January/February 1970
Paul

I leaned against the door of the spare bedroom, watching Alice scribbling something in a notebook. For the past month, she had spent the majority of her time in her makeshift home office poring over old issues of Vogue and Women's Wear Daily .

"What're you working on?" I asked, pushing off the door and walking further into the room.

"Have you ever heard of Gertrude Moran?" she asked, not looking up from her notebook. Her hair was beginning to grow out and just barely skimmed her shoulders clad in a silky dressing gown. "The American tennis player."

"Errr... no?"

I bent down to kiss her shoulder and tried to peer over to see what she was writing. But she was much more clever than me and closed the notebook before I could take a look.

"The press called her Gorgeous Gussie," she continued. "But that's not important-- what's important is that she essentially created the mini skirt as we know it today. "

"I... wasn't aware of that," I replied. "But I love that you are."

"She played in the 1949 Wimbledon Championships and asked an American designer to create a more feminine take on whatever tennis players wore at the time. So he created a white fitted dress with a short skirt -- practically indecent for the time. The press went crackers for her and her skirt, but she was banned from Wimbledon for bringing indecency to the sport."

I once again tried to peer over her shoulder. "Is that what you're working on, then?"

Alice looked up, raised an eyebrow and then pivoted topics, holding up a copy of The Daily Mail. "Have you seen this?"

I squinted, barely making out the bold-faced headline: All You Need is... Solitude? Macca's Mysterious Vanishing Act. Beneath it was a photograph from me in Scotland in which, to be fair, I did look a bit barmy. My hair was too long, my beard was insane, and my eyes looked a little too intense, mostly because I had been wickedly hungover and trying not to show it.

"Fucking hell, what're they writing now?" I asked.

I debated ringing Derek to ask him to put out another statement that I was alive and well and spending time with my family, but that necessitated actually talking to Derek and I couldn't be bothered communicating with anyone at Apple.

Alice cleared her throat and began to read.

"Beatle Paul McCartney has been conspicuously absent from the public eye for months, leading fans to worry about the future of Britain's beloved mop-tops."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, yeah, absolutely absent. Is that relative to John and Yoko? Should you and we cut our hair in public, do you think? Plant some acorns? Put up adverts all over the place declaring that war is over if we deem it to be so? Fuck's sake, man. Anyway, all they've gotta do is talk to the gate birds... they know I'm not absent. I'm here all bloody day."

Alice raised an eyebrow. "Don't worry, they did." She looked down at the paper and continued to read. "Devoted fans camped outside his residence report that on the rare occasions they've caught a glimpse of the star, he's seemed uncharacteristically glum and withdrawn."

The buzzer rang five or six times, no doubt one of those little fuckers who had ratted me out of the press.

"Glum and withdrawn?" I exclaimed. "Certainly not the most chipper, sure, but glum? I've never been glum in me life."

Alice didn't respond, just continued to read. "With tensions already rumored to be high within the Fab Four, one can't help but wonder: is this the beginning of the end for the Beatles?"

"Fuck's sake," I muttered again, walking to the window that overlooked the street where at least a dozen girls were standing around.
Catherine -- who was blonde and curvy but had an annoyingly high voice -- was pushing the buzzer, which rang downstairs after a two-second delay. Lina, who was from Dusseldorf and used to stand with the Apple Scruffs before migrating to my gate, tried to get her to stop pressing it. Then they both looked up to see me peering out, so I quickly ducked out of sight even as all the girls started to call my name.

"Glum and withdrawn," I muttered, walking back to where Alice was sitting. "Yeah, well, I'm heading to the studio. Shouldn't be too late, I'll probably be back by 1 or 2."

She looked up. "That's tonight?"

I nodded. "We're working on George's song... we weren't going to include it, but Michael sent Neil some edits of the film and I guess the song featured heavily in it, so we gotta add that and one of John's songs too."

