured it in bed later that night, somewhere in between him rolling over onto his back and enjoying the afterglow and actually drifting off - something about how he always gets his way. And he had been too tired to argue about the theatre troupe’s excursion to the US anymore. Too tired to pretend to yawn into the pillow and mutter something bitter about all the talent in America that would beg to differ. Instead, he had groped the space beside him to find her hand to hold, pulling her towards him. He drifted off with her, quietly. Contently. Thankfully he didn’t dream that night.
-
JEREMY:
It was all perfectly fine until it wasn’t.
YVONNE:
Ah, isn’t that the way?
[She reclines in her armchair with a cigarette, looking with amusement and wisdom out the window]
JEREMY:
I must have said something wrong.
YVONNE:
You don’t have that kind of control over the world.
JEREMY:
T hen what do I have? What is left for me if not love?
YVONNE:
Love isn’t control. It’s the very opposite.
-
The newfound inspiration to write hits him like a summer storm, he types feverishly during the day and scribbles in amendments in pen at night. Occasionally he will meander outside and trudge through the overgrown grass and tangled weeds, bracing himself against the chill and maps out his story with fresh air in his lungs and endless sea to admire. He will wake up early and walk to the edge of the road and look over the pale sand for that familiar figure and the faint sound of music. On the morning he does actually spot John, he makes quick work of marching through the sand towards him. Ella and Louis is spinning on the record player that is sitting on the usual blanket as John sits and watches the water.
“Morning,” Paul chirps, feeling a flurry of nerves and hoping whole-heartedly that he is still wanted around.
“Aye, Paul,” John replies with a smile, squinting against the pale sunlight when he looks up at him. He pats the sand next to him for Paul to sit down.
But as I walked through the foggy streets alone, it turned out to be the luckiest day I’ve known
“Killer duo right there,” Paul nods towards the record, “Perfect, really.”
“Yeah,” John hums, “Mum played this one over and over.”
A phantom grip tightens around his throat, “Oh?”
John leans back, hands laid flat behind him, “She loved all kinds of music… You should’ve seen her, daft woman, whirling ‘round like a spintop in the sitting room.”
He seems to be recalling a memory, a soft smile twitching at his lips as his eyes drift up to the clouds. Paul feels his skin prickle uncomfortably, digging the heels of his boots further into the sand. A memory floats by his consciousness. His mother and father waltzing in the lounge as he and Mike giggled at them as they peeked over from behind the couch. She had her hair down, barely looking tired at all despite her long shift that day. Paul purses his lips and takes a long breath in and out.
“How many records do you reckon you have?” he asks.
“Hundreds,” John replies, “Well, maybe just one hundred. Not exactly able to buy them by the crate with post office money, can I?”
“Speaking of which, I’ll drive you to work today, I want to order a record player for meself.”
“I would’ve gone mad by now if I hadn’t had music,” John tilts his head and looks to Paul, “And speaking of which, how’s the script coming along?”
“Better,” Paul affirms with a nod, “Much better.”
John smirks, “About bloody time.”
Paul swats his arm lightly, “Cheeky git.”
John laughs, “You were thinking the same thing!”
Paul concedes with a slight shrug of his shoulder, “Maybe.”
The sky is just a mass of dull silver clouds, soon to darken and bloat with rain. He wonders if it would sting to stand out in the downfall and let the droplets hit his bare flesh. What would happen if he just let the cold get to him. Lighting fire after fire in his sitting room, it seems like warmth is something you always have to cultivate yourself. It can never just be there.
“I was thinking,” John starts, dragging fingertips over the faint hairs where his sideburns curl to an end, “Maybe I ought t’ dig up some of my old paintings from way back when. I was just a lad, but you know, maybe it’d be worth a look.”
Paul smiles, “Aye, that’s a great idea. You’d let me take a look?”
John bites down an emerging smirk, “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
“Should ‘ave known,” Paul laughs, head thrown back, “I will, but you better keep your word, I don’t take kindly to being teased.”
“Eager lad,” John simpers, ducking his head and smiling at the sand, “I think perhaps I could satisfy you...artistically.”
“Oh, it’s been so long, Johnny,” Paul grinning and breathing against the white hot heat bursting in his chest, “I like your confidence.”
“Well, you know,” John shrugs, voice picking up in volume almost anxiously, “We both grew up in the same place, probably had the same kind of influences… Both artists, aren’t we? Maybe I am good enough… up to your fine standards”
Paul notices the pink flush clinging to his cheeks, the way his eyes are darting all over the place like he’s avoiding looking him in the eye, “I think you’ll surprise me.”
John’s brow furrows, “What d’ye mean by that?”
Paul clasps his hands together around his knees, “I mean, I don’t know what to expect from you, but I do know it’ll probably knock me right out.”
“Right onto your knees,” John supplies cheekily.
“Don’t mind that,” Paul pinches at his bottom lip to hide his grin. A short beat follows and then John coughs softly against the wind.
I need no soft lights to enchant me if you'll only grant me the right to hold you ever so tight
“You fucking nutter,” John says it so fondly, with a real warmth. They enjoy the short slice of the morning that follows before they have to head back. Paul drives John into town and promises to be there again when his shift is over. The whole day splits wide open but it’s the sweet certain promise of seeing John again that has him giddy. Perhaps his play was too morose. Maybe it should be about a springtime love affair, nothing deep and dark to hide underneath it. Just blue skies and floral infatuation.
-
He scribbles down some ideas in his notebook, wandering around the perimeter of the town when midday comes around and the clouds have miraculously retreated and revealed a patch of sunlight to at the very least illuminate what the gentle rain had sprinkled down on not long after Paul had stopped by the Octopus’ Garden for breakfast. Ringo had mentioned how beautiful it is to climb up to the top of the hillside that overlooks the town and Paul had scurried off to investigate the sites.
He takes a sharp turn back into town after finding not much else besides tall grass and jagged rocks scattered along the slopes of the hills, and ends up stopping in front of a small church. The fence is eye level, forcing him to crane his neck up and stand right on his toes to get a better look at the two stained glass windows on either side of the large doors that are closed. He likes the imagery of it, and jots down a note and then finds himself distracted by the need to draw it out so he’s sure he won’t forget it. The windows are simple and identical. A plain blood red cross standing bold against the yellow and softer blue glass shapes around it. He peers further up and spots where the fence dips into an opening where a gravel path leads to the doors. He wonders if anyone would answer if he were to knock against those sun-paled wooden panels. He scribbles down a few lines of a poem he might expand on later, constructing the life of a glazier that creates intricate stained glass windows for churches he is too afraid to step foot in.
Paul himself had never been completely disillusioned with religion in a dramatic flare up of an existential crisis, but his faith had faded to dust the very moment his Dad walked through the door and told them their mother had died. What use was going to church if none of their prayers could protect an angel on earth? It’s not anger or displacement, like some of his friends back in London describe. It’s just growing up and realising how inconsequential your own wants and needs are in the grand scheme of things. It sounds bleak, but it isn’t. Paul just has to take responsibility for what he can control, and not mind what happens around that bubble of safety. He feels a numbness prickle in his lungs and he decides to move on.
