The Movement You Need

The Movement You Need

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The black guitar laid seductively across the hotel bed like a curled-up sleeping woman. For a moment, it reminded Paul McCartney of Linda, but then, everything reminded him of her. His talk at the animal welfare meeting this evening had been hell, with every expression of sympathy afterwards reminding him he had to spend the rest of his life without her. Even music couldn’t fill the void, and an empty life wasn’t worth living.

He finished drying his hair and started to move the guitar when he realized two things: this wasn’t one of his guitars, and his blue jeans were under it. Someone had to have placed the instrument there while he was in the shower.

“Hello?” he called out cautiously, leaving the guitar where it was and picking up his discarded belt. It’d been years since a fan had managed to sneak into a hotel room of his; no matter how well-intentioned he or she was, he didn’t want to take any chances, not after John. “Is anyone there? Thanks for the gift, but I’ve plenty of me own guitars—”

He stopped as he glanced at the door. Under the white notice of the room rate, the chain stretched across the door crack, still in place.

Paul doubled up the belt in his left hand. He glanced around, but there was no place to hide in the room except for the closet. Silently, he padded over to the closet door and raised his belt. He yanked the closet door open –

Shirts and slacks, neatly hung on the hangers provided by the hotel. His suitcase on the luggage rack, lid open. A couple pairs of non-leather shoes on the floor. Nothing else.

Just to make sure, Paul crossed over to the window and pushed back the blinds. Directly beneath him was a busy street, illuminated by streaks of headlights and brightly-colored neon signs. There was no balcony where someone could hide or enter; the window wouldn’t even open.

He stood there for several minutes and looked down. Suppose he hurled the strange guitar through the glass, then followed it. What would it be like, falling twelve stories to crash on the concrete below? Would it hurt? Would death be certain, or would he be crippled? There was no point in taking that long step unless he knew Linda would be waiting….

No. If he went through with it, he wouldn’t do it so publicly. It wouldn’t be fair to his children anyway, depriving them of their father just months after losing their mother. Paul let the blinds fall back into place and turned back to the bed and its strange occupant.

It didn’t matter where the guitar had come from; it was here now. He supposed he ought to try it out, but without someone to play his love songs for, composing was a chore, not a joy. But the habit of work was strong, stronger than his fear that without Linda, music had lost its magic for him forever. Paul tugged his jeans out from under the solid guitar and put them back on, then pulled on a white T-shirt. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he picked up the guitar and examined it.

He’d assumed the guitar had been painted black, but as he looked at it closely, he could see the wood itself was black, blacker than ebony. No grains were visible on the smooth, unfinished boards. The craftsmanship was superb, though; everything fitted together snugly, and naturally the guitar had been strung for a left-hander. The black wool strap felt soft and strong. Oddly enough, there wasn’t a manufacturer’s name on the front of the guitar. Paul turned the instrument over, noticing a faint, myrrh-like scent coming off at his touch.

Silver script on the back of the guitar’s neck caught his eye. “Hephaestus,” he read aloud. The name sounded vaguely familiar; something out of Greek myth, he thought. “Never heard of a guitar maker named Hephaestus; must be new.”

Maybe this Greek guy wanted him to endorse his guitars publicly, but then why put his label on the back? Paul wasn’t inclined to offer endorsements anyway. Still, the guitar looked so good, it would be a shame not to play it. Paul put the strap over his shoulder, tuned the guitar, and started to strum “Calico Skies.”

The guitar body gave the notes a resonance unexpected in an acoustic guitar; the tone was unique, delightful, almost addicting. Paul hadn’t played more than a few bars, though, before the metal strings – real silver? – were slick with blood. “What the–?” He raised his callused, bloody fingers to his face and stared at them as if they had given offence. Those strings must be sharp; he hadn’t even felt the cuts—

Abruptly, they started to sting. Tiny bubbles of foam appeared along the cuts. At the same time, Paul’s vision blurred, and he felt light-headed.

Oh my God, I’ve been poisoned. He struggled to reach the bedside phone, an incredibly long two feet away, but before he could, the weight of the guitar pulled him face forward onto the beige carpet.

The carpet was hard, cold, and bumpy. Paul opened his eyes and stared at the gray stone beneath him. This wasn’t right. Neither his room back home nor his hotel room looked like this—

The heavy guitar strap over his shoulder pulled his mind back to clarity. Or what felt like clarity, anyway. He had to be having a flashback of some sort. But no hallucination he’d had before had been this … real. He even felt an assortment of body aches and pains from lying on the guitar and a hard surface.