"Isn't John in Denmark?" she asked. "The papers said he and Yoko are there visiting her daughter. "

"Yeah, well... we have some masters of Across the Universe from when we first recorded it in '68, so they're going to do something with those. That one's above my pay grade."

She was silent for a moment, staring toward the window where the birds were still chattering loudly. Paaaaaauuuul!!!!

"Does it bother you?" she asked. "That he said what he said and then fucked off and you're once again cleaning up his mess?"

I shrugged. "Not really cleaning up his mess, am I? We're contractually bound to get this last film out, so it would be a waste not to have a soundtrack to go along with it. Not that I'll ever see any money from it since it all goes to fucking Apple and never seems to make it to our bank account."

Alice gave me a look like she didn't agree but wasn't going to push it, likely because she didn't want me to become glum and withdrawn again. I bent down to kiss the top of her head, and walked down the corridor to poke my head into Louise's bedroom to see her sleeping calmly in the cot. I was halfway down the stairs when she called my name.

"Do you want to walk with us tomorrow? Lou and my father, I mean. We're leaving around 10."

This was the other way that Alice spent her time: pushing Louise in a pram all over London. They'd go on walks for hours. Sometimes Lord Edwards would join, which I couldn't tell if Alice liked or dreaded. I'd tagged along once out of curiosity and 90% of the walk had been in silence. The only time her dad said anything was to point to trees and explain their significance. Ah, a great oak tree -- otherwise known as Quercus robur. Many deciduous species are marcescent. When I'd asked what "marescent" meant, he'd given me a withering look and I'd made up an excuse to peel off to visit a guitar shop nearby.

"Nah," I replied to Alice. "I'll pass."

It was colder outside than I expected, reminding me of the night at my dad's when Mike and I had taken bets on whether the river would freeze. My woolen coat from the charity shop didn't do much to cut the chill and I wished I'd worn a scarf as I pushed open the gate and walked out into the crowd of girls.

"'Night, girls," I said, not stopping as I shoved the gate closed and turned in the direction of EMI. "Oh, and don't talk to the fucking papers."

"It wasn't us!" One of them -- probably Kylie from San Diego based on her accent -- cried like I'd accused her of being an ax murderer. I didn't reply, just kept walking as I raised a hand high in the air without looking back.

When I arrived at the studio, I reveled in the feeling of calm that overtook me as I walked down the stairs of Studio Two. Ringo was already there, reading The Andromeda Strain while he mindlessly tapped his thigh with his free hand. His beard was absolutely enormous but somehow counterbalanced the lilac vest and bright blue shirt that he wore.

"Hey, man," I said, placing my guitar case on the floor next to my favorite wooden chair. Usually, I would walk over and clap his back in a friendly way, but I hadn't decided if he was friend or foe. He was less of a twat than George and certainly not as guilty as John, but he'd sided with them about Klein, so couldn't be fully trusted.

He looked up and a genuine smile spread across his face, making me doubt the mistrust I felt. He began to talk animatedly about his upcoming trip to Los Angeles with Maureen, wanting to know if I thought it was worth staying an extra night to see The Allman Brothers Band at Whisky A Go Go. I replied that I couldn't decide if I'd liked their debut record and he countered with the fact that Theo Dormer has called it "subtle, honest and moving." I didn't want to spend more time than necessary thinking about that smarmy fucker, so we agreed that it was probably worth an extra night and, besides, it was always a good time at The Whisky.

I was in the middle of working out a harmony with Mr. Martin when George arrived, muttering apologies for being late. He'd shaved off his beard but kept the long hair, making him look more hippieish than he probably intended. He also wore a vest and shirt, making me feel underdressed in a plain black t-shirt, but it was all I could be arsed to put on for this session.

We were there to finish "I, Me, Mine" for the new record. I didn't love the track, but no one had asked for my opinion. In fact, it had been made evident that my opinion wasn't welcome. George said the song was something to do with egoism and the Bhagavad Gita but I couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with me. Comin' on strong all the time. Anyway, we were there to record the rhythm track with guiding vocals, which was easy enough.

