HAD IT NOT BEEN HIM.


On the cold night of December 8, five shots broke an otherwise quiet evening. A woman screamed as a mad gunman suddenly dropped his fire weapon, raising his arms as he let himself be thrown to the floor by a watchman. The wounded man staggered a few feet, and after a long and painful "I’VE BEEN SHOT! HELP ME!" he fell to the ground, surrounded by a puddle of his own blood, which left his body just as fast as breath and life left his heart. The woman held the dying husband in her arms, his skin slowly growing colder. As he was taken into an ambulance, she caressed his hair, praying to God that He would give him a fast death; she knew he would not come out of it alive, and only wished for his pain to cease. He tried to speak but only gargled fleshy blood.

He was dead on arrival.

A woman fed her young son breakfast while her husband sat on a chair, fiddling with his guitar. He had woken up in the middle of the night for some reason, sweating and fearing something had just disappeared. He didn’t think any more of it, seeing wife and son were still in the house, and went back to sleep. But something felt oddly wrong.

The phone rang, and the little boy ran to pick it up. After a few words, he gave the phone to his father. –Daddy, it’s for you…- He grinned.

When he took the phone from the boy, he immediately recognised the voice of the woman on the other end. His best friend was dead.

How many people had he lost already? His mother, his father, his friend in college, his friend and manager, and now his best buddy…

He put the phone down and glared into the haze.

- Yoko? - He stared helplessly at her. –Paul is dead! Someone shot him in the back in New York!

No tears came from his eyes. Just a look of angst and confusion as he suddenly tore himself off the couch with his guitar tightly clenched in his hand. He stampeded into the studio before the bewildered eyes of his wife. After slamming the door shut, he threw the guitar on the leather couch and paced back and forth. His reflection on the glass of the isolation room stared back at him while he desperately clung to what little sanity he had gained after years of self-searching.

- Can’t be… Can’t be fuckin’ true…- He suddenly stopped and stared at his surroundings. His studio, his perfect little home… All the things he possessed were there because he happened to stumble upon that young and talented little boy when he was young. He pondered in seconds what would have been of him and his plans for fame and glory had Paul not shown up at the parish fete, or had Paul not brought George to him to show off how well the little kid could play. All the madness of Beatlemania, all the private jokes, the good and the bad times… The pain and hurt caused when the band split, and all the mean things they had said to each other… It all landed on him like a ton of cannon balls.

Without warning, he picked up his guitar and smashed it against the control panel. He almost literally took the room apart while he released the anger this was causing him. Only once had they spoken nicely to each other since the split, and it was because Paul had called him. And the other time Paul had tried to reach him, he had rudely shown him the door, telling him –This is not Liverpool. You can’t just show yerself here like it was the good old days. - And now, he was gone. Not a chance to say he was sorry, not a moment to say how much he loved him. Too much pride had gotten in his way, and now, he was dead, gone forever.

The music room became a wreck that was minimal compared to his soul. He slid down the wall in a corner, and memories became so loud it was deafening. Stealing cigarettes from a store, moaning about a dank and dark room in Germany, smiling wisely at each other over a song line with a sexual innuendo, too daring for it’s time. A smile, a laughter… A lawsuit and a brick flying through a window. A sad man fighting to hold things together while the rest decidedly tore it all apart. A troublesome statement on TV, a fistfight over nothing, a giggle or two over a toke. A clean old man, a demented eastern priest, a vacuum monster and the fight between his friend and the band’s guitarist captured on film. An insult, a compliment, a ram and a pig. A fairy tale taking a tailspin down into hell… and no chance to say goodbye.

Tears slowly began to slide down like silver lines. – Why? – He whispered to himself. – Bloody fuckin’ hell, Paul… why?

He stepped out of the studio, thinking it had been a few minutes, only to realise three hours had gone by. He sat by his wife’s side to hear the news. It was all over the place. The world seemed to have stopped over the death of a Beatle.

John fought the tears, but they kept shining every time his friend’s face was shown alive and healthy on the screen. A disease would have been explanatory, maybe also an accident. But shot by a madman? What sense was there in that?

With Paul gone, there was no chance of sorting old grudges out. John had already forgiven him. Both had already started to communicate again. But there was still such a long way to go, and now the job would be left unfinished. Paul had died thinking his best friend didn’t care about him. He had been wrong, but John would never be able to tell him that now. It was no longer just a rumour caused by silly clues on album covers; Paul was dead.

John stared at the TV one more time. He was shown there, radiant and happy. Good looking, handsome sad eyes shone as he held his three-year-old boy and spoke to the cameras. A warm, mousy grin, a fine little nose and raven black hair on snow white skin, curled eyelashes blinking alive, the voice and the music… All had gone in minutes. For what? What had been the point?

John swallowed hard, stood up and went into his room. He picked up a notebook and began to write a letter. It was a letter addressed to his now dead friend.

Paul:

If I could have found words earlier, I would have said them. You know me, I was always good at saying things on the spot. But when it came to feelings, I was just as hard as you were… Hard and proud. Dear Paul, it has taken this to make me see what we had. Unlike you, brother, I’ll end up drinking Brandy Alexanders in hell for being such an obnoxious tosser. You will never read this, but I hope you’ll read what’s in my heart, mate. I love you, my brother in arms and the other mighty soldier in the four-headed Beatle-battle. Even if we were not fighting together any more, it was always four. But now, four has gone down to three… I love you, man. And I’m sorry for letting things wind up until it was too late. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I laughed at you. I’m sorry I called you a pig, and I’m sorry I failed to be there for you when the band began to fall apart. I’m sorry I was blinded to your efforts. I’m sorry I pushed you to take the first step in tearing it all apart when you were the last person who wanted it. I’m sorry I put my foot through the painting I had made for you and I’m sorry I threw that brick through your window when you failed to show up at the studio. I’m so sorry I threw you out of my home when you were only trying to make amends. I’m sorry I didn’t give you a chance.
But I’m not sorry for everything, you know… I’m not sorry I met you. I’m not sorry I let you into my life. I’m not sorry you were the only person who saw me cry when my mum died, and I’m not sorry you chose me as a shoulder to cry on for the same reason. I’m not sorry to have let you be in the band, or to have allowed you to bring George in. I’m not sorry about the days at your house, smoking tea and playing your dad’s piano, or the afternoons kipping on Eleanor Rigby’s gravestone.
It was an honour to have known you and to have worked with you. But more than that, Paul... It was an honour, a pleasure and the best thing in my life to have had you as my best friend in the world. You always were, are and will be my baby brother, Beatle Paul, the cute Beatle, and the creative Beatle, the man without whom this Johnny Beatle would have played banjo chords on his guitar for the rest of his days.
I’m not afraid to say it now, mate. I love you. Thank you, Paul, for having given me the honour of being a part of your life.
Love from your friend and brother, Long Johnny Silver.
PS: I’m sorry about your window and the brick, man. I’ll pay you back if I don’t go to hell.

Once he was done with it, he folded it up, put it in an envelope, addressed to "Paulie McCoombie, Beatle and Brother" and pressed it to his chest, as he wept alone in his room. He felt alone again.

After a few minutes of silent weeping, he threw the letter into the fireplace, hoping the smoke would carry the words he had embedded on paper. He knew that if there was an afterlife, Paul would surely be listening to the words his heart was screaming out so loud.

- Farewell, Macca…- John cried as he picked up his guitar. –See you sometime, mate…

And John wondered…

What if it had been him instead of Paul?