Whatever Paul had imagined the toppermost of the poppermost to look like, this wasn't it and by the look on George's face, the Benjamin of the band thought exactly the same thing.
Their journey had been very long and demanding. Ten people in one van had bore a striking resemblance to one of those sketches on the box, where they'd fit a large number of clowns into a small car. Except they weren't trying to fit inside for a laugh; they were driving from Liverpool to Harwich via London, and then through the Netherlands to Hamburg. The fun had worn off before they even reached Woollyback territory. The van didn't even have enough seats, so they were forced to sit on their amps, squeezed tightly together. They spent most of the bumpy ride struggling to keep their balance.
They endured by telling themselves it would all be worth it once they arrived at their destination. Saying the reality was a tad disappointing was a gross understatement. They were incredibly excited when they reached Hamburg, it all looked so foreign and impressive. Finding the Indra club was a challenge, and when they did reach it, they really felt out of sorts. John, Stuart, George, Pete and Paul were still knackered from the long journey when they took the unfamiliar stage. All of a sudden, they didn't feel all that tough anymore, so they stood huddled together throughout their show, managing little more than a lacklustre performance in front of the unimpressed audience consisting of a handful of prostitutes and their 'company'. When Paul saw his own doubts reflected back at him in George's eyes, he found himself wondering what they'd gotten themselves into.
Their sleeping quarters, if one could call it that, was a small, cold room with bare walls and two bunk beds in the back of some obscure cinema, or Kino as the Gerries called it. The place was little more than a storage room, nothing short of filthy, and situated adjacent to the loos. Still, it was better than not having a place to sleep at all. Since there were five of them and only four beds, they decided to take turns co-sleeping, which made for some hilarious moments. Top-and-tailing meant that every now and then, someone got kicked in the face in the middle of the night. John was the first to have the questionable honour.
"Bloody murder! Bloody murder!" John's dramatic scream tore the other four rudely from their slumbers. Stuart nearly jumped out of his skin and managed to just barely prevent falling out of the top bunk above Pete. George stuck his head over the edge of his bed, looking blearily down at John and Paul. "Eeee, I was havin' such a good dream! What seems to be the problem, Johnny?"
John responded by grabbing Paul's ankle. He made a wild gesture, causing Paul's foot to flop about comically. "Macca tried to bash me 'ead in with this gnarly thing! I'm tellin' ye man, there's no getting' over this 'horrible attempt at me life!"
George jumped to the floor like a cat and positioned himself on the edge of the bottom bunk. He studied Paul's foot with an air of serious investigation. "Well, this does look rather fiendish," he said in an exaggerated posh accent. He poked at the offending appendage a bit, causing Paul to squirm, unable to free himself from John's tight grip. "I do declare the suspect is guilty of the alleged crime. Case closed."
Paul struggled to hold back the fit of laughter that was bubbling in his chest. "Fiendish? Really?" He placed the back of his hand to his forehead and flopped down in a dead faint, much like an actress on the silver screen. Pete and Stu hurried over in feigned concern, fanning Paul with their hands, who came out of his 'fainting spell' with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Y'know what's fiendish, Geo? Yer unibrow! I wouldn't be surprised it it's wanted for murder!" Laughter erupted around the room at that comment.
George swatted at Paul and his voice rose half an octave when he blurted, "'Ang on a mo'! I don' have a unibrow!" Another round of laughter bounced off the walls.
"Well, you sort of do, son," John chuckled, "but Paulie here can sub ye his tweezers an' teach ye ter make 'em all nice like." In response, Paul threw his jacket, which he used as a pillow, at John's face. "'Ar 'ey! I don't pluck me eyebrows! Yer just jealous of me good looks."
"Well, yer very pretty, Paulie. John casually popped Paul's jacket under his own pillow and took hold of his foot again. "Except yer feet. Dead grotty, those are." He cleared his throat and copied the posh accent George had used earlier, "Which brings us back to the topic at hand. Now that C.I. Harrison has concluded you're guilty, what shall we do for punishment? Any suggestion, fellows?"