Paul pushed himself to his feet and looked around him. He appeared to be in a giant cave, lit from above by some unknown source. The walls were perfectly smooth. The only exit was a tunnel leading downward. Having no choice, he followed it.

After a few hundred feet (shouldn’t he have reached the wall of the hotel room by now? a small, rational part of his mind asked), the rock beneath his feet was replaced by white sand. Water dripped from the walls and made the salty-smelling air humid. The tunnel widened, and a broad river appeared before him, cutting off his path.

He looked for a way to cross. The sand was disturbed, as if hundreds of people had been picnicking here moments before. They couldn’t have gone anywhere; the cave wasn’t that big. And they couldn’t have crossed the river, since there wasn’t a bridge. Paul walked down to the river and stared down at the water. It was utterly clean – a little too clean, as if nothing could grow in it. It looked deep, and he was sure it’d be cold; he certainly didn’t fancy a swim.

A sudden movement made him look up. A wooden boat of ancient design was making its way toward him. He backed off a couple of steps to give it room to land.

The boatsman who poled the boat to shore made Paul uneasy. He wore a hooded cloak that concealed everything except his hairy, muscled arms. Paul didn’t trust a man who wouldn’t show his face, but at the same time, he had a sense the only way out of this flashback was through it. Overriding his fears, he walked up to the boat and smiled. “Hello, I’m afraid I’m lost. Could you give me a bit of a lift, then?”

The hood slowly turned until it faced him. Paul still couldn’t make out the boatsman’s face, but he was relieved that at least there wasn’t a pair of glowing red eyes staring back at him. In perfect Queen’s English, the boatsman asked in a baritone voice, “Do you have the fare?”

Paul searched for his billfold. When he couldn’t find it, he remembered he had left it on the nightstand back at the hotel. If this were any decent sort of dream, he could imagine it into his hand….

Try as he might, it didn’t appear. “Er, could I just send it to you when I get back home?”

“Charon does not accept empty promises, only coins.” The hood dipped, as if Charon was looking him up and down. “Are you a musician?”

Paul bit off his impulse to ask Charon how long he’d been down here, that he didn’t know who he was. “I am,” he replied instead.

Paul cautiously ran his hands over the strings, but here the strings didn’t cut him. After a few quick bars to warm up, he launched into “Calico Skies.”

Charon stood absolutely still as Paul played. After he finished, the boatsman sighed. It sounded like a hollow wind blowing through a cathedral. “Your music is strange to my ear, musician, but most…pleasant. I have not heard your like among the ranks of the living since Orpheus.”

“Orpheus… that’s another Greek name.” He’d heard that name before somewhere; Paul idly played a few riffs while he tried to remember. Then it came to him: Orpheus was a mythical musician who had tried to rescue his dead wife from the Underworld. His playing had so moved the King and Queen of the Underworld that they had allowed him to lead his wife to freedom – as long as he didn’t look at her until they were back in the living world. But Orpheus couldn’t wait, and so he lost her a second time.

Paul stopped playing as he realized something else: Charon was the name of the boatman who ferried the souls of the dead to the Greek Underworld. This chap couldn’t be the same one, could he? Was this really just a flashback, or something more?

“Charon,” Paul asked, trying to sound casual, “what’s on the other side of the water?”

“Ignorant musician! This is the river of lamentation, surrounding the Underworld.”

“The Underworld!” The land of the dead. But of which dead? Just ancient Greeks, or everyone? “A few months ago, did you ferry the most beautiful woman in the world over? She’s my wife.”

“I ferry thousands of souls across this river every day; I cannot remember all of them. If you seek your wife, you will have to cross over with me and search yourself.”

Paul hesitated, torn between his longing to see Linda again and his fear he’d be trapped in the Underworld while he was still alive.

Charon leaned on his pole, hood facing Paul. “You must not love your wife very much, musician, if you will not even attempt to bring her back from the land of the dead.”

Paul stepped forward, fist in the air. “Now, look you, you don’t know me at all if you can even think such a thing….” He faltered, lowering his fist as the rest of Charon’s words sunk home. “You mean, it’s not just a myth? I really could bring Linda back?” Paul was sure he looked as flabbergasted as a fan too overwhelmed by meeting him to speak.

“If your music pleases Hades, the King of the Underworld, perhaps.” Charon’s pole slid into the clear water with a swish of ripples. “You keep me from my duties, musician. Decide quickly what you will do.”

This is all just a dream, or a flashback, a cruelly rational part of his mind reminded him. You can’t bring Linda back any more than you could your mother, or John….