It was around Take 15 when we segued into Buddy Holly's "Peggy Sue Got Married," which ended in a 15-minute jam session that reminded me how well it all worked when it was working. How incredible, to know three other people so well that it can all flow seamlessly. I glanced over at Ringo and could tell he felt it too, and George probably did too even if he'd never admit it.

"That's a groove," Ringo said, hitting the hi-hat with a flourish as I played a final bass chord. "Reminds me a bit of Xanadu... you know, Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich's song."

"I always wonder if they get tired of saying their name," I said. "It's a real mouthful, isn't it? Do they ever reverse the order, do you think? Use an acronym amongst themselves?"

"I always wonder why they nicked our Sergeant Pepper look for their Xanadu promo film," Ringo added. "I wonder about that often."

I nodded. "They did, didn't they."

Mr. Martin called down that they were ready for Take 16. George leaned close to his mic, glancing at me as he spoke.

"You all will have read that Dave Dee is no longer with us. But Mickey and Tich and I would just like to carry on the good work that's always gone down in number two."

He gave me a sly look, which was the first time in a long time that I felt like maybe we were on the same team.

"What Dozy says goes for me and Tich," I said into my mic in a silly, posh voice.

Nervous laughter ensued since it was the first time we had acknowledged that John had left the band. Or that we were in the studio while he was in bloody Denmark. I wondered what they thought about it. Ringo had seemed relieved at the time, but less so now. George was unreadable, but he seemed to love being on tour with his friends so maybe he was done with us as well.

I motioned up to the engineer to cut the tape.

"Do you..." I trailed off for a moment, then plunged ahead, masking the hesitation with a well-timed cough. "Do you think it's really finished? All of this, I mean."

"Dunno," Ringo replied. "Everything feels up in the air, doesn't it."

George nodded. "And the bloody papers don't help. Can't go a day without a snapper in my face asking if we're splitting up. I'm tired of it, man. If one more person calls me a mop-top, I'll strangle 'em."

Ringo nodded toward me. "They called Paul a mop-top just today. Sympathies, man."

I smiled weakly. No, the papers weren't helping but neither was either of them.

"Maybe John just needs some time," Ringo suggested. "Surely all the bed-ins will get old? He's never been one to stick with the same thing for too long."

I shrugged and said something non-committal -- yeah, bed-ins, man -- because I realized that I didn't want to give any more of my time to wait around.

"We need a bit more reverb on your amp, Paul," Mr. Martin called through the speaker on the wall, likely his way of nicely telling us to get on with it. Both the engineer and Glyn Johns were in the booth, so it wasn't like we were in a Beatles Confessional, safe from listening ears.

"Yeah, sure," I agreed as I reached over to fiddle with the dial on the amp and then strummed a chord. "Is that better?"

"Peachy," Mr. Martin replied.

"Shall we get on with it?" George asked, looking at Ringo and then at me. I knew he was referring to Track 16, but it also felt like he was asking another question entirely.

"Yeah," I replied. "Yeah, we should."

The next day, I stood in the living room surveying my homemade studio. It had been in the spare room, but the acoustics had been too dry so I'd moved everything downstairs. The acoustics were still a bit shit, which made me wonder if I needed a smaller room -- not a bigger one. But we didn't have a smaller room unless I took over the larder, and Mrs B would have a fit.

I tapped the tom-tom experimentally, but it still didn't have the sound I was after. I debated calling Mal to see if he could sort out a new kit, but everything with him felt a bit weird. He was like the child in the divorce, being asked to placate both sides. It felt unfair to enlist his help in a secret project since Apple was paying his wages. Alice had suggested that I hire him myself, but I feared that would cause the unbearable strain between the four of us to become an all-out war.

I called for Alice, who appeared a few minutes later wearing black trousers and a fluffy-looking jumper. Her hair was tied back with a velvet ribbon and she looked so bloody lovely.