-
It takes a certain kind of strength not to appear at the post office too early. He gravitates towards the small brick building unwittingly, correcting his course at the last moment. He comes across a mechanic’s garage and spots a thin young man leaning against the back of a truck smoking a cigarette. He glances up at Paul and nods.
“Alright?” he greets casually.
“Yeah,” Paul pulls the edges of his coat’s collar together, “Don’t happen to know where I can buy some records, do ya?”
The man takes a drag, thick brow furrowing, “Post office. They have catalogues.”
“Is that the only place?”
“Yeah,” he gives Paul a once over, “We’ve only just gotten a library, give it a few years and maybe a record store will sprout up.”
Paul shoves his hands in his pockets, looking at the ground shyly, “Ah, I see. Where abouts is the library?”
The stranger flicks ash onto the ground, “Not far, just like anywhere else. Across from the school, walking distance unless you wanted a lift.”
Paul looks to the truck he’s leaning against with a raised brow, “Is this one yours?”
The man smiles, crooked and bright, “Aye, in for a bit of maintenance.”
“Nothing dire, I hope.”
The stranger shakes his head, “Nah, she’s a tough ol’ thing. Give or take a few parts that break down mid-drive.”
Paul smiles, “Then I think I’ll pass on that offer for a lift. Thanks, though.”
He shrugs, large coat moving stiffly along with his shoulders, “Suit yourself. I could give you a look at the records I have here, the ones John didn’t buy.”
“Oh?” Paul blinks as the man walks around the truck and climbs up into the driver’s seat, cigarette in mouth, skinny legs kicking up a bit as he evidently leans over into the passenger seat to retrieve a small stack of records.
“I bring along the stuff I find in the discount bins with me ‘cause some people like ‘em,” he says, handing the stack to Paul to sort through, “Most of it is crap but I can sell it for a decent mark up to the prats up north with poor taste.”
Paul chuckles, “Should start your own business.”
“John says the same thing, but he just wants someone to do it, it could be anyone,” he laughs, stamping out his cigarette, “You know who I’m talking about, right?”
“The fella with the glasses and aquiline nose?”
The man raises a brow, “Uh, yeah, that’s the one. If you see him tell him I’ll be back around next Thursday and he owes me three quid.”
“Sure, I’ll let him know,” Paul flicks through the records, mostly old folky records by artists with slight familiarity, but there’s a few gems to be found, “I’ll take these three.”
The man gives a nod of approval at the Bill Haley & His Comets records and a blink of surprise at the Vera Lynn LP underneath them, “How does two quid sound?”
“Fair,” Paul shrugs, patting down his pockets for a spare note or two, “Shrewd businessman, are you?”
“Evidently,” the young man grins, and shoves his earnings into his trouser pocket, “I suppose you know Ringo, too.”
“Course,” Paul smiles, “What does he owe you?”
“Nothing actually,” he laughs, “I might owe him , but don’t tell him that. Give ‘im the word that I’m leaving early. It’s gonna be raining tonight and I need a head start so I don’t end up in the thick of it. The name’s George.”
“Righto,” Paul extends his hand, “I’m Paul.”
George smiles, “Yeah, figured you would be. John and Ringo mentioned you once or twice. London fella.”
“That’s me,” Paul pokes at the cement with his boot, “No nasty rumours?”
“No,” George pauses as if to think, “But Mrs Fay already has her eyes on you for her daughter.”
Paul splutters a laugh, “Don’t recall ever meeting a Mrs Fay.”
“Course not,” George rolls his dark eyes, “Stage one of her plan hasn’t been phased out yet. Neither has her daughter’s romance with their neighbour.”
George smiles, pressing a finger to his lips and Paul laughs, “I promise I won’t get in between you two.”
“Do what you like, she’s a dotty sort, but nice enough,” George looks over his shoulder where the mechanic is rounding the corner with a clipboard and pen, “Just keep it out of Mrs Fay’s sight or the whole bloody town will know about it.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Paul tucks the records underneath his coat and watches George migrate towards the mechanic, “I’ll be sure to pass on those messages.”
“Thanks for that,” George waves and Paul waves back, brimming with a new kind of excitement as he heads towards the Octopus’ Garden just as John’s shift nears to a close.
-
The wind before the storm whistles harshly in the shell of his ears as he hovers outside of the post office and waits for John. He feels phantom rain hitting the back of his head, anxiously bouncing on his heels.
When John finally materialises he gives him a look of bemusement, “Could ‘ave just come inside.”
“Oh, I thought you might be busy,” Paul says, nodding towards the car, “Think a storm is coming.”
“Ah, you think so?!” John exaggerates a shout of the wind, grinning as he turns to lock the door, “Best to take off now, not bother with dinner at the pub.”
Paul looks over his shoulder where the remaining people passing by are scurrying to their homes, holding their caps down with one hand as the wind whips at their coats, “Think we’ll make it in time?”
Fate laughs with a booming crack of thunder that sends a shock right up his spine, and then the rain starts to fall. The two men look at each other, bursting into laughter as they quickly duck into Paul’s car to escape the sudden downpour. Everything suddenly seems a striking shade of greyish blue, fat droplets splattering against the windshield as Paul takes off down the road. The dull roar of the storm has him alert, but the safety and warmth of being inside his car with John lulls him into an ease he might not have found if he had been alone.
“Fucking hell, I hope the cats are inside,” John mutters, looking at the window as silver bullets of rain strike the glass.
“They’ll be alright,” Paul assures him, “Animals have instincts, y’know? They feel a storm coming before anyone else.”
“Yeah, but Buddy is only small,” John replies and then abruptly coughs, as if to cover up the musing, and redirects the conversation, “What did you get up to today?”
“Writing,” Paul answers swiftly, an uptick of pride swelling in his chest - or perhaps relief dressed up, “Got some great visuals, ideas for the prop department. I like all that.”
“Having ideas?” John teases, a wicked laugh bubbling up when Paul turns to face him and smiles, “I quite like that too.”
“What sort of ideas are you having?” Paul intones, angling his head to show off the cut of his jaw, pretending to be nonchalant as he inspects an upcoming turn he has to make.
“Can’t tell you,” John almost sing-songs, “You’ll have me locked up for my sins.”
“I’ve left my chains back in London,” Paul retorts.
“Brutal,” John simpers, “I like it.”
Paul laughs, “Do you really?”
John scoffs, “Steady on, buy me a drink before you dig through my psyche, Freud.”
Paul chuckles, “How’s a cup of tea sound?”
“Best offer I’ve had in years,” John takes off his glasses and uses the cuff of his sleeve to wipe away tiny droplets of rain.
The wind is groaning outside their little bubble of warmth, trees bending out of shape and leaves sent whirling. There’s a violent snap of thunder that makes them both jump a little, and Paul is starting to get nervous. His view of the road is obscured by rain and the darkness shrouding over everything. He squints as the windshield wipers snap back and forth, but it’s no use, the vehicle rumbles underneath him and his grip on the steering wheel tightens as he slows the pace to a crawl along the road.
“Can’t see a fucking thing,” he mutters, trying to gauge his surroundings, “Can you?”
“Not even on my better days,” John quips, leaning over to check the wing mirror and grunting, “Try pulling over.”