“Oh, sod it!” Paul answered himself. “It doesn’t matter if it’s real or not, I still have to try!”

Paul half-pulled himself, half-climbed into the boat. The guitar made things awkward, but the boatsman made no move to help him. As soon as he was in, Charon pushed them away from the shore.

The interior of the boat was wide, flat, and empty. “You will have to stand,” Charon said after Paul asked for a seat. “I normally ferry many souls on a single trip, and seats would take up too much room. But perhaps if you play again, the trip will pass faster.”

Paul knew a hint when he heard one, and for Linda, he’d play his fingers to the bone. Adopting an Elvis-like stance to steady himself (which wasn’t necessary, as the boat rode more smoothly through the still water than any other he’d ever been on), he started to play whatever tunes came to his head.

Paul only played a couple of songs before the boat stopped, but he felt as tired as he did after playing a whole concert. The flashback must be fading. Too bad; I’ll probably lose it before I get to Linda.

Charon lowered a ramp so Paul wouldn’t have to jump overboard. “Which way?” he asked as he looked around. Ahead of him was nothing but overcast wasteland.

“Straight ahead. A path leads to the gates of the Underworld; you can not miss it.”

Paul squinted; he could just barely make out a smudge on the horizon. “Thanks, Charon,” he said, turning around.

Paul spent a couple of minutes worrying about how he’d get back home before he remembered it wasn’t real anyway; he’d wake up in his hotel room soon enough. So he left the beach and walked towards the dark smudge. A few patches of asphodels served as markers, but even the pallid flowers did little to brighten the gloom. Paul was initially glad when the path ascended a hill and he saw he was close to the end of his journey. But once he saw what his destination was, he changed his mind.

An iron wall stretched as far as he could see on either side of the path, rising forbiddingly high above him. An ornate gate stood half-open in front of him, but Paul hesitated to go through. A giant three-headed dog paced in front of the gate. Paul stared; the three wolf heads were bad enough, but what really knocked him for six was the yard-long, lizard-like tail whipping around. This was why he hated genetic engineering….

The unnatural creature turned in his direction, all three heads snarling and showing their teeth; even from yards away; their combined breath smelled fetid. The hair along its –their? – back stood up. Paul looked down at the guitar he clenched, debating if it would make an effective club. Still, if he got close enough to the monstrous dog to hit it, wouldn’t it then be close enough to bite him in return? And no matter what had been done to it, it was an innocent animal, deserving of respect; he didn’t want to hurt it. He’d rather try something else first, even if it seemed silly. He sang again, this time, “Golden Slumbers.” Maybe the lullaby-like melody and the suggestive words, “Sleep, pretty darling,” would have a soporific effect on the dog.

It worked, at least partly; although the dog didn’t fall asleep, it calmed down. It paced off to the side, allowing Paul to pass through the gate. He didn’t want to take chances, though. He brushed against the cold iron wall as he tried to stay as far away from the dog as he could, and he kept on singing until he was completely through. At that point, the dog lost interest and turned away. Strangely enough, as it turned it seemed to flicker; for a few seconds, it looked like it had only one head. Then Paul blinked, and the three heads were back. At least they weren’t snapping at him.

He’d supposed there’d be a city on this side of the gate, but it was the same as before: white flowers and desolation. The darkness deepened as he ended his song, then solidified gradually as people approached him. Paul could tell by the faint padding of feet on dirt and a stirring in the air. His observers seemed neither welcoming nor threatening, simply curious. He ought to be able to win them over easily enough.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, how are you?” he called out. He launched into “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.” The darkness lightened again as he played, and he saw rapt, pale faces staring at him. The song took more out of him than it normally did; he must be getting old, he thought ruefully. As he rested for a bit, the darkness returned, and he could hear astonished whispers:

Paul grinned at that last remark. Then he suddenly wondered if Linda was in the crowd. “Linda! Linda!” he called.

“How about this: I’ll sing while we go there,” Paul said. He didn’t know how long he had in this strange place, and he was more concerned about finding Linda than pleasing the fans.

The crowd surged around Paul, brave souls occasionally reaching out to touch him with blood-warm hands. He had a sudden, incongruous image of the Pied Piper being led by his own rats. But they did seem to be leading him in a definite direction, so he felt he’d better give them what they wanted. He played a few Beatles tunes, picking ones where he could lead the audience into singing the chorus. If the price of everything here was a song, he’d better be sparing with them so he could save his strength.