"Should I book time at a studio, do you think?" I asked, still looking at the tom-tom as if it were to blame that it sounded awful in a large room with shit acoustics and gate birds chattering and buzzers buzzing.

"Oh," she said, her eyes brightening at the mention of me doing something productive. Then, just as quickly, her expression smoothed over. "I dunno, should you?"

"Well, if I'm going to make a proper go of it, I should. I don't even have a bloody mixer... all the levels will be fucked. Though maybe it'll come off as something new and different? No, it'll come off as amateurish. Like I'm fucking useless without the other three and Mr. Martin. As if I haven't produced loads of tracks before."

Alice didn't say anything, just looked at me with a hint of silent encouragement on her face.

"Yeah, you're right," I said. "It's better to book a studio... will you call around?"

Her brow furrowed. "Oh... you want me to? I don't know any of them... isn't that something Mal or Neil should do?"

I shook my head. "Nah, I don't want anyone knowing about it."

After some back-and-forth about how she wasn't my secretary, Alice finally relented and phoned a few studios. We decided she'd use the name Billy Martin, an American baseball player who happened to be on the front page of the day's paper. We didn't try EMI or Trident, for obvious reasons, but instead started with smaller studios further afield. But they were all booked.

"Mr. Martin is quite pressed for time," Alice said into the receiver using her stewardess's voice. "Oh, yes, I see. April? Goodness, that's a long lead time."

I gave her a look like I was a bloody Beatle and should be able to command studio time anytime I wanted. She rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the phone.

"You've never heard of Mr. Martin?"

"Tell them I'm important," I hissed as Alice covered the phone receiver with her hand. "I haven't had to wait for studio time in seven years."

Another eye roll as she uncovered the receiver. "Well, he's quite important in some countries... what do you mean, what countries?"

"That's offensive!" I hissed. "Who are they to deny an up-and-coming artist studio time?"

We finally managed to book a week at Morgan Studios in Willesden, but it wasn't until mid-February. Still, it was something that gave me a deep sense of accomplishment. I always worked well under a deadline, so if I was going to record an album in a week then I better get cracking so I had material to record.

The papers reported that John and Yoko flew back to London a few weeks later. I couldn't decide if I wanted him to try to make contact, or if I preferred the radio silence that had dominated our relationship for months. I still had no idea what I'd say to him whenever we inevitably spoke even though it was inevitable. There was no way we could live out the rest of our lives without untangling ourselves, at least legally and financially, much like Alice was doing with Zarby. But how could one untangle oneself from a person whose life was so closely interwoven? Was it even possible?

In mid-January, the London Arts Gallery opened a two-week exhibition featuring John's sketches called Bag One. Mal reported back that many of them were of Yoko and John nude and wondered why they were so keen on everyone seeing their bits. The police must've agreed because the gallery was raided the next day to confiscate eight of the 14 original drawings.

Toward the end of the month, Glyn Johns called looking for feedback on his second attempt at mixing Let It Be. During the brief conversation, he let it drop that John and Yoko had recorded a song at EMI the previous day. Apparently, John had written, recorded, and mixed the song in one day. George had played guitar and Phil Spector had produced it.

"What's it called?" I asked.

"Instant Karma."

Ten days later, the record was available for purchase and it took all my willpower not to go buy a copy. I spent the morning writing a new song and then joined Alice and her father for their afternoon constitutional. Ahh, the platanus hybrida. They were considered quite sacred in Ancient Greece. But, despite my best efforts, the record made its way into my life anyway.

Alice and I were eating dinner after putting Louise to bed when there was a commotion at the gate.

"You're not meant to do that!" a girl cried.

"Bugger off!" came an unmistakable voice before a figure clamored up atop the gate then dropped to the ground with an audible thump. Alice and I looked at each other for a moment before we both jumped up.

