John couldn’t sleep.
All night long, that awful video, the sound of those gunshots, kept playing through his head. John tossed and turned, and whenever he did fall into an uneasy sleep, the memories would get worse, and he had troubled dreams in which he was actually killed, o that one of his mates tried to save him and was killed instead, and he would wake up again in a cold sweat.
It seemed like morning would never come, but eventually it did, bringing with it its own set of problems. The last thing John wanted to do was to leave the house and face his mates, possibly endangering them, o just getting into another fight with them when he might not have much time left. Really, all he wanted to do was lie back down and try to get some real sleep. But today the Beatles had a recording session scheduled at Abbey Road. These days, the Beatles had been recording più and più on their own, e-mailing each other the different tracks and having George Martin put it all together on his computer, but today Paul had gone and scheduled them a recording session all together. His mates would definitely know something was wrong if John didn’t go.
“Morning, John,” detto Paul cheerfully, as John slowly made his was into the studio a little while later.
John tried to say hi back, but it came out as più of a small, indistinct noise.
“I’ve got a lot of plans for today,” Paul went on. “I think we can get through our successivo two songs if we put our minds to it. It’ll be much faster if we’re all in. And then I’ve got some ideas for a new project, I’ll tell te all about it when....”
John barely nodded. He wanted to say something about all this, maybe tease Paul a little bit, but his cuore wasn’t in it. All he could think about was Hazel’s warning and the fact that he might soon be murdered.
“John?” Paul’s voice broke into John’s thoughts. “Did te hear me?”
“What?” John glanced up. He’d slipped into his thoughts about that video again, and had completely Lost track of what Paul was saying.
Paul frowned. “What’s gotten into you, John?”
John was spared having to answer da George and Ringo, who came into the studio chatting about breakfast. “She does make good bangers and mash, I could go for more.”
“Hi, John,” Ringo said. John tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage. He was going to die soon... Something of his thoughts must have shown in his face, because Ringo frowned.
“Well, if you’re not glad to see me....”
“Don’t be silly.” John tried to smile lightly, but it came out più like a grimace.
George looked at John intently. “Are te all right, John?”
“Course I’m all right!” detto John, a little too insistently. “Where do te get off thinking I’m not? Come on, we’ve got a lot of recording to do if we’re gonna do everything Paul thinks we’ll have time for.”
This seemed to satisfy his mates for the moment, and the Beatles took their instruments and began to play, but John couldn’t focus. He kept hearing those gunshots in his head, and his mind would wander to that dark place reminding him he was about to die, and then his hands would slip from his chitarra strings and successivo thing he knew, his mates would be halfway through the secondo verse and he had stopped playing at the beginning of the chorus.
“Stop, stop!” cried Paul, setting his basso down. “We can’t record like this! John, you’re not with us.”
Ringo glanced nervously between John and Paul, clearly expecting John to snap back and another argument to break out. George stood absolutely still, frowning, but it was clear he expected trouble too. John just stared at Paul for a minute, then slowly took off his chitarra and wandered over to an amplifier. He sat down with his back to his mates without a word. Paul was right. He was ruining their whole record da recitazione this way. His thoughts were eating away at him from the inside, but he couldn't tell his mates and worry o endanger them, he just couldn't....
A small, ring-laden hand touched John’s shoulder. He looked up. “What’s with you, John love?” Ringo said. “You’re not actin’ like yourself.”
John looked up into Ringo’s wide, innocent blue eyes, and shook his head. I can’t tell him, he thought sadly. I can’t.
“He’s right, te know,” singsonged George. “You’ve hardly detto a word. te haven’t made fun of anything o argued about what Paul detto o any of it.”
“I didn’t say anythin’ he’d want to argue about!” protested Paul.
John closed his eyes, feeling the burden swelling up inside him. “Nothing is wrong.”
“Of course something’s wrong!” Paul insisted. “Why won’t te tell us?”
“Are te mad at us?” wondered Ringo. “Why won’t te talk to us?”
“We can help te if te tell us,” George advised him. “Otherwise you’ll just be actin’ like this all day....”
“Come on, we’re your mates!” Ringo encouraged him. “Although we have been fighting a lot....”
“You can still tell us anything,” finished Paul. “We’re your mates. Come on, Johnny.”