As the soaring chorus of “Let It Be” faded, Paul caught sight of an immense palace in front of him. The ivory building (Paul winced, imagining how many animals had died for it) dwarfed Buckingham Palace and had more gates than he could count. But despite all the gates, an infinite number of people ringed the palace, trying to get in. Paul stilled his guitar with a palm on the strings. They felt warm; he looked down and noted with mild surprise that the guitar was now gray. His flashback wasn’t over yet, he supposed, but he still wasn’t sure how he was going to get into the palace. It was all for nothing if he couldn’t get in.

His crowd of admirers pushed ahead, shouting, “Let us through! We’ve got a live one here!”

That had to be the oddest introduction he’d ever had. But it worked; Paul’s fans shepherded him into the crowd, through a carved ivory gate, and skillfully worked him through hall after hall. He couldn’t tell how many halls; it could have been a hundred, a thousand, or just one endlessly turning on itself, eating its own sterile white walls. More people crowded the halls, standing there like statues ordered for a garden and then discarded. Before long, Paul was sweating as profusely as he did after a performance. His heart pounded like a full set of drums in one. Still, Paul resolutely kept his hands from the guitar strings. The main event was coming up fast.

Paul felt the change in acoustics first, in the way the footsteps and conversations around him dissipated instead of bouncing off the walls. The walls themselves were a hundred feet back, though with the multitude around him, walls were redundant. Then, as if they obeyed some silent signal, the people surrounding Paul drifted away, allowing him his first good look at where he was.

He stood on slick white marble. Three broad white steps led up to a white dais mounted by two gold thrones. A slender, lovely, black-haired girl, dressed in ornate robes and jewels, sat in one of them. She pensively dribbled kernels of corn to a pair of swans, one white, one black, at her feet. Wanting to cheer her up, Paul winked at her, but she didn’t seem to notice.

The bass voice resonating from the other throne caught Paul off guard. “Sir James Paul McCartney, considered by mortals to be the most successful composer of all time.” Paul examined the throne more closely. What he had mistaken as part of the throne was a man in a golden mask and golden clothing. Contempt radiated from him as light did from his costume. “Not bad for a former bug.”

“No matter.” The golden man dismissed the subject with a elegant wave of his hand. “Do you know who We are, Sir Paul?”

“Are you that chap they call Hades?” Paul took a step forward. “If you are, where’s my wife?”

“Mortals these days. So impatient, so disrespectful, so demanding.” The mask shook sadly from side to side. Paul noticed it was the mask of tragedy, with a stylized tear running down one cheek. “Still, We suppose you’ll want to see her before agreeing to Our proposition.” The golden man raised his voice. “Have her brought forward.”

The swans waddled off as two vague figures pushed a blonde woman through the narrow space between the thrones. A strawberry blonde woman, with shoulder-length hair and a face as beautiful as the day he had met her. Linda. His Linda.

Her voice…something about her voice didn’t sound quite right. That didn’t matter, though; Paul felt as revved as if he’d swallowed a handful of Prellys. “Linda!” He ran forward—

And was thrown back on his arse before he could reach the first step of the dais.

“Tut, tut, tut!” The golden man waved a finger. “Remember what We said about a proposition?”

Paul pushed himself to his feet. “What do you want?” he asked, although he knew the answer.

“The answer should be obvious, Sir Paul. We require a performance, one with your whole heart and soul in it.” He gestured at the downcast maiden. “As you can see, We too have a beloved wife, but She pines for Her home. Cheer Her with your music, and you shall have your own wife back in return.”

Linda, back at his side where she belonged…what a sweet dream. Still, there were one or two details that bothered him. “Er, she won’t be just a ghost, will she? I’m mean, it’s been a while….” Paul let his words trail off, unsure how say in front of Linda that she’d been cremated, even if it had been her wish.

Hades was probably trying to squeeze every last song out of him, Paul thought. Still, it shouldn’t take much to cheer this poor girl up. And after seeing Linda again, he felt like he could play the Cavern all night and day and night.

“Right.” Paul stepped forward and took a deep breath. “One two three fahwr!”

He played “I Saw Her Standing There” like it was the first time ever, putting his heart into every note. At the end, he bowed deeply, sweat dripping onto the floor. He looked at Persephone and Hades. Neither one seemed moved.

Belatedly, Paul wondered if Persephone was deaf. He had to keep trying, though. Time to Mach Schau. Paul paced his marble stage – too risky for jumping about – as he ripped into “Kansas City,” then “Long Tall Sally” and a fast version of “Be-Bop-A-Lula.” He hadn’t done them for years – too damaging to the vocal cords. But in this dream – this flashback – whatever it was – his voice was in rare form. Behind him, he heard his other audience cheer and stamp their feet. But his royal audience sat stock still.