Pete chimed in, "tickle 'im to death, I'd say." Stuart and George nodded in appreciation of the suggestion, and John cheered, "make it so, lads!" The condemned tried again in vain to break loose. Paul knew his friends would be relentless. "Nooo, anything but that," he pleaded, but his cries fell on deaf ears. By the time the band retreated to their respective beds, Paul was completely hoarse from the hysterical fits of laughter and gasping for breath.
Moments like that made their days in Hamburg a lot of fun, and they did enjoy their big adventure. It was just that the harsh reality of life on the strip grew on them faster than the bleak room in which they spent their quiet, more introspective hours, making their nights often depressing. Eventually, they sort of got used to washing themselves in the putrid smell of the ladies' bog, and they even learned to more or less block out the sounds of people pissing while they were trying to get some sleep after a long night on stage. They even managed to add a splash of colour to the otherwise bare room in the form of their Union Jacks, which they used as blankets. There hadn't been any linens to speak of and though the flags were very thin, meaning they were still freezing at night, the feeling of being wrapped in something from home made their hearts feel a lot warmer.
In spite of their initial disappointment, the lads soon embraced their new job. Egged on by the owner of the club, who'd yell at them to 'mach Schau', they put their best foot forward and before long, they had evolved into a tight act. By October, they had a huge repertoire of songs that they could play brilliantly. As word got out on the energy of their shows, they drew larger audiences and were regarded one of the better acts on the Reeperbahn. The lads were thrilled when they were moved to a place called Kaiserkeller, which had a dance floor, and waiters, and a bigger audience.
The bigger venue came at a price, they soon discovered. The rowdy audience was very demanding and violent, so the boys poured every bit of energy into their shows in order to keep the drunken servicemen happy. They were required to work much longer hours and even though the Beatles, as they had changed their name to, alternated sets with fellow Liverpudlians Rory Storm & the Hurricanes, they soon found themselves utterly knackered.
"Man, how do they do that?" Stu shook his head in amazement at the energy displayed by Rory and his band. The lads were on their break, and they were all slumped in their chairs, dreading their last set of the night. John raised his head from the table and groaned, "I don't know man, but I'll have what they're havin'. I'm too tired to even get up to go to the fuckin' loo." Grunts of agreement could be heard from several of the band members.
A waiter appeared at their table, "Here are your beers, boys," he beamed. Pete managed a "Ta, mate," before downing half his pint in one go. He put down his glass and looked up at the waiter, who was still standing next to them. "What is it, Otto?" Otto moved in a little closer and spoke quietly, "You boys are tired, no? I have something that helps you. Make you play longer." He showed them some pills, and continued, "You take one, you play all night. Easy."
The lads exchanged glances, and John picked up one of the pills. He gestured his head towards the stage, "Is that what they're takin'?" When Otto nodded, John slowly raised the pill to his mouth, only to be stopped by Paul. "Hang on, John. Ye don't even know what's in these pills, mate. Maybe we shouldn't take the risk."
"It's okay, all the bands take the Prellies," Otto interjected. He looked amused at Paul's reaction. "You can take one, it is safe. It helps. Trust me, I am your friend." That obviously was all John needed to hear, and he quickly washed down the pill with a big swig of his beer before Paul could continue to protest. When he saw the others follow suit, Paul caved. "Oh well, if this makes us barmy, we may as well be barmy together."
The boys soon discovered Otto hadn't lied. They were bursting with frantic energy the rest of the night, and they left the stage feeling like they could take on the world. All of a sudden, surviving the rough life at the infamous red light district became much easier and they were playing better than ever before. Or a lot faster, at least. Nothing much bothered them anymore, as they'd seen it all and done it all, and were still standing to tell the tale. Most of the band felt on top of the world, but something inside Paul felt off. He was having more fun than he ever deemed possible, but he also felt something unfamiliar and dangerous arising in the pit of his stomach.
Ever since they had started using the Prellies, he had felt on edge and the boundless energy also caused restlessness. He didn't use half as many of the magic pills as the others, but he was still bouncing off the walls. It was eating at him. By the beginning of November, he felt thin, like a scrap of butter spread over too many slices of bread. The long hours, living on a diet of pills and alcohol, and the lack of sleep were wreaking havoc on his teenage brain. He still enjoyed the whole experience very much, or at least he was quite sure he did. And yet, there was something he couldn't identify, like a heath fire, waiting for a chance to come to the surface.