John looked up at where his mates were now surrounding him, Ringo with his hand still on John’s shoulder, Paul with his eyes wide still looking like he was about to say something, and George with his calm, intense brown stare. All three were looking at John with expressions of concern, waiting for him to confide in them, ready to help no matter what might be happening, and a rush of affection flooded through John, crashing through the barriers he had put up around his horrible burden.
“I can’t tell you,” he said.
Three faces fell with disappointment.
“Hazel and this Mark David Chapman’ll have to do that,” John went on, and he stood up and pulled out his cell phone.
“Who are Hazel and Mark David Chapman?” asked Ringo with a puzzled frown.
“Can’t describe those two with the same word, son,” detto John as he brought his email onto the phone screen. He tapped on his conversation with Hazel to open it. “There, read that.”
Ringo, Paul, and George gathered round and scanned the words John and Hazel had exchanged.
“What does she mean, he’s going to kill you?” demanded Paul, fuoco in his eyes. “She can’t be serious!” He nearly snatched the phone from John as he tapped on the link to Chapman’s video.
John had already seen it, and didn't really need the pain of seeing it again, but he couldn’t help himself. His eyes were drawn to it, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as those bullets hit his cardboard image. Unconsciously he wrapped his arms round himself as if to shield himself from those very bullets.
The video ended. There was a long silence broken da Paul.
“We won’t let him,” he declared. “He can’t go round trying to kill our mate!”
“He won’t get near you,” vowed Ringo. “If he tries, we’ll mostra him a thing o two!” For just a minute, he resembled the teddy boy John and his bandmates had been frightened of when they first met him in Germany.
George detto nothing, but the disgusted frown he aimed at the now-blank phone screen, and the way he squeezed John’s shoulder, spoke volumes.
John had the sudden irrational urge to tell his mates how much this meant to him. Don’t be soft, he scolded himself. “How are te going to stop him?” he asked instead. “He can just kill te too, can’t he?” He tried to keep his voice steady as he detto this.
“He won’t kill us,” detto Paul with determination. “And he won’t kill te either. We’ll think of something. We’re the Beatles; we can do anything!”
And he detto it with such conviction that John couldn’t help but trust him.
All night long, that awful video, the sound of those gunshots, kept playing through his head. John tossed and turned, and whenever he did fall into an uneasy sleep, the memories would get worse, and he had troubled dreams in which he was actually killed, o that one of his mates tried to save him and was killed instead, and he would wake up again in a cold sweat.
It seemed like morning would never come, but eventually it did, bringing with it its own set of problems. The last thing John wanted to do was to leave the house and face his mates, possibly endangering them, o just getting into another fight with them when he might not have much time left. Really, all he wanted to do was lie back down and try to get some real sleep. But today the Beatles had a recording session scheduled at Abbey Road. These days, the Beatles had been recording più and più on their own, e-mailing each other the different tracks and having George Martin put it all together on his computer, but today Paul had gone and scheduled them a recording session all together. His mates would definitely know something was wrong if John didn’t go.
“Morning, John,” detto Paul cheerfully, as John slowly made his was into the studio a little while later.
John tried to say hi back, but it came out as più of a small, indistinct noise.
“I’ve got a lot of plans for today,” Paul went on. “I think we can get through our successivo two songs if we put our minds to it. It’ll be much faster if we’re all in. And then I’ve got some ideas for a new project, I’ll tell te all about it when....”
John barely nodded. He wanted to say something about all this, maybe tease Paul a little bit, but his cuore wasn’t in it. All he could think about was Hazel’s warning and the fact that he might soon be murdered.
“John?” Paul’s voice broke into John’s thoughts. “Did te hear me?”
“What?” John glanced up. He’d slipped into his thoughts about that video again, and had completely Lost track of what Paul was saying.
Paul frowned. “What’s gotten into you, John?”
John was spared having to answer da George and Ringo, who came into the studio chatting about breakfast. “She does make good bangers and mash, I could go for more.”
“Hi, John,” Ringo said. John tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage. He was going to die soon... Something of his thoughts must have shown in his face, because Ringo frowned.
“Well, if you’re not glad to see me....”
“Don’t be silly.” John tried to smile lightly, but it came out più like a grimace.
George looked at John intently. “Are te all right, John?”