Damm, how was he going to reach Persephone? If rockers didn’t do it, maybe a ballad would. “Time to slow things down a bit…‘Yesterday…all my troubles seemed so far away…’”

The only thing you done was yesterday, John mocked him in memory. That still hurt. Paul tried to put it out of his mind as he sang.

Persephone smiled slightly at the end of “Yesterday,” but when Paul looked at her husband, he shook his head. “Play on, musician.”

Paul played everything that came into his head: songs from his childhood and teenage years, Beatle tunes, songs written for other groups, Wings material, and solo songs. A strange internal dissonance developed as his timeless concert continued. As he played, his hands seemed to hit exactly the right notes on their own, and the melodies came a hair’s-breadth from singing him. Even without backing vocals or other instruments the songs still sounded good. It should have been a magic moment, standing there amid ivory and marble, his voice making them ring, all the while feasting on the sight of lovely Linda. But every time he was on the verge of surrendering to the music – as he had to, if he wanted to free Linda – a line of John’s broke his concentration. “Gimme some truth,” he would hear, or “The dream is over,” or, most often, “Nothing is real.” It almost felt as if John was standing behind him, whispering in his ear. Maybe he was. If so, why the hell would he wreck this for him? Paul tried to shut that thought out and play on.

He took a breather after “My Love.” As he let the music die, he was shocked by how fagged out he was. He thought about removing the guitar, but as heavy as it was, it would have been too much trouble to remove it. He looked around instead. The audience behind him had not only grown, they had also crept closer to him. There were a score of them just a yard away, some staring at him hungrily, others stretching their heads out, looking as if they were smelling the air. No wonder he felt so lightheaded; there couldn’t be any oxygen left here. Even his guitar felt as warm as blood.

He looked again at Linda – and at Persephone and Hades. Linda was still there, still trapped by her two guards. And Persephone and Hades were as unresponsive as before.

“Musician, why have you stopped?” Hades asked. “Have you no more songs for Us?”

“I’m…I’m tired.” His voice was ragged, off its normal pitch. He wasn’t sure if this had gone on longer than a set at the Kaiserkeller in Hamburg, but it felt like it.

“Ah, poor mortal!” At any other time, Paul would have bristled at the false concern in Hades’ voice, but it was too much effort. “How can you sing, crowded so by Our subjects? Come closer to Us, Sir Paul, come closer.”

He shuffled forward to the edge of the dais. The guitar felt like it was made of lead.

Paul cautiously reached past the step first with a hand to see if the barrier that had repelled him before was still in place. It wasn’t. Slowly he lifted his left foot the few inches he needed to mount the first step. Then the other foot. Then he repeated the tedious process for the second step.

“Stop,” Hades commanded. “Well, mortal, have you no other songs for Us?”

Paul didn’t start immediately; he gazed at Linda for several minutes first, trying to draw strength from her. She stared back, but she didn’t say anything. Paul suppressed his irritation at her silence. After all they’d been through, he’d expected more support from her. Perhaps they had threatened her into not speaking; all the more reason to rescue her, then.

He swallowed some spit and flexed his sore hands. This would have to be his last song; he had nothing else left inside. Luckily, he’d been clever enough to save one of his best songs for last.

In the split second before he started, he heard John’s voice again. “You’re misunderstanding all you see, Paul.” Not in his head this time; Linda, Persephone, Hades, and everyone else started too. Paul glanced around, but his sudden hopes were dashed. Still no sign of John. But at least the surge of excitement gave him the energy he needed to sing.

“‘Hey Jude, Don’t make it bad, Take a sad song and make it better – ’”

There was a line in this song, about a third of the way through, that he’d thought at first was crummy, just something he’d come up with to block it out. Paul still remembered the first time he’d played it for John and Yoko, how he’d told them he’d change it. John had immediately countered him: “You won’t, you know. That’s the best line in it!” Every time Paul sang that line in “Hey Jude” now, he thought of John.

So it wasn’t too surprising, then, that when Paul reached the line, “The movement you need is on your shoulder,” John Lennon appeared in front of him.

John hadn’t changed much in the nearly eighteen years since his murder: no halo, no wings, no glowing white aura of peace and love. He still looked the same in his jeans and black shirt, with his famous granny glasses unable to conceal the shadows under his eyes. He’d always been thin, had always radiated the sheer strength of his personality, but now those traits had been intensified. He seemed like a human laser. And judging by the shrieks coming from the audience, he was a potent one.

