Chapter Text
Paul McCartney looked at the newspaper in front of him with disgust and utter confusion.
“Outrageous.” He muttered, shifting a cigarette around in his mouth.
The paper’s headline read in big letters, “Is Beatle Paul McCartney Dead?” followed by a recent picture of Paul himself.
The answer was no, Paul McCartney was not dead because he was currently reading the newspaper now, feeling very much alive.
He decided to read further into the article, curious to see what it had to say about him and his apparent “death” in the recent week.
“Many Beatles fans are speculating that Paul McCartney, a member of most likely the largest band in the world, has died this November, 1966, in a tragic car accident. And their theory’s evidence doesn’t seem too far-fetched!”
The article goes on to give “evidence” as to why and how Paul supposedly died in a car crash that never even happened.
Paul just shook his head and puffed a cloud of smoke into the autumn air. He quickly crumpled the newspaper up and stuffed it into a nearby bin in the alleyway he was taking a break in, deciding he’d had enough of that rubbish the public were making of him.
He leaned against the wall and just looked out into the dark, Friday morning sky. It was cloudy and cold today and The Beatles had been recording the first few songs for their upcoming album, “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.”
Yes, the title was long, but Paul liked it that way and the rest of the band seemed to agree. At least he hoped so.
That was why he was out in the alleyway. He had a brief fight with the rest of the band about the songs in the album and needed to cool himself off.
Ringo had told him that the song they had spent hours perfecting probably wasn’t even going to make it on the album. Paul was quite upset at that, and he knew he was being controlling, but he just wanted everything to be perfect. Newspapers were saying that the new album was going to be unsuccessful compared to their others.
He was mainly worried for his band members, his friends. They were falling out because of Paul’s damned controlling attitude.
He was under so much pressure.
Paul just wished that he could have somebody else to do everything for him, so he could relax and be happy without worrying about what the public thought of him and whether his songs were good or not. So he didn’t have to worry about his friends hating him. So he didn’t have to deal with conspiracy theories that made no sense.
Paul chuckled to himself at the thought. If only he could have the luxury to relax.
Suddenly, the emergency door next to him clicked open and John heavily pushed it open. Paul jumped slightly but played it off by pushing himself off the wall and taking his cigarette out to hold in his hands.
“What do you need John?” Paul asked, hoping he didn’t sound as tired as he felt. The last thing he wanted was for John to think that he was mad at him.
John walked out from the door and leaned on the wall next to Paul.
“I just wanted to check on you.” John replied with an out of character sheepish smile.
Paul gave John a cigarette and lit it for him.
“Ringo says he’s sorry. He never meant to make you mad. And he didn’t really know if the song’s being taken off, he just overheard it.”
“But it’s still a possibility!” Paul snapped, and he regretted it as soon as he did it.
“Sorry John, I didn’t mean to snap- it’s just…” Paul quickly apologised when he saw John look at him dejectedly. “I’m not myself today.” He settled on saying.
“I know, it’s alright,” John answered, looking at the ground. “I’m stressed out too.”
Paul smiled at him. He was glad that someone understood how he felt.
John and him had always been the closest. They had a lot in common and understood each other in ways not even they could comprehend. Especially when writing songs. Paul would play a chord and John would be able to add onto it as if they shared a brain.
“Well, I’m going to go back in, it’s getting chilly out here. You come in whenever you’re ready, alright?” John said after a beat of silence. And with that, he was gone.
Paul wanted to tell him he was also sorry for acting so controlling, but he guessed he’d have to tell the whole band then. They all deserved an apology.
Paul took one more puff from his cigarette before dropping it and squishing it beneath his foot. Just as he reached for the door, he heard a sound.
Paul turned his head towards the darker part of the alleyway. He would have ignored it if he hadn’t heard it again.
A terrible scraping sound. Paul thought to himself what it could be. Should he go investigate?
There wasn’t enough time for Paul to think of the possibilities before there was a looming silhouette at the end of the alleyway. It made Paul freeze immediately. Who was that?
Despite the eerie sense of dread Paul felt, he decided to call out. “Can I help you?”
The figure didn't move nor answer. Paul seemed to recognise it, but he couldn’t connect the silhouette to anybody he knew.
That’s when he realised. It was his silhouette, with the exact clothes he was wearing now.
His own silhouette in the alleyway shadows, and it was staring at him, albeit a slight bit shorter and slouched.
Paul felt his fight or flight kick in. But the figure was approaching. Paul needed to run. But once again, his humanity got the best of him. What if it was just a normal guy?
“Hello? Who are you?” He desperately called out. For some reason, he was trying to give himself a reason to ignore his instinct and tell himself that everything was alright.
But of course, a silver glint shone from the shadows as the silhouette stalked closer to Paul. The man was holding a weapon in his right hand. Paul didn’t know what it was but he was immediately turning and running out of the alley.
Trying the door back inside would have been useless, it was far too heavy for a real emergency situation, ironically. But Paul didn’t get very far because a blunt object smashed into the side of his head and he crumpled to the ground.
He wanted to scream. Call out for John to help him, anyone. But his head wasn’t working like it should and he couldn't get a word out or scream.
The searing pain in his skull was all he could hear, he might have been screaming or making a sound, but he couldn’t tell. He might have been thinking, how did the silhouette reach me so fast? But his eyes were filling with blood.
He got back up to his feet with a stagger and threw a punch, as strong as he could muster, before falling back onto the ground from disorientation.
A silver hammer that shined in the dim sun came down and down again onto him, making mince out of his writhing body, breaking his arms as he uselessly tried to block it.
Blood blocked his vision, his vision that was spiralling and twisting and turning. There was a man standing above him, holding a dripping hammer and smiling.
He was bloody smiling.
He had a messy side part in his short hair and wore a pair of blood speckled glasses. But the most terrifying part of his appearance was that he looked exactly like Paul in a very similar and uncanny way. If it weren’t for his moustache and now split lip.
Paul blacked out, his head throbbing loud in his ears, but the image of the man above him was engraved into his brain.