Lonely People

Deportation

It was raining that day, I specifically remember hearing the claps of thunder. The whole club shook every time the thunder cracked. A part of the ceiling was dripping, making a small wet circle on the floor by the couch. We could hear the rain pelting against the roof. Ugly weather fit for an ugly day.

We had another long show that night, which wasn't surprising. For the time being, however, we all paused for a breather. All of us congregated in our bedroom. We were sick of each other, but we still loved each other. Sometimes, we pulled energy from each other. George was still fast asleep on his bed, his face shoved in the pillow. It was a miracle he wasn't smothering. John and Paul sat side by side on the couch writing music together. Paul had his guitar while John had his harmonica. Every so often, Stuart and I would add some input. Stuart was on the bed below me painting intensely. I hung over the side of the bed, watching him.

"What is it?" I asked.

Stuart smiled, "A strawberry."

"Why a strawberry?" I inquired, "There's better things to paint than a simple strawberry."

Stuart glanced up at me, "Sometimes the most beautiful things are the simplest."

I lifted an eyebrow. He returned to delicately painting the berry. I was mesmerized by his brush strokes. He was a great musician, but his true talent came out when he painted. Each stroke, each droplet of paint, were created with a delicacy very few can ever achieve. Every move he made had a hint of his love for his work in it. 

A knock on the door startled me. I was so invested in Stuart's painting, I didn't hear the world around me. Even the two guitars just feet from me had faded from existence. Paul stood and answered it.

"What the bloody hell is this?" he asked.

Three people shoved past him. Two were dressed in police uniforms, but their badges were not Hamburg police. Our boss came in just behind them, smirking, "I'm terminating your contract. You leave in a fortnight."

"Not bloody likely!" John leaped up, "We still have one month left."

"You violated the contract, I am perfectly in my rights."

One of the officers stood between the beds and gestured to George and me, "These them?"

"Yes sir," the boss replied.

One officer turned to me while the other went to George. He gazed at me with eyes like a statue. It seemed as if there were no life behind them, they were just marbles in a plaster head. He reached his arm over the railing of the bed in an effort to grab my wrist. I pressed myself against the wall, "What's going on?"

"You have illegally entered Germany on a false visa," the officer replied, "We're deporting you back to England."

"You have no proof!" Paul exclaimed.

One of the officers began grabbing at me, "We ran the papers this morning. Amelia McCartney and George Harrison are under eighteen years of age and cannot have a visa."

He tried to grab my leg, but I pulled it to me. I flung the pillow at him, but he ducked and it hit John. When he came back up, he sneered, "Come with me willingly, little girl, or I will be forced to drag you out."

"Paul!" I exclaimed.

"Get away from her!" Paul tried.

He grabbed the officer's elbow to try and pull him back. The officer simply pushed him backward, causing him to stumble into John. John helped him get right side up as George was pulled from his bed. He landed on his feet, just waking up, "What's going on?"