Paul does so, tensing up when a flying thin branch slaps against the windshield, “Seems to be getting a bit dangerous.”
John leans forward, almost pressing his nose against the glass of the windshield as he looks out, “You daft lad! That’s the lighthouse up ahead! You’ve driven us too far.”
John laughs, and Paul has to concede to his mistake with a shy chuckle. All humour is drained when another burst of thunder seems to shake the ground. The increasingly wild commotion outside is unnerving, and Paul can’t quite keep his hands from white-knuckling over the steering wheel as he nervously looks through his window.
“Do you think I could get us back to your place?” he wonders out loud, soaked leaves hitting the windshield.
“Would it insult you if I said no?” John replies, twisting in his seat to look around, “You think the glass would break if a branch hit it?”
“Would have to be a pretty big branch,” Paul reasons, feeling his stomach tighten, “Doesn’t feel too good, trapped in here, though.”
“No, it doesn’t,” John looks at Paul, seeming to be thinking something but Paul’s mind is racing and his nerves are aflutter. Noise filling his ears and making him feel brainless, all nerve endings and anxiety making him sick. And he thinks of the church back in town, and suddenly his mind leaps back in time to the week after the funeral for his mother. He’d been sitting on the bus, watching the rain from his seat next to the window, when the church slid into view and his stomach curled with a horrible pang of grief that forced him to close his eyes and breathe through his nose. John says something that ends up hidden under the violence of the storm.
“What was that?”
“I said,” John jerks his thumb towards where the lighthouse looms, “We should head inside, no one would be in there. Much safer.”
Paul swallows, biting down on his thumbnail, “You think?”
“Better there than here,” John reasons, and that’s enough for Paul, who finds the situation almost amusing now. The two men smile at each other, counting down. Three, two, one, go!
They both launch themselves out of the car, slamming the doors behind them and running blindly towards the tower about fifty metres ahead. It’s a manic dash, hardly any time to process what they are doing. The soggy earth under their boots slows down their steps, mud flicking up behind them as they sprint towards the heavy white door. He’s drenched by the time they make it to the door, bodies pressed against the wall, laughing hysterically when they finally look at each other. John is soaked, his hair is a flattened dripping mop, glasses all rain-splattered. His cheeks are pinched rose, droplets sliding down the curves of his cheeks where he is smiling hard and bright. Paul feels breathless, lungs gripped with something cold and warm at the same time. Adrenaline pumping through him just as John looks at him in a way that makes him feel like he’s sinking into the ground. The moment shivers back into reality and John suddenly turns to the door and tugs at the handle, it doesn’t budge. He kicks at the lock, grunting, and Paul joins in on his efforts. Something snaps and the door swings open, and the two men rush inside for refuge. The door slams shut behind them and they are enclosed in darkness, the rain sounding more distant now. It’s at this moment Paul registers the cold. He’s shivering, freezing hands working to peel off his soaked coat. The material of his sweater is damp and cold, clinging to his skin. He tries to look over at John but it’s far too dark until there’s a familiar click of a lighter and suddenly a bright orange flame bursts from nowhere and ignites the short distance between them. They both have their backs pressed up against the door, looking at each other, huffing as they catch their breaths. John’s features look sharper in the harsh light and dark, cheekbones casting shadows and the reflection of a wavering flame dancing in his amber eyes.
“You alright?” John breathes. Paul doesn’t know how to respond, brain short-circuiting. All he can do is nod dumbly, mouth agape. John looks stunning. He’s rugged and mused but so soft and caring and all of it is making Paul’s heart stir all over again. He swallows hard, biting down on his lip to prevent anything stupid from slipping out in the whirring of the moment. Nodding, almost frantically, he finds that his feet are rooted where he stands, eyes unable to tear from the light in John’s eyes.
John lifts up the lighter above his head and uses it to ignite the small area around them. The side of Paul’s leg knocks against a small end table, and when he turns around he finds a large torch sitting on it. He switches it on and a bright beam of white light slices through the room. John switches off his lighter and shoves it in his pocket, brushing back the wet hair sticking to his forehead as he peers around the room, following Paul’s light. The area seems to be a combination of multiple living spaces. All the furnishings are old and rickety, faded and slightly yellowed wallpaper hosting many framed historic paintings of shipwrecks and horizons. There’s a kitchenette off to the left that looks ancient. Everything is coated in dust and shrouded in an unsettling kind of mysterious air. Dull rain drumming from all around, the air is stale and cool. The floorboards creak under their feet as they walk towards the spiralling staircase.
“There’s a good view at the top,” John comments, laying his palm flat over the metal handrail and looking to Paul, “Shall we?”
Paul rubs at the underside of his jaw, cautiously approaching the bottom step, “Isn’t there someone here?”
“No,” John starts the incline with a sigh, “Not for a while now.”
Paul follows him through the murky pale light, the spotlight of his torch reaching just over John’s shoulder and illuminating the tight curve of the stairs as they climb upwards.
“Pete Shotton was supposed to be looking after this place, but then he fucked off to America, didn’t he… Bastard should’ve taken me with him,” John says as they reach the next floor.
“Oh,” Paul looks up and around, the relief of emerging into a room with some sort of light settling his nerves. The glass panels looking out to the violent sea ahead are frosty to touch, Paul’s fingertips pressing gently as he peers out and tries to see beyond the haze of grey and rain.
“It’s better during the day, when it’s clear, y’see,” John steps up next to him, nose barely an inch from the glass. Paul watches his profile, committing each arresting detail to memory, and turns back towards the grey.
“I’ll bet,” Paul crosses his arms over his chest, “Come here often, do you?”
“Not really,” John licks over his lip, “I used to, Pete an’ I would get drunk up here. Ol’ Shotton would’ve been ass over tit after two bloody bottles. And I used to stand in front of that light there, make crude shapes for the sailors out there to see.”
He looks rather proud, but beneath that - wistful. John tilts his head, eyes lowering as if he’s playing back a memory in his mind. The wind is howling a twisted cry and rain is battering against the slice of glass protecting them from the frosty chill, and all Paul can focus on is the warmth welling up in his chest the longer he looks at John. The softness of his features as he remains unguarded, barley illuminated by the grey light but still appearing sharp and picture perfect in Paul’s eyes.
“What sort of crude gestures?” Paul eventually asks, perhaps a beat too late because John seems to rouse from his own daze half confused until he catches onto what Paul was referring to.
“Oh, nothing a creative like yourself wouldn’t figure out if you practiced,” John nudges him lightly with his shoulder, forearm pressed to Paul’s for a lingering few seconds, “But I just liked the idea of standing there, you know. I’d do it a lot, I felt like Christ on the cross like that, arms out in front of this huge light. Wonder if anyone saw it, this shadow of a person, from their boat passing by.”
Paul is a little breathless, watching John speak as if he’s letting him in on a secret. Somehow he feels as though John has just admitted something to him, something bigger and more personal than Paul could possibly fathom. And it’s ridiculous because it’s just a silly story about a drunk young man and a big light, but John’s voice is sitting low and soft, his eyes focussing on nothing in particular and his fingertips gently rubbing against the fabric of his coat as if to soothe himself.
“But why?” Paul asks, voice just above a whisper. John doesn’t mock him for it, instead, he shifts his weight on his feet and contemplates his answer.