"Hayes!" she called. "Are you mad? You can't jump over the gate like that."

"Isn't he meant to be in boarding school?" I muttered under my breath.

He stood up and brushed off his navy blue peacoat, looking like he was used to this sort of thing. "Auntie Alice! Hullo!"

They hugged and kissed and Martha, the traitor, ran out to jump on Hayes. I reluctantly offered a half-hug and he reluctantly accepted it.

Then we got down to the real business of why he was there.

"I got the last copy!" he exclaimed, pulling a record from beneath his coat. It was a cream cardboard cover: LENNON / INSTANT KARMA / APPLES 1003.

Alice glanced at me before offering a weak smile. "You're so kind to stop by, Hayes, but Paul and I were about to--"

She didn't get to finish her sentence because Hayes had already bounded into the house, no doubt headed for the record player in the living room. By the time we caught up with him, he was inspecting the drum kit and makeshift soundboard.

"What're you recording?" he asked, looking interested. He glanced around, following the wires from each instrument. "Do you not have a mixer?"

"Nothing, nothing," I replied hurriedly. "Just, you know, a little experiment... something for Ringo. Drums, y'know."

He shot me a dubious look and once again took a look around for the missing mixer before shaking his head like it was a lost cause. Then he walked over to the record player and took the vinyl from its cover. There was a detailed image of a green apple on the record -- my bloody apple from my bloody logo. The a-side read, LENNON/ONO. Below that: PLAY LOUD.

"What the deal with you lot and your apples?" Hayes asked. "It's like you're obsessed with fruit."

"It's to do with Magritte," I sputtered. "He's a surrealist and my mate, Robert Fraser, gave me one of his paintings with a green apple with au revoir written across it and--"

"I know who Magritte is," he replied dismissively as he put the vinyl onto the player. I looked at Alice helplessly because I really did not want to hear the track, but it seemed that the universe didn't much care about what I wanted.

"Hayes, perhaps we should--" she began.

There was a four-chord piano riff. Instant Karma's going to get you, going to knock you on the head. John's vocals started out simple but a sense of urgency became more evident as the song progressed. Spector's wall of sound was evident in the dense, reverb-heavy chorus, though it was more muddled than his earlier work. The guitar chord progressions were relatively simple, which John tended to be most comfortable with. It was poppy and sunshiney and deep, all at once, and I was deeply jealous that it had been conceived of and made in one day.

There was silence in the house for a few minutes when the track ended until, finally, the needle popped out of the groove.

"Well," Alice said, looking between me and Hayes like she was plotting an escape. "Does anyone fancy a cuppa?"

"I'll help," I said, putting a hand on the small of her back to propel her toward the kitchen. But before we could take more than a few steps, Hayes stopped us in our tracks.

"I want to like it," he said. "But I also can't help but wonder if it's mediocrity masquerading as profundity."

I tilted my head to one side. "The production's a bit muddy, I suppose."

He nodded. "Not Spector's best work."

"His best work is his Christmas record," we both said simultaneously, perhaps the first thing we'd ever agreed on. The production on that album was stupendous.

"Still..." he trailed off for a moment. "I think it'll do quite well, if only because most record buyers these days fancy themselves pseudo-philosophers and will really dig the idea of us all shining on like the moon and the stars and the sun."

"Whatever that means," I offered because, yeah, it was a bit of a lazy rhyme on John's part, though I'm not sure I could do any better.

"And..." he trailed off again and I wondered if he was envisioning the colors he'd seen. Then he turned to me, totally serious. "Is it weird for you that he's written this song about you?"

I stilled. "What? No, no, mate, it's not about me. I'm sure it's to do with a spiritual awakening, a sort of Eastern thing. Universal accountability -- karma, you know."

"I'm familiar with the concept," he said primly.

"Yes, well," I plowed on, making shit up as I went on. "So it's more of a social commentary, isn't it. All the social and political apathy we see now... how people should take action instead of just talking about taking action."