Eventually, everything started to bother him: how Pete sometimes wouldn't show up for a gig so Ringo from Rory Storm's band needed to step in. The rude English johns, who'd disturb the show with their obnoxious demands. Or Bruno sacking them after he found out they had agreed to start playing at the Top Ten Club. That particular blow-up happened on the 1st of November and about a week later, when they were doing some of their last gigs at the Kaiserkeller, the fire that had been simmering in the back of Paul's being turned into a full blown inferno. Stuart got caught in the flashover.
"Christ Stu, what was that? Are you playin' the same song as the rest of the band?" Paul hissed at the bassist, loud enough so Stuart would hear, but not so loud that the others would notice. He hated being stuck on the side of the stage to play the piano. It made him feel less a part of the band, somehow. He should take centre stage with John, not that talentless hack Sutcliffe. "Wrong chord again, mate. We're in the key of G, y'know." Stuart didn't respond, which made Paul even angrier. Oh, what he wouldn't give to have a go at that stupid git with his naff sunglasses.
"John'll sack ye if ye keep playin' like that, y'know." He wasn't hissing anymore, and he noticed Pete cocking an eyebrow. Oh well, fuck Pete. It wasn't like he was the best drummer in the world, either. Paul liked that Ringo bloke a lot better anyroad. Paul was pleased to see the veneer of Stu's facade was cracking. His playing became increasingly worse, but that only gave Paul more ammunition. "Are you lettin' John shag Astrid, Stu? Can't think why else you'd still be here." Pete definitely heard that one, Paul could tell. And judging by the missed chord, so did George. So far, only John seemed oblivious, which was easily explained by him being the farthest from where Paul was sitting.
Paul focused on the piano solo now, making sure to make it as rock 'n' roll as he possibly could. He knew this would not only impress the audience, but hopefully John as well, so that perhaps he'd realise Paul's spot was at the middle of the stage and then Stu could take the back seat where he belonged. He saw his victim clenching his jaw now and decided he'd go in for another blow as soon as his middle-eight was done.
Stu literally beat him to the punch. When Paul was busy showing off his piano chops, Stuart had taken off his bass and more or less tossed it aside. The moment John started to sing the next verse, he threw himself on Paul, knocking him squarely off his chair and behind the piano. The first punch was Stu's, but Paul soon retaliated. The fight turned into a sort of wrestling match, in which neither managed to get the upper hand. Each succeeded in dealing the other some good punches, and Paul even managed a head butt, which made his own head spin. But by the time the others – who had stoically continued to play as if nothing was wrong – finished the song, they were in a sort of mutual headlock, unable to actually get the fight going properly.
"Stu, Paul, are you out of yer fucking minds? Sack it right now!" Rather than obey John's barked order, Paul remained where he was, stubbornly continuing to try and get the upper hand. He wasn't going to be defeated by the short, babyfaced bass player if he had any say in it. So he continued to struggle, determined win the fight and show one Stuart Sutcliffe once and for all that Paul McCartney was a force to be reckoned with.
Next thing he knew, someone grabbed Stu under his arms and dragged him off of Paul, his feet frantically kicking at every inch of Paul's body he could reach. A victorious smirk crept upon Paul's face, until he too was unceremoniously dragged to his feet. "Paul. Bog. Now!" Though the low growl of John's voice told Paul he expected his order to be followed without hesitation, Paul didn't immediately follow suit. He managed to cast a quick look of contempt at his rival, who in turn was trying to break loose from Pete and George's grip, before John's hands grabbed him roughly by the scruff of his neck, forcing him away from the stage and into the small backstage loo.
"What the fuck was that about, ye gobsmite? Ye better have a fuckin' good excuse if ye wanna stay in this band, mate!" John's hoarse voice ricocheted off the walls of the smelly room, its volume enhanced by the cold porcelain surfaces. The sound irritated Paul's overexcited nerves. His heart was pounding, and a wave of something dangerously hot coursed through him, starting somewhere near his navel and spreading like wildfire until even the hairs on his neck felt like they were charged with high-voltage electricity.
