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It was early '61, around May. The Cavern Club was quiet for once -- just dust, cigarette smoke and feedback from the microphones.
It was a Sunday so the doors weren't open to the public. The staff, however, after a lot of begging, allowed the Beatles inside to rehearse for their performance tomorrow.
The lads were packing up. Or rather, Paul and George were packing up. John was pacing back and forth like a caged bear, throwing words around like venom.
He glared at Paul and snapped, "You're always trying to take over, aren't ya?" He pushed past the bass amp with a thud. "When I first let you in the band, you tried to steal the spotlight, and you're doing it again! Think you're bloody Mozart now, do ya?!"
Paul, used to John's negative moods but never immune to retaliation, took his cigarette out of his mouth and folded his arms. "I'm not taking over, John. I'm only helping the band sound better instead of playing sloppily and acting like it's fine."
"Sloppily?..." John barked, pushing him back to make him stumble, "You cheeky little shit! If you think the band is fuckin' sloppy, then fix your bloody bass, you dick!"
"John." George's voice came out quieter than he wanted it to be. "Just leave it. Take your guitar and go home."
But John was already full of rage, ready to punch anything or anyone that got in his way of arguing with Paul.
John looked over at George and, through gritted teeth, said, "Are you on his side? You think he can be saying that my band, yeah, my fuckin' band, plays sloppily! I knew you would take his side, you bastard. Get the fuck out of my sight!"
George clenched his jaw and walked off backstage to find a phone. He knew who could fix this. She could always fix it.
He dialled her phone number into the telephone and listened to the rings before she picked up.
"Cath?" He asked, sounding desperate.
She sounded cheerful, however. "George! Hiya, duck. You alright?"
Her Nottingham accent came out more when she was on the phone, where she didn't have to be face-to-face.
He exhaled, "John's mad at Paul 'cause he called the band sloppy or somethin'. He's not listening to me and he's been pushing Paul and I don't know if he's gonna go any further. I mean, I've seen him bloody a lad's nose in one punch and I don't want to see that but--"
"George, I'm coming." She stated to calm him, and ended the call.
He released the breath he didn't know he was holding in and listened to the commotion on the stage that was only getting louder. Probably because Paul was refusing to speak so John was shouting in his face in an act to provoke him.
George made his way back on stage to make sure nobody had been knocked out yet and, fortunately, they were fine.
"You just can't admit that I helped you improve!" Paul exclaimed, trying to get John to understand.
He just rolled his eyes, his hands clenched into fists. "You didn't do jack shit. I helped myself. I helped myself improve, not you! I bought that bloody guitar and I taught myself the fuckin' cords so don't try to belittle me!"
Paul blew the smoke out of his mouth, his eyes poisoned with sadness. He knew he wasn't going to win this argument, and he couldn't be bothered with John's antics any longer so he walked away, unintentionally nudging his shoulder in the process but this only angered him more.
Before Paul could react, John swivelled on his heel and threw a punch at him, hitting him on his cheek.
"Fuckin' 'ell, John!" Paul exclaimed, putting his hand up to his cheek in pain.
George ran over to them, pushing John away from Paul to stop any more fights from occurring. As George was staring at John to make sure he didn't make his way over, Paul crept around him and punched John back, hitting him in the nose.
"You knobhead!" John roared.
The fight continued, punches being thrown left, right and centre. In an attempt to resolve the situation, John grabbed Paul's collar and landed two more punches to his face, before shoving him away and running his finger over his own lip as he felt a liquid dripping from it.
Paul had split John's lip open, as well as cut the bridge of his nose which was equally pouring with blood.
Paul's cheek was bloody and swollen, and his lip was also split.
They looked like they'd both been tortured.
"You're just..." Paul began, his breath heavy, "you're just scared of being overlooked. Scared of someone forgetting about you. Scared of someone being better than you."
Cathrine had been talking to her friend, Marcy, when the phone rang. George sounded frantic with worry when she answered. He was rushing his words out and once she heard that it was John's behaviour that had got them into that predicament again, she stated that she'd be there.
