Baby You're a Rich Man

Nineteen

            They were at their fourth night at the pub when he appeared.

            John was in the middle of accepting the applauses beside Paul, his forehead almost drowning in rivulets of sweat, hoping his face wasn’t as red as it felt, his breath coming out in ragged, painful stabs, his knees almost giving out as he held onto the microphone for dear life, all the while still managing to look cool.

            It was the sight of dark glasses that wiped the tired grin off of John’s face and replaced it by a dumbfounded look, like he’d just been slapped. He ran a hand through his tousled mess of waving auburn locks, and looked again at the crowd, wondering whether going this long without his glasses had made him start seeing things.

            There was no denying it now; he was there, like an apparition, maybe, but firmly planted in John’s field of vision. No amount of blinking would make him disappear. John felt deeply unsettled, more than he should be by the sight of Stu at the pub.

            He might’ve very likely wandered in, but John was shaken to the core, something about Stu’s somber stillness, the way his hair was swept back from his face and his freckles looked almost seared into his skin. He was immobile and silent among the screaming, writhing crowd.

            Paul’s voice floated over to him as if almost through a haze as he said the usual goodbyes in John’s place. He put a concerned hand on John’s shoulder as they left the stage but John didn’t seem to hear, he was scanning the crowd for a face he somehow desperately needed to see.

*   *   *

            John was quiet the way back to the hotel, and this dampened the spirits of others somewhat. They didn’t disturb the whispering breeze that gently stirred the darkness, and melted through the streets along with the shadows.

            When they rounded a corner to the hotel, there were bright lights everywhere and there was an ambulance parked on the street. John broke into a run, Paul following behind but not quite catching up, as he caught sight of a blond-haired bird he recognized but wasn’t sure how.

            She was sobbing hysterically while people spoke to her in anxious, hushed tones, calling her Astrid. The name Astrid made everything click in place; Astrid the pretty photographer, Astrid the German bird he’d known a long time ago, and he turned towards the body being placed within the stretcher.

            Stuart Sutcliffe was very still.

*   *   *

            He sat for a while in Stu’s room, holding a notebook he’d found, ignoring Paul’s increasingly anxious cries.

            “John? Please, come out!”

            “Paul, I think he wants to be left alone,” Ringo’s voice suddenly spoke from the hall.

            “But—“

            There was a strange kind of shuffling outside of the room and John dimly noticed that all the lights in the room were off, other than weak moonlight filtering in from the broken shutters.

            He flipped the book open, and flicked on a yellowish lamp. Its glow grew slowly brighter, until the room was bathed in the ugly color. John flipped to the first page.

            I was a little uncomfortable buying this diary – diaries seem like they’re only for five-year-old girls, but who knows, when I’m a famous artist the firsthand account of my life might be worth millions.

            John snorted slightly, then flipped to another page.

            And he says he’s splitting up the band, the little fucker! We’ve been in the Quarrymen for two years now, and he says he has to leave for some kind of posh family tradition. I swear, I’ll climb into his window and murder him in his sleep!

            Well, maybe I won’t, but I’ll be very resentful for several weeks. Some threats I make, don’t I? Astrid says it’s one of my more endearing traits. That’s also how she gets me to sit for hours at a table, waiting for the lighting to be right, and for the stars to be aligned, or something.

            John flipped to a more recent entry, towards the end of the book.

            And he hasn’t changed at all, you know? He acts very mature and such, but inside he’s still the bloke with the guitar. He carries around the camp’s Rickenbacker like he’s a toddler with a stuffed bear.

            He’s married that Hoylake girl, Cynthia. I dunno why, really, but John has strange ideas. He seems to have found another teddy bear, other than the guitar: this bloke Paul, who has a face that could belong to a little lamb of innocence, with wide eyes and eyelashes that could make any bird jealous.

            They’re sharing cabins, too, and I think John’s getting tired of Hoylake and moving on to Doe-Eyes. The energy they have is something I want to capture on canvas one day.

            That’ll be the day this diary is worth millions, I’m sure.

            John closed the diary and let a dry sob escape him, before shutting his eyes tightly, blocking out the yellow light, the situation, until he was comfortably numb, focusing on the tensing of the muscles on either side of his eyes.

            Paul was pretending to sleep when John arrived in the bed, curled up on himself and shaking slightly at the fear of having disappointed or angered John. He hoped John would go to sleep and leave him alone, but John paused a long while before getting into the bed.

            “I know you’re awake,” John said. He waited to hear Paul’s response, and chuckled slightly when he heard him say: “M’not.”

            John lifted the covers and slid in the bed, relishing in the fact that this room was full of people; something that had earlier made him uncomfortable, but now he was glad he wasn’t alone in Stu’s small room.

            “’M sorry,” John whispered.

            Paul made to attempt to answer, and John didn’t press the issue.

            In the morning when they woke up neither of them questioned that this time it was John who had wrapped his arms around Paul.