“I liked the idea of someone seeing me,” John answers, “You know, really seeing me. Maybe they’d come and get me and take me away.”
It’s a blossoming of a kind of intimacy between them, sprouting pale flowers in vines that tangle around Paul’s hammering heart. A pang of want renders him still and silent, unable to outwardly communicate how badly he wants to kiss him right now. Or perhaps just to hold him, in some strange desire that he’s hardly ever felt before. He’s not very tactile with others, not even lovers who have come and gone, but somehow the idea of touching John is more thrilling and soothing to him than anything he’s ever contemplated before. He gravitates closer, the buzz of something strong and unknown pulling him in. The primal fear keeps his figure locked, only the briefest of brushes against John’s arm to indicate any movement at all. Paul swallows down the sentiments swirling in his chest, the strange blooming of floral affection that has no place here. He says nothing. He does nothing. He watches the onslaught of rain and has a vague image playing in his mind of John’s silhouette projecting out onto a lonely raging sea.
“Why did he go?” Paul eventually asks, stomach twisting.
“Pete?” John’s mouth quirks into a thoughtful frown, “He had a mate running a pub in America who needed a business partner.”
“Did you really want to follow him?”
“Suppose not,” John half smiles a little sadly, “Could ‘ave done with an invitation, though.”
Paul runs his thumb over his bottom lip, contemplating the unidentified meaning pouring from the cadence, “I know what you mean.”
“Do you?” John sounds as though he’s a little amused, but too tired to fully play it up. Instead, the two of them look at each other, eyes hardly imploring but somehow Paul still feels exposed and he has to turn away.
“Yeah,” Paul tongues at the sharp points of his teeth, “I reckon I do, actually.”
His mind meanders off the steady path of their conversation and into the heavy emptiness of the harsh reality that can’t quite mentally shove away - people leave and they cannot always bring them with you, but you are forced to carry those stones around your neck over and over again. His skin crawls with the horrible sensation of ghost tears, visibility shuddering as he exhales and fogs up the glass in front of his face. John notices, and bizarrely remains stoic as he lifts up his hand and extends his pointer finger to the glass and presses into the steam of Paul’s expired breath and draws a small cat, curled up in a ball with their eyes closed. Paul smiles, watching the silly rendering slowly fade. It’s a very welcome moment of respite from his increasingly restless thoughts. John cups his hands around his mouth and puffs a breath to the glass in front of him and swipes at the glass with his digit again.
H E L L O
Paul suppresses a grin and adds his response underneath.
CAT GOT YOUR TONGUE?
John exhales against the glass again and responds.
NOT RECENTLY
Paul grins.
POOR YOU
John smiles.
IS THAT SO?
John pauses, looking to make sure Paul has read the message, and drags his finger across the first two words and amends by adding:
ARE YOU
Paul blinks, the message registering immediately but he can’t calculate how to react.
ARE YOU SO?
He remembers those parties Brian brought him along to, the two of them slinking in shyly but still managing to turn heads. Men approaching with bright and curious eyes, lingering touches to his arm and cigarettes pointedly being lifted to lips with unwavering eye contact. He remembers a particularly camp bloke approaching Brian and giving an unsubtle jerk of his head towards Paul. “Is he so ?” And later, when Paul had jokingly asked Brian if that was some sort of code and the older man had simply affirmed without batting an eye. Paul had felt almost embarrassed. Of course they speak in code, they have to . Paul had thought about it for a long time after that. We , he had to correct himself later. We have to speak in code.
John didn’t strike him as the sort of guy that would be speaking polari in small town pubs, that whole world seemed limited to London while Paul was there. And yet, this moment right here is entirely reminiscent of times in London where a gentleman would close their conversation with a glittery smile and ask, “Troll Lattie with me?” And Paul liked it, the secret glances heavy with meaning and the words that sounded nonsense to the ears but managed to send a jolt of arousal through him, remaining outwardly calm enough to pass as nonchalant as he agreed to follow the one night stand home with a racing heart.
John isn’t looking at him now, and Paul has to decide through the fog of spiralling doubt how to navigate this. His neurons are firing memories as crisp as daylight like a swarm of pests raiding his skull, the painful cold grip of grief stunning him into silence. A sharp memory of Brian at one of those parties springs past his defences, sitting in an armchair with one leg crossed over the other and a drink in hand, laughing at something his companion had said with his eyes hazy and body language unabashedly effeminate and relaxed. And Paul had been furious at the time, because earlier in the evening he had found an almost empty bottle of pills sitting on the edge of the bathtub that had clattered to the floor when Paul had nudged the shower curtain by chance. And nothing he could do in that moment of rage could keep the trembling at bay, he had stormed out the door, seething, and left the party. It wasn’t the last time he saw Brian, but somehow it’s the last clear memory he has of him.
The ache of something once kept shut tight swells, Paul’s mind reeling. He realises John is expecting a playful response but suddenly the playwright just feels like clawing at his own skin.
“Am I what?” Paul blurts. He can play unaware and innocent. It’s safe that way. John doesn’t visibly deflate, which is a relief to Paul amidst the mild panic starting to set in. Perhaps he didn’t know what it meant.
“I dunno,” John mutters, rubbing out the words with the side of his fist, “The rain is settling down now.”
“Is it?” Paul bites down on his thumb, “Doesn’t sound like it.”
“It’s alright, we can head back to the car,” John looks over at him, lips pressed into a thin line, “Unless you wanted to stay.”
“Send a few ships off course?” Paul jokes lightly, finding it suddenly very necessary to busy himself and drift away from John. He turns around and inspects the bland surroundings, finding nothing to distract himself with. His torch light bounces from wall to wall, the anxious thumping of his pulse making him feel ill.
“I do like it here,” John comments, “Peaceful.”
“Yeah, it is,” Paul affirms half heartedly, circling the perimeter of the small room and finally approaching John timidly. He seems unaffected by what Paul had imagined to be a rejection of an offer… so perhaps it wasn’t that at all. Perhaps he was completely clueless. Yes. That’s it. Just an unfortunate coincidence. Paul avoided a lot of potential embarrassment. It’s ok. It’s fine.
John turns to face him, one hand on his hip and the other arm leaning against the glass, “Nervous?”
“Not at all.”
John huffs, shaking his head with a smile stretched with annoyance, “You ever tell the truth?”
“Most of the time,” Paul bites his lip, “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking you-” John hesitates, turning back to face the sea and grimacing, “I’m thinking that you want out, but don’t want to admit it.”
Paul swallows, “Out?”
“Yeah,” John inhales deeply, “Out.”
“I wouldn’t mind sitting in front of a fire right now,” he reasons, running his clammy palm over the fabric of his shirt as goosebumps raise all over his arm. John watches the motion, the pink clinging to his cheeks standing out amongst the washed out light playing over half of his face.
“Then just bloody say it,” John says, almost through gritted teeth, and storms towards the stairs and starts to descend, Paul quickly following with his torch light dancing just past John’s feet to guide him.
“I’d want you with me, though,” Paul says just as John plants his feet at the last step, “A nice cuppa would do us well.”
“ Is that so ?” John asks, back still facing Paul. He can barely see anything besides what the torch light touches, which happens to be the floor next to John’s feet.