She seemed to be the only one right now who could calm him down. The amount of times he's gotten into arguments with randomers and she's had to break it up.
"You're lucky your poxy bird's there or I'd've knocked your 'ead in." they'd shout down the street.
Cathrine never let it get to her, though. People talk, don'f they? You can't stop someone from voicing their opinion so you just learn to accept it instead.
She rolled her eyes and looked at Marcy. "John's arguing with Paul now."
Marcy snorted and shook her head. She'd been friends with Cath and the band to know how bad John's temper was when he didn't get his own way - she found it scary to watch and didn't understand how her friend was brave enough to face him. "He needs to take a chill pill once in a while, y'know."
"Don't say that to his face." Cathrine laughed, walking to the door. "I'll see you in a bit. If you leave, lock the door behind you, please."
And then she left. The walk from her flat to the Cavern Club was only a short distance so she arrived there quite fast. Once she opened the front door, the tension hit her like a cloud of smoke.
John was pacing the stage like a wolf guarding its territory, his nose and lip covered in dried blood and his knuckles bruised, as if he had been punching something to let out his anger. George and Paul were sat at a nearby table and all of their heads turned to her as she stepped foot inside. George had a look of appreciation in his eyes and Paul's cheek was badly bruised and slightly swollen, dried blood crusted above his lip.
John huffed and darted his eyes directly at George. "Brilliant! You call the fuckin' therapist."
With a sigh, Cathrine made her way over to her boyfriend. "Only if you pay the fee this time." she joked, earning a twitch of a smirk from him but it vanished in an instant.
She sat on the edge of the stage and gestured for him to sit beside her which, after a bit of muttering to himself, he did.
"You hit him." She said in a hushed tone.
"He said something," John murmured, licking over the fresh cut on his lip. "He knows what he fuckin' said."
"Did what he said really deserve all this?" she asked, taking his hand in hers, "I mean- well, look at you, John. God, you look like you've been in a boxing ring."
He looked down at his hands, his knuckles painted with splats of Paul's blood, along with bruises all over them. She could see them shaking, whether it was the adrenaline, fear or realisation, she had no idea.
"I didn't mean to..." He started, but the words trailed off like they'd jumped off his tongue.
Cathrine stroked her thumb over his hand in a comforting manner. "You can't keep trying to start fights to get your anger out, John. You don't fix things by swinging your fists in a poor man's face."
"He's trying to steal the band." John snapped suddenly, voice cracking. "Said I'm scared of being forgotten."
Her breath caught slightly. She knew what to say but she didn't know how he'd react. She risked it anyway. "He's not trying to steal your band, baby." she stated first, "and...well, do you fear being forgotten? Do you fear people not remembering you, or the little boy who would make beautiful drawings and stick them up in his bedroom?"
He laughed bitterly, looking away, blinking fast. "Do you know what it's like feeling like everyone's better than you? Being told that you'll be a failure in life? I know I'm a loud-mouthed little shit, Cathrine. But, what else can I do?"
She softly cupped his face in her hands. "You don't have to be loud for people to hear you, Johnny. I hear you. I've heard everything you've said since I met you."
His mouth opened like he was going to argue- he probably wanted to say something sarcastic like "you don't actually hear every single thing I say because sometimes you're not there to hear it" - but instead nothing came. He just stared at her and, for a moment, she saw the teenage boy she had met at the shop when she first moved to Liverpool.
And then his voice cracked again — quiet this time and definitely with more emotion.
"I don't want to lose him." he whispered, his eyes glossing over. "Paul. Even when he winds me up. He's my best mate. I can't fuckin' lose him."
She nodded, "then stop pushing him away."
He looked at her, eyes red-rimmed. "I dunno how."
"Stop fighting him is a start. You're best mates. You care for each other. You don't want to stand on the stage and have the audience see you two in casts and bandages for six weeks." Cathrine tried to lighten the mood and she was rewarded with a small chuckle from John.
He leant his head on her shoulder and she wrapped her arms around his neck while he held her waist. "I love you, John. Please don't lose your friends."
He sniffled in her ear and kissed her cheek. "I'll try not to, darlin'."