Paul laughed harshly, completely incapable of any coherent thought. "Go'ead, mate, kick me out. See how far yer little band'll get without me."
Without missing a beat, John took a swing and punched Paul squarely in the face. For a moment, Paul could only see little bright lights popping in front of his eyes. Something warm manifested itself beneath his nose, slowly tracing the curve of his upper lip and to the corner of his mouth until he could actually taste the blood. "Well Johnny boy, ye've got a pretty nice right hook," Paul snarled, his ears buzzing and his heart racing, "...for a fucking shirtlifter!"
This time, Paul saw the swing coming. In one fluid move, he blocked John's assault and made an attack of his own, his limbs moving on their own accord as it an invisible force was controlling his muscles. Without thinking, he curled his fingers around his mate's throat and moved forward, until the small of John's back was pressed up against the small wash basin. For a moment, he just stood there, unaware of John's failed attempt to break loose.
"Paul...please...!" Something in John's voice brought Paul back to his senses. He blinked a few times and became aware of his surroundings. He noticed his own hands, throttling his best friend and wondered how that happened. He saw his reflection in the dirty mirror behind John's head and was shocked by what he saw: beneath the bruises and blood, his face was a stark white mask, his eyes large and black, harbouring something alien. Whoever that bloke in the mirror was, it wasn't him. Couldn't possibly be him. He tore his eyes away from the unwelcome sight of his inner demons, and looked at John, only to see something else he never thought he'd witness: fear. His best friend, the coolest and toughest Scouse he knew, looked terrified.
Paul staggered back, horrified. "Bloody hell John, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry!" He felt physically ill; his entire body trembled and his insides churned. Paul's hands flew to his head, his fingers gripping desperately at his hair. His face felt hot beneath his hands. He was panting now, as if he had run a marathon. He felt his heart pounding so ridiculously fast, his ears rang with the deafening sound of blood rushing through his veins. "I'm so sorry John, please forgive me..." The words were barely a more than a hoarse, slurred whisper. He vaguely heard a distant voice call out his name before the room went dark.
Paul vaguely registered the sensation of a pair of hands catching him and coaxing him to the floor. Someone was calling his name and tapping his face. He slowly opened his eyes, which took a tremendous effort. His eyelids felt so incredibly heavy; had they always been that way? "Come on Macca, look at me!" Finally, he willed himself to look up and see John, who was crouched in front of him. "Shit Paul, you scared me half to death," John croaked. Without another word, he pulled Paul into a tight hug.
Paul couldn't tell how much time has passed when they let go of each other, and he decided it didn't matter. He didn't know if it was because of his best friend holding him, but his heartbeat had slowed to a fairly acceptable speed, and his head felt a lot clearer. He sought John's gaze, and held it with his own in a final, wordless plea for forgiveness. Relief washed over him when his friend inclined his head in a nearly invisible nod. All was not lost after all, and he was still welcome in the life of the man he'd come to love so much.
Love... The word filled his head, like a never-ending chant. 'I love John.' It was like someone turned a lightbulb on inside Paul's mind. Why didn't he realise this before? How could he be so oblivious of his own emotions? Of course he loved John, had done so for a long time. Slowly, Paul moved himself increasingly closer to John, until their bodies were touching and their faces were mere inches apart. He raised a trembling hands and placed them gently against John's cheeks, whose eyes fluttered closed at the touch. Paul closed the gap between their faces and allowed his lips to find John's.
"John? Paul? Everything alright in there? Come on guys, the club is closing; we need to leave!" George's interruption brought John and Paul back to reality, and they broke their kiss. John leaned his forehead against Paul's for a second before answering their younger friend, "Yeah, everything's fine. We'll be right there, Geo." He turned his face back towards Paul and whispered, "You are fine, aren't you? Wouldn't want you to try and bash our bassist's head in. I know he's rubbish, but it's better than not havin' someone on bass at all." Paul nodded. "I'll be good, Johnny. Sorry for being such a wanker. I've done horrible things tonight, and I'm truly sorry." "Do us a favour and stop apologising, Paul. It's alright. I'm alright."
John pulled Paul up off the floor and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. "We're alright."