The words taunt and tease and bite at Paul’s anxious mind, his chest ballooning with panic and his shaky exhale sounds like a timid plea for peace rather than a calm and casual response, “Yeah, of course.”
He’s angry with me . Paul feels it ring shrill in the air and yet there seems nothing outwardly wrong as they approach the door and yank it open. The wind is calmer, the rain has pulled back into less of an onslaught of tiny silver shards of glass and the two men can run through it without being disoriented by it. He sits in the driver’s seat, posture drawn inwards and the tremors of uncertainty rattling in his gut.
He should have done it. Why didn’t he? Paul gnaws at his lip, hopelessly stuck between wanting and fear. The problem is that he keeps thinking of Brian. The glamorous clink of glasses, his enthusiasm brightening his eyes as he praised Paul’s work and the sound of his voice buzzing on the other end of the telephone during a late night call. He thinks of the funeral he should have attended, the stone carved with the name of the mentor he loved. He thinks of his mother, the funeral he hadn’t even known about, and all of a sudden Paul’s mind collapses. Nothing he can do in the limited space in this bloody vehicle can settle him. John is looking at him, perhaps he’s talking but Paul can’t hear anything over his own heartbeat. He’s changed his mind. He can’t be here. He needs to get out.
Wordlessly, he charges out of the car and slams the door behind him, a scream crawling up his throat but getting stuck behind his clamped teeth. The rain drenches him once again, the trapped cries thrashing like possessed dancers in his chest. Brian and Mary. Gone. Gone forever and once again Paul is left in the dust to cope. Brian and Mary and Jane - who thankfully still walks amongst the living, but what if she had stayed with him? How long until Paul was left alone yet again? How many souls have to be torn from this lifetime before he shatters? He doesn’t know where he’s going, his boots are sinking into the sodden earth and he feels stupid and desperate for air he can barely breathe through the mist and rain. Everything is cold. Cold, cold, cold. Cruel imagery flashes in horrible succession and the self doubt and grief trickles in like the glacial rainwater running down the nape of his neck. The sob he holds within can’t be let out, and yet he’s going mad just like this.
A warm hand grips his arm and pulls him backwards. John’s eyes, behind round glasses, pierce through the panic. His mind stills, nothing registering beyond the hue of his eyes, the grip that anchors him to earth.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” John’s voice breaks through the rainfall, and Paul just shakes his head. This is stupid, this is embarrassing. This isn’t the time for a breakdown, all of this should be locked up in a box in his mind. This shouldn’t be happening, why is he letting it happen?
Because it’s grief. It cannot be tamed, not forever. Brian had warned him about the danger of such restriction, and Paul had dismissed him as overly sensitive. He was weak if he were to wallow in it. And now, here he is, breathing in the rain and choking on his own latent misery. He looks to John, defeated and barely holding back the tears brimming in his eyes. He has to hide, he cannot be this close to John in this state.
They end up back inside the car, Paul’s head in his hands, no tears but the restless ticking of grief unattended now emerging through the rumble.
“I’m sorry,” Paul murmurs, “I’m so sorry.”
“How about we take you home, alright?” John’s voice is gentle and warm.
“I’m just so sorry, John, I am,” Paul groans, running his hands over the droplets still clinging to his face, “I don’t know why…”
“Is something going on?” he asks, meekly, “Maybe I could help… Was it something I-”
Paul cannot talk about this. Not with John, not with the man he almost kissed. He blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.
“D’ye ever just have these moments… Ye just… go mad with all of it? The whole world hanging over your head and sometimes you just have to burst?”
“Yeah,” John wipes at his glasses with his soggy sleeve, “Yeah I do.”
“I’m sorr-”
“If you say that again I’ll sock you one,” John warns, a faint touch of fondness lacing his words, “Nothing to be sorry about. I’m the one who should be sorry.”
“For what?” Paul asks, bemused.
“I must have been the reason for it,” John slips on his glasses again, looking painfully shy, “Wasn’t I?”
“No,” Paul assures with a sigh, “No, no. I’m just… Feeling…”
“Yeah?” John leans over, and when Paul dares to look back he finds something that can only be described as the antithesis of cold. I should have kissed him .
“Feeling…” Paul trails off, hands raising up to the steering wheel to center himself, “Feeling strange.”
“Strange,” John echoes, shifting in his seat. He sounds disbelieving, confused. Paul has no desire to provide clarity. He just wants to go home.
When he stops the car in front of John’s house, he turns around like he’s expecting Paul to cut the engine and follow him in. Paul stares right ahead, right through the rain splattering on the windshield and the wipers feverishly trying to keep up with pained squeaks.
“You’re not going back to your place in this state, are you?” John presses, his stare cutting through Paul’s defences layer by layer - a hot knife through butter, much to Paul’s discomfort.
“I’m not in any state,” Paul says, tone blank and void.
“Borderline catatonic now,” John muses, “Seriously, Paul, just come with me.”
Paul grits his teeth, “I don’t need help.”
“Fine, then, I’m not offering help,” John challenges, “I’m offering a bloody cup of tea and a change of clothes so your heart doesn’t freeze over completely, but maybe I’m too late.”
Paul glances at him, registering the chattering of his teeth and the slight tremble of his hands when he lets go of the steering wheel.
“Christ, he’s mute now,” John mutters, turning and tugging at the door handle, “Suit yourself.”
Paul looks down at his lap, flinching when the door slams shut behind John and his footsteps are swallowed up by the rainfall. He spends a long time just like that, shivering in his damp clothes and feeling invisible frost envelope his hands. There’s no distinct thought that lures him out of the car, no specific inspiration that has him surging forward through the rain to knock on John’s door. This is a twisted kind of indulgence and punishment all at once. To be seen as the grieving sod that he is, but to be in John’s light. The door swings open and Paul mindlessly strips off his coat, gravitating towards the fireplace and holding out his hands towards the flames. He closes his eyes, kneeling on the floorboards with his arms stretched out in front of him, and imagines himself tucked in a warm bed. He imagines that two graves never had to be dug. He imagines his mother standing in the sunshine in her nurses’ uniform. He imagines Brian lounging on the roof of his apartment with a manuscript in his hands. He removes himself from the picture, he takes away the pain for just a moment. Just to feel the warmth of the people that loved him one more time.
He feels dazed and slightly disoriented when he opens his eyes again and finds John dressed in dry clothes, standing over him with a mug of steaming tea cupped in his hands.
“The bath is filled with hot water, should be alright now,” John tells him, “Drink this and have a soak, alright? I can hear your teeth clicking from the kitchen.”
Paul drifts to the bathroom, peeling layers of clothing from his skin - now the palest shade of blue from the cold - and leaves them hung over the towel rack where they drip miserably. The steam has fogged up the mirror, something that sends a pang of regret right to his stomach.
ARE YOU SO?
The three little words spin in a rigid rotation in his mind as he slips into the hot water, just past the point of tolerance but he’s too exhausted to resist. The tea sits on the tiles right beside the tub, and he scoops the mug into his hands when he’s ready and takes careful sips. Maybe he should be crying now. Maybe this is where the meltdown should be happening now that he has the privacy. But all he can conjure as he watches the flesh of his palms flush rose is an emptiness. A specific kind of lethargy that he hasn’t felt since those first few days in this town. But it’s worse, because he’s thinking about it. Thinking about everything he refused to acknowledge before. And there’s nothing to distract him, nothing to pour his mind into. He has belatedly sunk into proper mourning.
