WARNING: this part is a bit of a mind blower. It’s strong and has a HORRIBLE end. Even I cried as I wrote it. GOD BLESS LINDA EASTMAN!!!


Paul and Jane, 1970.

Happiness was something he had seeked inside every thread of her golden red hair. Pride was what he had felt when he went out and was seen with her. Satisfaction was what he received when they moved in together. Loneliness every time she went away. And now, it was all about neglect, humiliation and anger. Her beauty and finesse really didn’t matter anymore. If only they had a little one, his life would be better. But now, no thanks to John’s Madame Nu, he was suddenly without his job. A bushy beard hid behind the smell of scotch and cigarettes the once adorable glamour of a face. His eyes, naturally sad looking, now reflected a sadness and nostalgia that he felt. He was minimized; If he had once shadowed his beloved girl’s career with his own, it was payback time. He was so sad and lonely, he had no clue where he would go next. To make matters worse, Jane had gone off to a conference about her new film, "The Deep End". And that was exactly where Paul was… The Deep End. And he was drowning.

They had married while he was still a Beatle. It was a miracle their relationship had survived his old wild oat sewing, but it had. Now he wondered if it had been worth it at all. She was always going on about her career. He had always wanted to persuade her to at least decrease her work a little, but had never quite cut the deal. He had hoped that maybe after marriage, she might change her mind a bit and be more of a wife than an actress, a mother instead of a glamour kitten. Bad call. Jane had made it very, very clear that she wanted to wait a long while before having children. And she seemed offended, shocked and angered whenever he suggested otherwise. So now, he sat alone, no family, no band, no dreams left to pursue…Even the fairy tale of marrying London’s princess had gone to hell into a nightmare of loneliness.

And now, just when he needed her the most, she was not there. No one to help him stand, to hold his hand and help him swim to shore before he drowned.

He got out of bed and reached out for the bottle, guzzling three more gulps, numbing his entire body. The pain never went away, but at least he didn’t feel it quite as strong. His dog, their dog, stared at him from the floor. He grinned and sighed. - Martha my dear…- He mumbled with a sad grin. –You was never really my inspiration, but at least you do remember not to forget about me…

Another two large gulps of scotch.

The cold air hit him and he shivered. He reached out and pulled out his white vest from under the pillow. It already reeked of sweat and alcohol, but then again, so did he, so he didn’t care. From the corner of his eye, he saw the guitar behind the door, collecting dust. For a moment he felt like reaching out to play it. His guitar had been his first savior, the one who had made him see a light ahead when his mother had died. And, unlike his beautiful and sophisticated wife, his guitar was always there for him. But the emotion soon fizzled, and instead of reaching for the six stringer, he once again took the bottle of scotch to his mouth. How he had wished to be up in his farm, away from the public eye. How those girls outside stood and wailed for him, he didn’t know. He was worth nothing now. His Beatle days were over. His wit had gone dry. George and Ringo were mad at him, and worse still, John, his best friend and his true soulmate, hated him. HE HATED HIM! It hit him as he dissolved in a pool of tears…

The sound of keys was heard. Jane was back from her conference. Little did he care. He guzzled more scotch.

Jane charged into the room, and found him miserably sitting on the edge of the bed, tears running down his cheeks and getting lost in the jungle of a beard.

- Good, God…- She sneered in disgust. –Will you EVER get into a bathtub again, Paul?

- Not likely…- He said before taking yet another gulp of alcohol.

Jane shook her head. –I can’t believe I didn’t listen to what my parents said…- She took the bottle from his hand and ran out of the room with him in hot pursuit. –Gimme that fuckin’ bottle, Jane!

Jane went into the kitchen and poured the contents of the bottle into the sink before Paul’s bewildered stare. –There! You can stop that now! Clean up, for God’s sake! - She turned to him. –It’s just a band, Paul! I’ve always told you, you can be a producer, or a musical arranger, or something so much better than just a… a…- She sneered again. –Beatle!

Paul kicked the door multiply. –I DON’T WANT TO BE A FUCKIN’ PRODUCER!!- He shouted – The Beatles were all I knew, don’t you get it? I don’t know anything else!!! I loved being a Beatle! Why is it so hard fer you to understand such a simple fact?

He stormed out of the kitchen and went to the bar, where he pulled out a bottle of vodka.

-Fine…- Jane nodded as she saw how Paul gulped down more mouthfuls of liquid. –You want people to support you when you’re a miserable boozehag?

- Ever wonder WHY I’m a "miserable boozehag", Jane?- He slammed the bottle on the bar. – It’s sad to believe a bottle is more loyal and supporting than me own wife…- He pointed at the window. –Yer out there, every bleedin’ day, doing conferences and filming all these low budget movies you make, feeling all glamorous and giving a shit only about yer bloody career! – He pointed at his own chest. –I’m fuckin’ dying here, Jane! Haven’t you noticed???

- I can’t really make out all the stupidities you say, Paul, because YOU’RE DRUNK all the time lately! - She shouted at him. –If you really wanted to, you’d get back on your feet and get out there to do what you can do! But NOOO!- She turned her back to him. –You’d rather stay here and be a pathetic drunk, right?- She turned her back to him and ran up the stairs. He followed her and gasped in horror as she pulled out a suitcase.

- Jane…- Paul pleaded inside, his hopes drying up.

- No, I’ve had it! - She squealed back. –You have NEVER supported my career, Paul! All I want is a bit of support, but your stupid Liverpool macho beliefs are choking me…

- All I want is to have you with me! - Paul wept aloud. – Why is it so much to ask? I need you! Please!

- And I have needed that support for YEARS, Paul! I’m sick of this! - She pointed at him. – I’m sick of your moping, I’m sick of the alcohol, I’m sick of YOU!!

Paul stood stone silent. Everyone had seen this coming, even him. But he hadn’t wanted to believe it. He stared at her as she threw a few clothes in the bags and slammed them shut. –Get stuffed.- She pushed past him. He staggered for a bit and then ran to her, throwing himself at her feet. –Please! Don’t leave me now!! I need you, please!!

She went into the kitchen, ignoring him, and looked at Martha’s plate. Empty.

- Even the dogs can die around you, Paul!!- She squealed. She caught a glimpse of Martha, and took her by the collar. - Here’ girl…

In the cobblestone courtyard, Jane threw her bags in the trunk and opened the back door for Martha in front of the eyes of all the teenage apple scruffs who witnessed the pathetic scene, as Paul literally clung to Jane, begging her to stay.

She slammed the car door shut, and with a hard, teary look, shook her head. – And to think I loved you because of your drive and determination…-

With this, she started the engine and she was out the gates, with Paul shouting her name on his knees from his front door.

He seemed to be there for ages, his heart numb from the aching, his tears shining like two crystals under the sun, and his hands shaking violently with the vodka held tight on his left.

Silently, he stood up and walked back into the house. After a few moments of complete numbness, he drunkenly staggered out to the solarium, his favorite place in the house. Always quiet and bathed in sunlight, he had always found peace in there. And now, he was determined to find it again for the last time.

The following day, Rose, the housekeeper, went over to do her usual cleaning routine. She was shocked to find Martha had not bounced up to her. She went through the house, finding it empty, and suddenly feeling hopes that perhaps her boss had come back to his senses and had gone out with his wife and dog somewhere.

When it was time to clean the solarium, she stood by the door, the shock and angst invading her every sense. He was there, on the floor, a broken bottle in his hand, blood all around. No life or breath came from the limp man, still good looking… even in death.

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