“You!” Hades rose from his throne, pointing at John. “You dare enter Our stronghold! You may think you’ve beaten Us back, John Lennon, but We have thousands of dragondogs here! Even you can’t hold them all off for long!”

This seemed like a good time for a break. Paul slowly sank to the marble step. “What’s he talking about, John?” he mumbled. His voice had never sounded so flat.

An ice-cold hand clamped on his shoulder, shocking some of the fatigue out of him. “Look at them, Paul. Just look.”

Maybe he was just knackered, but as Paul stared at Linda and the others, their forms wavered, as if they were mirages. Then John pressed down, and the images solidified. As Paul watched, horrified, Linda shrank to about half her normal height, then dropped to all fours. Her lovely hair and face melted into a German-shepherd-like head with long fangs. Iridescent scales covered her body, and leathery wings sprouted from her back. Paul rubbed his eyes, but the monster didn’t change back into his wife. As Paul frantically glanced around, Persephone, Hades, and the rest of the audience shifted form as well.

Somehow, Paul escaped John’s grip, was on his feet and running pell-mell toward Linda. The guitar slammed into his ribs at every step. He’d have bruises there in the morning, but he didn’t care. Linda broke away from the monsters surrounding her and ran towards him. Paul extended his arms. Despite her transformation, he still wanted to hold her –

The Linda-monster grabbed his wrist in her mouth and bit him. Paul stared at the brown muzzle enveloping his wrist, expecting blood to seep onto his skin. Instead, it felt like he was bleeding on the inside, in his soul.

Linda’s gone, she’s dead, you’ll never see her again. There’s no point to walking an empty life without her. Give up the pain of it all and sink into the nothingness…

John grabbed what Paul thought had been Linda by the tail. As it released Paul – its fangs didn’t leave bitemarks – to yelp in pain, he shoved it towards the two closest monsters, bowling them over. The three sprung up in a flurry of heads snapping at each other.

John tightened his grip. The fighting monsters, the thrones, the additional monsters leaping toward them – all vanished.

“Welcome to the Lennon Estate,” John said in his stuffiest butler’s voice. “Please remember to take off your shoes at the door, and don’t forget to tip the doorman. Have a nice day.”

At first Paul thought they were still somewhere in Hades’ palace, since all he saw was white. Then he turned his head slightly and saw traces of John’s personality imposed on the blank, egg-shaped space. A cream-colored sofa, with a dark brown cat sleeping on a pillow. A coffee table with various sketches and notes scattered across it. In the small end, a mute black-and-white telly showing a commercial. A white grand piano behind the sofa. Paul suddenly wondered if John still wrote songs; he itched to see them.

He turned back to John, who was staring at him. “Christ, Paul, you’re gettin’ old!” he said. “Lucky bastard.”

Abruptly he drew Paul into a cold hug, carefully avoiding the guitar. It was like being drawn into an icebox, but Paul managed to overcome his initial repulsion and hug his brother in music back. It’d been too long, after all, and any differences they still had were unimportant now.

He had said the same thing once back in L.A., as if he had just discovered that fact. “Yeah,” Paul answered, his throat thick.

He swayed a little when John released him. “You look done in,” John said. “Have a seat. I’ll get you a cuppa tea.”

As he sat down, the guitar almost swung into the cat. Lightning-quick, it sprang to the armrest and turned, growling and bristling at the guitar, before leaping away and crawling under the telly. Paul regarded the guitar. Apparently, the more he played it, the lighter it got; now it was a yellowish ivory. He started to take it off, then stopped as a rather lewd drawing of John and Yoko caught his eye. John wouldn’t mind if he peeked, would he? Paul grabbed a handful and moved them back and forth at eye level, trying to bring them into focus. Yoko; Yoko; Yoko and child Sean; John, Yoko, and Sean; Sean; another lewd one of John and Yoko…Paul raised his eyebrows.

“Need glasses, don’t you?” John reappeared with a steaming mug. Paul took a sip; it was just the way he liked it. John cleared a space on the coffee table and sat on it, resting his feet on the sofa. He took off his granny glasses and dangled them by an arm towards Paul. “Here, borrow mine.”

John smirked. “You’re blinder than you think. And I was beginning to think you were deaf and dumb back there as well.”

“How’s that?” Paul swallowed a large mouthful of tea. “And John, what happened back there?”

John deliberately set his glasses on the table next to Paul, then crossed his arms. His face was solemn. “You nearly gave the dragondogs a nice meal, Paul.”

“Dragondogs? Those …things they turned into, at the end, that’s what they really are?”