Brian had left him his art collection, canvasses wrapped in plastic and paper stacked in his sitting room as a softly spoken lawyer explained their value while Paul chewed on his thumbnail and kept his eyes fixed on the floor. The memory made him feel ill. Everything about it made him feel like his bones were just about to crumble.
The tea is sweet, warming his chest, and Paul helplessly smiles because he recognises what must be a spoonful or two of brandy stirred in. Long after sweat has begun to dampen his forehead and bead above his top lip, he lifts himself from the tub and changes into the dry clothes John has left for him. He pulls the caramel coloured sweater over his head, the feeling of foreign fabric brushing against his skin making him shudder. It’s not unpleasant when he turns to face the small mirror above the sink and inspect the fit around his shoulders, the way his cheeks are flushed and his hair is still slightly damp. He combs it with his fingers, arranging it into a neater style, and pads across the floor with socked feet towards the fireplace where John is lounging on the couch with a book in his hands and Elvis and Buddy curled at his feet. Oscar mews from his place in the armchair in acknowledgment of the new presence, and Paul smiles shyly, sinking to the opposite end of the couch and pulling his knees up to his chest.
“Hello,” he greets, “Thanks for that… all of it. I’m really-”
“Don’t you dare say sorry again,” John warns, letting the book fall into his lap, “It’s fine.”
He looks cosy in a smokey blue turtleneck, curls sitting untamed and messy. He pinches the side of his glasses and adjusts them over his nose, turning to face the fire and allowing Paul a quiet moment to admire the strong edge of his jaw.
“I’m grateful,” Paul tells him, fingers fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves, “I don’t know what it was, but I’m just… I’m just feeling a bit stupid, y’know? Not my proudest moment.”
“Beating yourself up over nothing,” John shrugs, resting his chin on his palm, still looking into the fire, “So it wasn’t me, was it?”
“No,” Paul shakes his head, frowning, “Christ, no, it had noth- I’m just… Something happened back home, and I- Well, a few things… It just sort of hit me all at once.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” John murmurs, “And I already know there’s probably nothing I can say.”
“No,” Paul swallows numbly, “There really isn’t.”
“I figured there was something there,” John admits, “That afternoon in the post office when I first met you, I could tell you were in some kind of state, running away from it. Why else would you end up here.”
Paul ducks his head low, reaching out to pet Buddy with a gentle hand, “That’s a little worrying.”
“No,” John says firmly, “It’s just how it is for some people, and you recognise it in others.”
A warm pause, the room glowing in honey hues, the quiet rumbling of three cats purring and the softening of the rain outside.
“Thank you, John,” Paul says quietly, “I mean it.”
“You’re welcome,” John responds, equally soft.
“Might get myself another tea,” Paul smiles, and lifts himself off the couch and walks to the kitchen, “Won’t compare to yours, though.”
“Ah, what a sophisticated palette you have,” John chuckles, “Figured you needed it.”
“A wonderful caregiver, you are,” Paul calls over his shoulder, feeling his cheeks flush at the vague imagining of John hovering over him and doting on him.
When he steps back into the lounge he pauses by the window, looking to his car parked at an awkward angle, tyres caked in mud. He sits his mug on top of the fireplace, right next to the small stack of novels and various trinkets, and retreats back a few steps to peer out the window again. And he can feel John watching him, and it makes his nerves buzz with something crossed between excitement and nervousness. It would be the worst thing to do, like rubbing salt in a wound, if he were to let John in a little closer. He already somehow seems to understand Paul on a level he wasn’t aware he was sharing. But being read like a book and being understood is enticing in itself, but most of all, John cares . And Paul cares about John. He cares about his route to and from work. He cares about the three cats all curled up on the furniture. He cares about all those little things scattered around his house and the story behind them. He cares about John, sleeping alone in his bed night after night. He cares an absurd amount and it would be so dangerous to lean into it, to really experience it and fall into the trap once again.
But then he thinks that maybe one indulgent kiss would set him right, would propel him into normalcy again. John has given him more inspiration and warmth than he knows what to do with, and surely he deserves to know. It would be like a gift to both of them, something merciful. Just a kiss.
“Hey John?” Paul ushers him to his side with a subtle cant of his head, inching closer to the window. He turns to face the glass plane and huffs out a cloud of fog against it and draws the answer he should have given in the first place.
I AM
He turns back to John, heart galloping, and is met with a small and bewildered smile, “You are?”
Paul inhales a deep breath, anxious and unsure, “I wasn’t expecting you to ask.”
John chuckles, eyes still fixated on the fading letters, “Neither was I. But I was a dick about it, I shouldn’t have done that to you.”
“You didn’t do any-”
“But you were going to do it, weren’t you?” John murmurs, “You were going to kiss me up there in the lighthouse.”
It’s not the opening of Pandora’s box that he half expected it to be, to have John be able to read him so well. A little frightening, but there’s something else in it. Something precious and alluring.
“I could have,” Paul glances at him, “Haven’t missed the boat, have I?”
“Never left the dock,” John answers softly. Paul is struck by the tenderness of how he looks at him. He’s pulled by the pit of his chest, leaning forward and raising his hand to gingerly grasp at John’s shoulder to pull him closer. They kiss like clouds just before bursting with rainfall, tentative and then deeply. John’s chest is flush against his, and suddenly his fingers are combing through his hair, a hand pressed over the dip of his back to steady him. John’s mouth is Paul’s to shape with his own, tongue swiping over his teeth and sucking his lower lip as if to draw out the affection like he’s starving for it. He tastes the faded heat of brandy on his tongue, swallowing up the small sounds of pleasure he elicits as Paul’s hands roam and grapple at this beautiful figure. It’s like seafoam bursting, but the heat behind every movement of John’s mouth is making him weak at the knees. He smiles into the kiss, John mirroring the blissful look when he peels away and cradles Paul’s cheek in his hand. It’s a brief moment of admiration, cut short by the feverish need to kiss him again and again.
“Stay the night,” John murmurs into the crook of his neck. Paul’s mind reels, scrambling to preserve the moment as it is, without expectation or promises. He swallows hard, pulling John by the hips even closer, thumbs pressing into his flesh.
“Yeah?” Paul hums, admiring the silver aura glowing softly at the edges of John’s face, but avoiding direct eye contact in fear of being coaxed entirely, “I’ve got writing to do, you know.”
“Do it here,” John presses a wet kiss to the edge of his jaw, “Plenty of pens and paper to spare.”
Paul giggles, hands sliding over John’s back and over the swell of his arse, “Maybe I-”
He’s interrupted by the sound of an engine revving outside the home, headlights swooping over the window and directly into his eyes. He pulls away from John and presses his face to the window, squinting against what the overcast is hiding to look at the car parked haphazardly by the mailbox.