“Course I’m all right!” detto John, a little too insistently. “Where do te get off thinking I’m not? Come on, we’ve got a lot of recording to do if we’re gonna do everything Paul thinks we’ll have time for.”
This seemed to satisfy his mates for the moment, and the Beatles took their instruments and began to play, but John couldn’t focus. He kept hearing those gunshots in his head, and his mind would wander to that dark place reminding him he was about to die, and then his hands would slip from his chitarra strings and successivo thing he knew, his mates would be halfway through the secondo verse and he had stopped playing at the beginning of the chorus.
“Stop, stop!” cried Paul, setting his basso down. “We can’t record like this! John, you’re not with us.”
Ringo glanced nervously between John and Paul, clearly expecting John to snap back and another argument to break out. George stood absolutely still, frowning, but it was clear he expected trouble too. John just stared at Paul for a minute, then slowly took off his chitarra and wandered over to an amplifier. He sat down with his back to his mates without a word. Paul was right. He was ruining their whole record da recitazione this way. His thoughts were eating away at him from the inside, but he couldn't tell his mates and worry o endanger them, he just couldn't....
A small, ring-laden hand touched John’s shoulder. He looked up. “What’s with you, John love?” Ringo said. “You’re not actin’ like yourself.”
John looked up into Ringo’s wide, innocent blue eyes, and shook his head. I can’t tell him, he thought sadly. I can’t.
“He’s right, te know,” singsonged George. “You’ve hardly detto a word. te haven’t made fun of anything o argued about what Paul detto o any of it.”
“I didn’t say anythin’ he’d want to argue about!” protested Paul.
John closed his eyes, feeling the burden swelling up inside him. “Nothing is wrong.”
“Of course something’s wrong!” Paul insisted. “Why won’t te tell us?”
“Are te mad at us?” wondered Ringo. “Why won’t te talk to us?”
“We can help te if te tell us,” George advised him. “Otherwise you’ll just be actin’ like this all day....”
“Come on, we’re your mates!” Ringo encouraged him. “Although we have been fighting a lot....”
“You can still tell us anything,” finished Paul. “We’re your mates. Come on, Johnny.”
John looked up at where his mates were now surrounding him, Ringo with his hand still on John’s shoulder, Paul with his eyes wide still looking like he was about to say something, and George with his calm, intense brown stare. All three were looking at John with expressions of concern, waiting for him to confide in them, ready to help no matter what might be happening, and a rush of affection flooded through John, crashing through the barriers he had put up around his horrible burden.
“I can’t tell you,” he said.
Three faces fell with disappointment.
“Hazel and this Mark David Chapman’ll have to do that,” John went on, and he stood up and pulled out his cell phone.
“Who are Hazel and Mark David Chapman?” asked Ringo with a puzzled frown.
“Can’t describe those two with the same word, son,” detto John as he brought his email onto the phone screen. He tapped on his conversation with Hazel to open it. “There, read that.”
Ringo, Paul, and George gathered round and scanned the words John and Hazel had exchanged.
“What does she mean, he’s going to kill you?” demanded Paul, fuoco in his eyes. “She can’t be serious!” He nearly snatched the phone from John as he tapped on the link to Chapman’s video.
John had already seen it, and didn't really need the pain of seeing it again, but he couldn’t help himself. His eyes were drawn to it, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as those bullets hit his cardboard image. Unconsciously he wrapped his arms round himself as if to shield himself from those very bullets.
The video ended. There was a long silence broken da Paul.
“We won’t let him,” he declared. “He can’t go round trying to kill our mate!”
“He won’t get near you,” vowed Ringo. “If he tries, we’ll mostra him a thing o two!” For just a minute, he resembled the teddy boy John and his bandmates had been frightened of when they first met him in Germany.
George detto nothing, but the disgusted frown he aimed at the now-blank phone screen, and the way he squeezed John’s shoulder, spoke volumes.
John had the sudden irrational urge to tell his mates how much this meant to him. Don’t be soft, he scolded himself. “How are te going to stop him?” he asked instead. “He can just kill te too, can’t he?” He tried to keep his voice steady as he detto this.
“He won’t kill us,” detto Paul with determination. “And he won’t kill te either. We’ll think of something. We’re the Beatles; we can do anything!”
And he detto it with such conviction that John couldn’t help but trust him.