“Yeah. They live here in the In-Between. They eat creative energy, but they can only get at it when someone gives it to them. I should know; they’ve been going after me me whole life. And when I died, they tried again. But once you know what they are, they’re not so tough. You know them no matter what disguise they put on, and when you stand up to them, you can use them!”

“So…you’re saying all of that wasn’t really real? Linda, Hades, that Greek stuff…all of that was just a show to …eat my talent?”

John grinned, exposing his teeth. “The better to trick you, my dear,” he said in a falsetto. He dropped back to his normal voice. “Nearly worked, too; they really had you pouring it out back there. And you’re still not safe yet.”

Paul didn’t see why he still in danger; he was definitely too pooped to pop. As long as he didn’t sing, the dragondogs couldn’t take his talent. Besides, he had something more important to worry about. “John, where’s Linda? Is she here, in – what did you call it, the In-Between? Can I see her?”

John shook his head. “She Crossed Over, all the way to whatever lies beyond this. I walked her part of the way, to keep her safe. She kept talking of you the whole time, how worried she was about leaving you behind.”

John put out a hand. “It’s a one-way trip, Paul. You can’t go there until you die yourself.”

“She was happy when I left her. I guess she was looking forward to seeing some of her friends and family.”

“Like she’s gone on holiday.” Not that they had ever taken holidays apart. But it was better than thinking he’d never see her again. If he decided to write more songs, he’d have something new for her once he finally saw her again….

But what was John still doing here? He’d probably say it was none of his fucking business, but Paul still had to ask. He set his cup down and leaned forward. “John, if Linda already Crossed Over, why haven’t you?”

“I’m waiting for Mother. I’m not Crossing Over without her.” A desperate look came into his eyes. “How is she? And Sean, teeny-tiny little Sean?”

“Yoko’s fine; she still misses you. And Sean’s not so little anymore; he’s all grown up now.”

John clenched his fists. “I fucked up again, didn’t I, just like I did with Julian. I was going to be a good father this time, spend time with him and not make him choose between Yoko and me. But I left Sean to grow up alone.”

“Does it matter?” John’s gaze was dark, challenging him. “Does he even remember me?”

“But think of all the things I’ve missed.” John stared at him. “I don’t have all the answers now, Paul. I still don’t understand why that guy shot me, after I gave him an autograph and all that. And just when I had it all together too…. FUCKIT!”

Paul stared hard at the soundless telly, trying to keep the tears in his eyes. What in the world could he possibly say? But then he distantly heard the words coming out of his mouth: “John, you have to Cross Over, go all the way instead of hiding here in the In-Between. You’re only making things worse for yourself.”

“I am?” He laughed sharply. “At least I’m not carrying my problems with me.”

“Why don’t you take off that guitar? I’m sure it can’t be comfortable.”

“Um…” Paul looked down at the pale guitar. “It’s not that bad; I’m used to it by now.”

He knew John well enough to read the scorn in his expression, and it irritated him. What did John know that he wasn’t saying? Still, sometimes with John, the best defense was a good offense. Not that Paul was in John’s league, but it might be worth a try. “Well, what about you? I can’t believe you like it here will all these ... devildogs about.”

“But Yoko…” John got up and started to pace, hands behind his back. “If I could just see her one more time, see her and Sean…if they were all right, maybe then I could Cross Over. I don’t know….” He abruptly stopped and cocked his head. “Did you hear something?”

John disappeared again. Paul started to look at some of his sketches again when he noticed John’s glasses, forgotten on the table. He picked them up and called, “John! Your glasses!” Without them, John could scarcely see more than a few feet in front of him; not good for seeing things without being seen.

He didn’t reappear from wherever he had gone. Paul regarded the glasses. He knew they’d be too strong for him, but John had offered them before and said something about Paul being blind. Maybe there was a reason he wanted him to use them…. Paul closed his eyes, donned the glasses, and reopened his eyes.

The sketches, the telly, and the brown cat coming back out for a stretch all looked normal; actually, they looked sharper than they had before. His eyes really must be getting bad. Paul was about to remove the glasses when he noticed something bright out of the corner of his eye. He slowly turned his head, bringing the guitar into full view.

At first, all he could see was the light: warm, multi-hued, and clear; how could anyone object to that? But as he looked more closely, he could see the guitar wasn’t made of light, or even wood. It was a dragondog, contorted into a guitar-like shape, tail looped around Paul’s neck in place of the strap. And it certainly wasn’t emitting light; it was taking it in. From him.

He tried to lift the tail, but it wouldn’t budge. “Get this thing off of me!” he screamed.