He looked at me and shrugged. "If you say so."

Hours later, Hayes had gone home but he was still in my head. While Alice and Louise slept soundly, I was holed up in the music room playing the record over and over, scribbling down the lyrics so I could better examine them. John tended to explore philosophical topics through his songs, but he also was more prone to write autobiographically. In other words:  it could just as easily be about actual karma as it could be about me.

Who in the world do you think you are? A superstar?

"Well, right you are," I said aloud, hearing the bitterness in my voice. "We all shine fucking on and on."

I lay on the floor of the music room for a long while staring at the ceiling. I could hear every creak in the floor, the wind whistling outside. I wondered if Yoko had helped with the lyrics. Had she suggested rhyming face with race? Had no one been in the room to say that "hit your back off your feet" didn't make sense? But how many times had I told John that a lyric hadn't made sense, and how many times had he laughingly told me that wasn't always the point?

Christ, I missed him.

After a long while, I raised my head to look at the clock on the wall. It was 2:45am, which in Beatles world was practically noon. If I was awake, then John was likely awake even though the invisible string between us had been shredded in half.

I let my head hit the carpetb and spent another few minutes staring at the ceiling. Then I reached one arm out to pull the telephone closer, yanking it a bit so that the cord would untangle. Propping myself up on one side, I picked up the receiver and dialed a number I'd memorized long ago.

Then I hung up because he'd changed that number long ago. None of us were able to keep the same phone number for more than a few months because the fans inevitably got ahold of it and made our lives miserable. It was a stroke of luck that any of our friends cared enough to keep track of our numbers, really.

I began to dig around in a drawer filled with receipts and loose change, certain that Mal had mentioned putting John's number in there. Finally, I found it.

Another look at the clock: it was nearly 3:30.

Fuck it.

John answered on the first ring.

"It's three thirty in the fucking morning," he said in a monotonous cadence and I wondered who he thought would be calling this late.

There was a pause because I couldn't bring myself to say anything.

"It's three thirty in the fucking morning," he repeated.

"Hey," I said. There was another long pause, this time a silence that felt uncomfortably loaded.

"Hey," he finally replied, his voice softer.

More silence.

"I liked your EP," I said. "Hayes brought it by for a listen. Keen track."

He groaned. "Oh, that little fucker, what did he think?"

"He loved it," I replied.

"No, he fucking didn't," John replied, sounding like he was fighting off a smile.

"He said it was a standout track." I was also fighting off a grin. "Said it has anthemic qualities... thought-provoking yet accessible."

He laughed and I closed my eyes, having forgotten how much I loved the sound of his laugh especially when I'd been the one to earn it.

"What'd he really say?"

I shrugged. "Oh, you know... the usual."

"Ploddy rhythm?"

"Muddy production."

We both laughed and, for a moment, it was like the past year hadn't happened. But then, a few seconds later, we remembered.

"Anyway, just wanted to say congrats and all that," I said in what I hoped was a breezy manner. "And all in a day."

Another pause.

"What've you been up to?" he asked. "Never read about you anymore, except for the fact that no one knows what you're up to."

"Bloody papers," is all I replied.

"Writing anything?"

"Here and there."

Another pause, this time longer as my eyes darted around the room like there was a script that might tell me what to say.

"We've really fucked this up," John said. "All of it, man."

He didn't say it with regret, more like a fact. Like he regretted it was a fact but it was a fact nonetheless.

"Yeah," I replied. "We have."

There was a rustle on the line like he was covering the receiver with his hand. I heard Yoko's voice vaguely in the background for a moment before the rustling stopped and John was back.

"I gotta go," he said. "Ta for the call."

"Congrats on the record," I said. "Ten-ten."

A little laugh. "Ten-ten, man."

The line was silent as I held it against my ear long after the click indicated that the connection had ended. Then an angry buzzing from the receiver -- the call's over, you twat -- made me wince as I hastily replaced it on the handset.