The Bass Player

Hey peeps who have probably never read my work. Thaaaaaaaanks. Anywho, the following is a short story I wrote AGES ago. Disclaimer: a case hitting Stuart Sutcliffe's head is probably not why he died. Also, what is it with hardly any Beatles books on this site???? I mean, come on. Deviantart.com is an ART site and there's more Beatles books there. I guess it's just us artists. Stu was an artist. :D There is also a picture of Paul McCartney with Stu in the background. :3 Thanks for reading! Also--read, vote, comment, fan. THANKS!!!!!!!!!

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The streets of Hamburg were busy, but not like it would have been had we come later in the day. This early, though, the crowded, dirty lanes were actually bearable.

By our own luck, we hadn’t run into our friend, Klaus Voorman, at least not yet. Not that we were avoiding him; it was just a general consensus that he probably shouldn’t come with us to visit his ex-girlfriend who was now living with our other friend who had dropped out of our band to go with her. So obviously Klaus couldn’t come.

We were walking, not riding; a poor band like us couldn’t afford extra transportation like that. Our other friend, Horst Fascher, had offered to accompany us and in turn, carry an instrument, but we decided that this would be a private affair. This ended up being a pain in the arse, because each of us had bulky instruments to carry, even Pete, who had left his drumset at the club—however, this was all they would keep for us. He was carrying my guitar because I had my bass in hand. John had convinced me to bring it; otherwise I wouldn’t have. However, perhaps even I was holding onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, Stu would agree and join up again. Oh, I knew it was hopeless. I knew that Stu wouldn’t leave Astrid for his life. But I could hope, couldn’t I? I didn’t want to be the bass player any more than the rest did. There was an aching hope that Stu would come back, that he would take back the bass, that I would get to play guitar again. But I knew it was hopeless.

We turned the corner, and there it was. Their house. We always called it “Their house” because it was not Astrid’s house, because Stu lived there; it was not Stu’s house, because Astrid lived there; it was not the Sutcliffe house, because they weren’t married...yet; nor was it the Kirchherr house, for reasons previously stated. So it was their house. Indistinct as possible.

It was small; it wasn’t as if art students got much income. But then, none of the houses this part of town were particularly nice, so it was all right.

It was John who rang the bell. We heard it echo through the place. Then we heard soft little footsteps: Astrid. She opened the door a crack.

“John. What do you want?”

We exchanged uneasy looks. George cleared his throat.

“We were in town and we wanted to say hi. Are you okay?”

She opened the door a little wider.

“How can I be ‘okay?’ How can you?”

John looked startled and unhappy. Stu was his best friend, after all. He hadn’t expected such a cold reception from Astrid.

“What are you on about? What happened? Where’s Stu?”

Astrid looked shocked, and her voice leaped an octave higher.

“Where’s Stu? Where’s Stu? What d’you mean, where’s Stu? Haven’t you heard?!”

“What?”

“Stu’s dead.”

The sound in the world disappeared, snuffed out, like a candle. None of us said a thing. None of us could. Stu, our Stu, our Stuart Sutcliffe...dead? That couldn’t be right. Astrid must have been wrong. There was nothing more to it. She must have been wrong. Must have been. But the crazed, miserable, hurt, lost, depressed, fearful look in her eyes told us that she was telling the truth. Stu was dead. What could we think? What would we think? How could he be dead? Someone had to say something. Someone had to break this awful silence...Nobody was going to. George was the youngest; he couldn’t say anything, John would jump on him, furious, he was too afraid, he couldn’t say anything. Pete was too shy. John...John was shocked. It was getting to him. Astrid couldn’t say anything because...well...she just said something. It would have to be me. Nobody else was liable to say it. What could I say? What could explain this horrifying event? What could I do to break the silence? The conversation would have to bounce back to Astrid. She could explain. Explain what happened. She could do what we could not. So, in the end, it was I who finally broke the silence, in a raspy whisper.

“How?”

Astrid did not speak for a long moment. She held her breath and fought back tears. We didn’t rush her; how could we?

“After...after you left. And he stayed. He got these awful headaches. Some days he would be okay, but then other days I could tell he just wanted to die, they hurt so bad. We thought they were migraines. B-but...but...but then...just two days ago...he collapsed. Straight out. Fell on the floor. During one of the headaches. Blacked out. I called the ambulance, but...they were too late. We were too late. I was too late. I tried to save him...I tried everything I knew how to do and...it...it didn’t...I couldn’t...”

She broke off in a sob and we sat in silence once again. We were taking in the news. Headaches. Collapse. Death.

“The case.”

We looked up. It was Pete who had spoken. Quiet old Pete, who was often too shy to say much. George voiced my own thoughts.

“What?”

Pete shook his head, as if trying to remember something.

“I—I think. We were about to leave the club. Stu was reaching up for his case and pulling it off the shelf. Another case was attached to it, because somehow they got stuck. When Stu pulled his case down, the other one fell, too. It hit his head. But he said he was okay.”

Astrid looked down, shaking her head. She didn’t want to talk about this anymore. She wanted to be left alone, to think, to mourn by herself.

“We’ll leave you in peace now, then.”

At these words, I turned, leading my bandmates away. It seemed, now, that we were destined to be together, just us four. And I found that the case in my hand was heavier than it had been before...It seemed, to me, as if I were taking a bit of Stu with me, by playing the bass. A bit of his soul. And it seemed, now, that I was destined to be, as it is, just the bass player.