A chorus of howls echoed in the egg-shaped room. Paul rose with difficulty, still clutching the guitar-dragondog’s tail. “Damn it, John, why the stupid games? Why didn’t you just tell me I was carrying this thing around?”

“Thanks a lot, Maharishi.” Paul tried to remove the dragondog again. If anything, it felt twice as heavy as before, like a lead weight crushing his shoulders. “Come on, give me a hand.”

John hurried over, but before he could grasp the dragondog, it twisted its tiny head to stare at them. “Touch me, and I’ll take all his talent.” Its words were distorted, difficult to understand, but the threat still came through.

“Take his talent? Hmm…” John assumed a thinking pose, chin in one hand. “Not a bad idea, but then, there isn’t much to take, is there?”

The weight on his shoulders seemed to double again. Paul cried out as he was forced down on his knees, then almost prostrate.

The howling outside crescendoed. The egg surrounding them cracked, and a dozen or more dragondogs burst into the room, upsetting the telly. The picture tube shattered, sending glass flying towards them.

John pushed the coffee table over as an impromptu shield. Papers scattered, and Paul’s cup clunked on the floor. Lukewarm tea seeped under the wood, and John jumped over both tea and table. In a low, mean voice, he sang to the tune of “Leave My Kitten Alone”:

“Oh, very intimidating, John Winston Ono Lennon.” Even in his true form, the dragondog who had played Hades still had a voice oozing sarcasm. “Keep singing, and all the dragonpuppies will put their tails between their legs and run home.” Still, he stayed where he was.

“You might as well give up,” the one who had Paul trapped said. “You’re getting old; you don’t have half the voice you used to. And without Linda, there’s no point anymore to recording or touring or writing symphonies….”

John looked over his shoulder at Paul, eyebrows raised. “You wrote a symphony?”

“It takes forever to get a newspaper delivered here. Lordy, Lordy, Paul’s gone classical!” But the lightness in John’s voice wasn’t mockery; it almost sounded like admiration. “Does it rock?”

It was getting hard to breathe, but Paul managed to reply, “Well, it’s about one.”

“We’ll have to add a verse to ‘Roll Over Beethoven’ in your honor.” John stepped back over the coffee table and squatted next to Paul. He stared intently at him. “I could never write one of those, you know.”

Paul looked back at John through his glasses and saw he was speaking the truth. And saw too that John had respected his talent ever since they met at the Woolton fete so long ago, even during the times they had slagged each other.

He couldn’t let it end like this. Despite all the songs he’d written, he still had so many more inside – not to mention so many songs from his youth he still wanted to cover. And touring – it’d been a long time since he’d done one, and the feeling of playing for an audience couldn’t be recreated in a studio.

The weight bearing him down lessened. Paul rolled on his side so he faced the dragondog. “No, I’m not giving up.”

Paul grasped its tiny throat. “Live and let die,” he said cheerfully, squeezing.

The light surrounding the dragondog broke away and flew towards him. As it entered him, Paul’s strength returned, and he squeezed the dragondog harder. With a final ascending shriek, it vanished.

He rose to a sitting position. John, the room, and the remaining dragondogs started to become translucent. His visit here was over, Paul realized. But what of John? With his refuge destroyed, what would happen to him?

They reached for each other, the cold emanating from John preceding his touch –

Paul opened his eyes to a field of blurry beige beneath him. His entire body ached, particularly his shoulders. Rose-colored bars of sunlight made parallel lines on the floor. Dawn. He’d spent the night on the floor, dreaming about a black guitar and strange monsters and John. He glanced around, but there was no trace of the guitar that had inspired his dream.

Maybe it hadn’t been a dream; maybe it had been an attack or stroke of some sort. His vision was still blurry, after all. Paul reached up to rub his eyes—

The trembling in his fingers had nothing to do with an attack of any sort. With reverence, Paul removed a pair of granny glasses from his face.

“John?” he whispered. His voice was hoarse, but it was back to its usual timbre. “John? Please be there.”

Nothing. Paul waited for a couple of minutes, watching the red colon on the alarm clock blink, before he finally sighed and put a hand on the bed, boosting himself up.

An incorporeal spot of cold tapped out a one-two-three, one-two-three between his shoulder blades.

“John!” Paul whirled around, but there was nothing there. Nothing he could see, anyway. “I can feel you, but that’s it.”

“I guess this is it, then, at least for now. I can’t take that long holiday yet.” Paul held out the glasses. “When you see Linda, tell her I love her. I’ll always miss her, I’ll think about her every day, like I do you, but I’ll go on. That’s what life is for, isn’t it?”