“Who’s that?” Paul asks, but John doesn’t answer and stalks towards the door, pulling it open and allowing a gust of chilly air to burst through the living room. The cats stir at the rude awakening, Elvis jumping to the floorboards and approaching John with a lazy sort of stride, tail up and waving slowly. Paul steps back, migrating back to the couch to pet Buddy.
“Are you mad? Driving in this weather?” John grunts from the doorway as footsteps get closer.
“George has been in an accident,” Ringo’s voice cuts through and Paul’s blood goes cold, “He’s ok, a bit busted up, but he’s ok. I’m going to the hospital now.”
“Fuck,” John says, “Fucking hell, why was he driving through all of this?”
Paul feels ill.
“He thought he could beat the storm, you know what he’s like,” Ringo answers, cool and calm, “Listen, do you still have the Harrisons address? His parents can’t drive so I’ll have to pick them up on the way.”
“Oh, yeah, come inside and I’ll get it.”
Paul’s fists coil up tight, breathing harsh and ragged. Oh shit, oh fuck. He splays his hand over his chest, feeling his heart thumping wildly. Terror grips him tight, a cold sweat breaking out in a thin film over his entire body. The distant sound of footsteps are swallowed up by the rain outside. He thinks he can still hear the two men talking but the room is spinning and everything seems off its axis and bile is rising up his throat dangerously.
What was it that Marianne had said that morning? When she appeared at his door and intruded on his pitiful hibernation in the days after Jane had left, smudged mascara running down her pale cheeks…
“I’m so sorry, Paul,” she whimpered, “Brian’s gone. They found him this morning, there wasn’t anything they could do. I’m just devastated.”
And he had held her tight, murmuring soothing things that tumbled from his mouth mindlessly while his senses withered to nothing and all he could comprehend was the trembling body he was holding, who was incidentally holding him. And he remembers how stale and heavy the air was, standing in that doorway as logic and emotion crashed over and into each other, the result making no sense whatsoever.
Sitting here now on John’s couch has him feeling the exact same way. Death creeping along the walls of his mind like the cold air now filtering through the opened doorway.
“Hey Paul, you alright?” Ringo’s voice breaks through, startling him.
Paul jumps up onto unsteady feet, “Yeah, yeah, I just- Just heard that George was, uh, he-”
“Yeah,” Ringo’s face drops a little from mild concern, “But he’s alright, really.”
One of the cats curls around his ankles and he has to take a moment to center himself so he doesn’t topple over.
“I mean, I can’t believe it. I was just talking to him today,” Paul blurts, “He was telling me about how John owed him three quid…”
Ringo chuckles, running his hand through his slightly damp mop of hair, “Sounds like our George.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Paul realises his hands are still clenched into fists and promptly corrects himself.
“No, no,” Ringo shakes his head, bulky navy coat moving stiffly, “No need to worry.”
“Alright, I’ve got the address,” John announces as he walks down the hall, “And you’re taking me with you.”
“John-” Ringo sighs, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“No arguing,” John warns, pointing his finger at Ringo, “You’ll have to fight me off with a bloody stick.”
“You have a job,” Ringo argues, reaching out for the slip of paper which John retracts, lifting it above his head with a firm stare fixed on Ringo. Paul watches the two men, biting into his thumb.
“So do you.”
“That’s different-”
“He’s like a little brother to me,” John interjects forcefully, “Bleeding hell, Ritch, there’s a reason you came here, so just stuff me in the boot for all I care. I need to get up there and see him.”
Horribly, an image of a battered and bruised Mike laid out in a hospital bed appears behind his eyes and he winces as he quickly erases the thought, outraged at himself for even thinking of it.
“Alright, alright,” Ringo sighs, lifting his palms up in mercy, “But if you’re fired-”
“None of that,” John hands the paper to Ringo and turns to Paul, “I’ve got to lock up, sorry to cut our evening short but Curious George has gotten himself in trouble and-”
“Yeah,” Paul nods and quickly heads to the door, “Um, give George my best, eh?”
“Will do,” Ringo answers as John recedes back down the hall, presumably to gather a change of clothes and some cash.
The rain, rather eerily, has stopped by the time he steps out. It’s dark and damp and cold and Paul’s mind is still racing. He slips into his car and doesn’t waste any time in turning on the engine and heading home.
-
He walks into his bedroom, still in John’s clothes and still reeling from the day’s events. He sits on the edge of his bed, hands clasped together in his lap. The typewriter on his desk might as well be the weight sitting in the pit of his stomach, and he can so easily imagine the feeling of black ink polluting his body with miserable memories and panicked thoughts. He should be writing now, he thinks distantly, he should be so inspired and motivated. He sits there for a long time before the cold is too much to bear and he has to curl up under the covers, squinting against the dark and watching the vague shape of an alarm clock on his bedside table stare right back at him.
He won’t think about it, he won’t. None of it will bring him down again.
-
The next morning he forgets that John is gone, and so when he’s halfway out the door he halts suddenly, heart dipping in disappointment. The worry sets in straight away, and he shuts the door and stalks back to his room. He needs to write. He needs to write and make it all go away. No dwelling on the kiss or how George was almost-
It’s a desperate tug at his heart that pulls him to his desk, sitting in front of the typewriter kicking back his socked feet so his heels drum against the rickety legs of the chair in a steady rhythm to soothe himself. He won’t think about it. He won’t wallow.
-
JEREMY:
There’s a shadow hanging over me. You see it, don’t you?
YVONNE:
From miles away, my dear.
JEREMY:
I hate it. I want to rid myself of all of it, but I can’t.
YVONNE:
Oh, but it frames your face so nicely.
JEREMY:
Be serious.
YVONNE:
I am.
[YVONNE takes a drag of her cigarette, smile curling like a cheshire cat. JEREMY feels self conscious, nervously shifting on his feet.]
JEREMY:
I have to leave. I’m sorry for being such a bother, I ought to be more cheerful, but it’s just been so difficult.
[JEREMY deflates, looking guilt-ridden. He walks to the door but YVONNE doesn’t stir.]
YVONNE:
There you go Jeremy, feeling as though you’re Atlas when really? You’re just like the rest of us. You’ll be better off when you realise that isn’t such a horrible thing.
JEREMY:
I don’t know what you mean.
YVONNE:
I hope for your sake that someday you will.
-
By the next afternoon he’s restless and decides to drive into town, stopping by the Octopus’ Garden and popping in for a drink. A woman with dark hair and a shy smile greets him from behind the counter and it takes him a little while to work up the courage to say something.
“I, uh,” he clears his throat, “You haven’t heard anything from Ringo, have you?”
The woman smiles softly, “Oh, he called just an hour ago. You must be Paul?”
“Yes,” Paul nods, accepting a glass of scotch with a grateful smile, “We haven’t met, have we?”
“No, but Ritchie mentioned you,” she organises a set of tall glasses side by side as she talks almost too softly for him to hear, “I’m his wife, Maureen.”
“It’s lovely to meet you,” he smiles, tense and a touch nervous, “I’m glad he’s alright… And George?”
“He’s doing much better. A few bumps and bruises, as Ritchie put it,” Maureen gives Paul a somewhat curious look, “You’re friends with John, too, right?”
Paul’s heart jumps, “Yes.”
Maureen nods, looking down at the glasses and steps aside to start pouring drinks, “How long are you staying here for?”
Paul blinks, a little taken back by the direct question, but smiles amicably and shrugs, “I dunno. As long as it takes me to finish my little project, I suppose.”
A hulking figure of a fisherman plants his arms down on the bar with a hearty exhale, eyes red from the sting of salt water and the strong smell of fish wafting from his clothes, “Hey Mo, just the usual for me, thanks.”
“Bad day, Mal?” Maureen smiles kindly.
“Absolutely nothing out there,” the man sighs, removing his cap from his head and revealing a mop of dirty blond hair, “Pulled in about half of what we should’ve, boss won’t be happy.”
“They’ll be back now the storm is gone,” Maureen reassures him calmly, gently placing a tall pint between his thickset hands. He accepts with a short nod and a murmured thanks and glances at Paul.
“Sorry,” Paul shakes his head, “I wasn’t eavesdrop-”
“You’re ok, lad,” Mal laughs, more of a chuckle huffed from the corner of his upturned mouth, “Take it as a warning, in case you were considering a career here.”
Paul chuckles, “Oh, I’ll have to scratch that off my list now.”
“You thinking of moving here, then?”
“Ha,” Paul bows his head, “Don’t think so, but I do quite like it. The people are great.”
“Aye,” Mal nods slowly, “Most of ‘em, anyway.”
Paul smiles and nods his head towards where the other fishermen are gathered at the usual corner of the bar, “Well you’ve got yourself a lively bunch of workmates right there.”
“Christ Almighty,” Mal shakes his head, chuckling, “They’re something , alright.”
“Not your sort?”
“Not really,” the other man tips back the glass and plants it firmly back on the bar, “Keep to myself, mostly.”
“Ah,” Paul shifts a little in his seat, “You never happened to, uh, to work with a certain John Lennon, did you?”
Mal’s thoughtful expression brightens slightly, “Aye, I remember him well. Great lad.”
“He didn’t have the nicest of times, it sounds like,” Paul says before sense can catch up with him. It can’t be the drink because he’s only halfway through it - it’s just his stupid clouded head and occupying so much of its space.
“Well, John’s a unique fella,” Mal looks down into his glass, “Everyone liked him well enough, but that’s just the problem, isn’t it? When the bigger guy gets wind of that, he has to take him out. And John had all these ideas, not the sort of stuff you should be going ‘round and telling all the old fellas who’ve done the job for decades.”
Paul trails the condensation trails on Mal’s glass with his eyes, “Is that why they knocked him off the pier?”
The other man grimaces, “Between you and me, Allen gets a higher cut ‘cause he’s been on for a long time and knows how to get what he wants. Nothing anyone can do about it, only a few of us know and if we argued about it we’d get sacked. So when John found out he went berserk, tried to start a bloody revolution right on the wharf. Allen gathered up his mates and told ‘em they were going to sort him out once and for all. It’d been a long time coming, but I suppose that was the final nail in the coffin.”
Paul’s heart stutters, chest collapsing in a breathless heave.
“I remember his arm coming up through the water and just grabbing hold of him and yanking him out. He’s not too big but the water weighed him down so he was just like this heavy ragdoll, sopping wet when we laid him out on the ground. I didn’t know how long he’d been in there by the time I showed up, and he was so blue, I thought… Well, you know what I must’ve thought.”
“Mm,” Paul winces.
“He’s a tough thing, though. Sat himself up and walked himself right to the beach before he fell over again. I took him to Ringo’s place, but Christ, he was in such a state. Felt sorry for him, he didn’t deserve that.”
“No, he didn’t,” Paul murmurs dumbly, “Is...Is Klein even liked by the other guys?”
“No,” Mal shakes his head sourly, “But they think if they’re close to him that it’ll make their lives easier. I suppose it’s true, to an extent. I keep to myself, but no one messes with the big tall guy. John was an easier target.”
“Hm,” Paul takes one last gulp of his beer.
“He can’t help the way he is,” Mal murmurs low under his breath, taking a sip of his own drink.
Paul nods somewhat absently, chest aching under the weight of the memory of John’s tender smile when he kissed him by the window.
He and Mal talk for the next hour, casual stories about their upbringing that fill the void. He’s pleased that he’s made such a nice connection on a day like this. He pays for Mal’s second drink and wishes him good night, the older man clapping him over the shoulder with a great genuine smile. A flash of warmth before the cold of another lonely night.
He can’t shake off this feeling flooding through his chest and pooling heavily in his gut. Impending regret. His fingers twitch over the typewriter for long minutes at a time. He thinks about what Mal had told him and he thinks of John and the mental block he’s too afraid to even chip at. He was weak and sentimental when he kissed John. It was wrong of him. He shouldn’t be making connections rooted in such deeply emotional soil. The heartache hollows him out, drifting from the typewriter and back to bed over and over. Lethargy tangled with restlessness is tortuous. He battles against each state and inflames them both in the process.
He gives up. There’s a bottle of a particularly strong rum in his bag that he has to dig through a crumpled pile of clothes to get to. He crawls over the floorboards with the bottle in hand, slumping against the edge of the bed with a weary sigh. He wants to forget everything, he wants to be numb to it all. Brian had told him once, “ I think you depend on drink too much in social situations ” and Paul had responded with a snarky comment, embarrassment cloaked in a stoic mask, and Brian had blushed and amended his comment.
“ I didn’t mean to upset you. What I was trying to say was- Well, you’re perfectly charming and brilliant on your own. There’s no need to hide yourself, it does everyone such a great disservice. You’re a tremendous person in your own right. You pretend that you know it, but I don’t think you do. ”
He feels queasy at the memory, shame swallowing him up as he downs the first gulp of rum. He coughs against the sudden burn in his throat, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling and gritting his teeth. There’s a thread of something so Brian-like in John it makes him nervous. No one ever saw right through him until Brian walked into that theatre that day, quietly introducing himself to Paul and complimenting him on the very same play another director had rejected. But there’s elements to his chemistry with John that he and Brian never had, and there’s an attraction too strong to ignore. Another sip. Another. Another.
His mind gets stuck on that stormy night, the diamond-sharp cut of death so close to them it still has him bewildered and afraid. He doesn’t want to think about the rain making the main roads slick. He doesn’t want to think about John in a car speeding down those roads. He doesn’t want to care about anything.
At some point during the night he clumsily swipes his notebook from the bedside table, knocking the alarm clock off of it’s little legs and flat onto its face. He scrawls in another letter to Brian.
November, 1966
I’m fucking scared Brian. I can’t do this all over again. My heart isn’t made of gravestone. How many names will I have to carve in with my own bloody fingernails?
I wish I told you everything. I wish I told you nothing at all. I can’t make up my mind. I’m drunk and bloated with emptiness. Send Help.
He awakes gently at midday, mouth dry and ears full of cotton, the notebook sitting on top of his chest. When his eyes don’t sting from the light anymore he reads the note over again, recalling a blurred memory of despairing at the page he had written for no reason other than it was the truth.
His chest feels bruised. He doesn’t leave the house that day, or the next. Distantly, he makes the decision to keep a distance between himself and John. It’s too much to bear now. He hardly knows what he needs beyond a written play and time alone, so that’s all he will allow himself from now on.