CATCH ME IF YOU CAN
by Kelonzi

"And in the end... the love you take... is equal to the love... you make."

-- in fine voice tonight.

A reporter scribbled quickly on his trusty pad of paper. The smile on Gavin Adams' face was absolutely iridescent. He'd waited his whole career to cover a big event like this. Paul McCartney, at long last, had decided to go back on tour. To the lifelong Beatles fan, this night had been a thrill to say the least. As the final bow commenced, he was still writing notes frantically. Checking his chicken scrawl to make sure he would be able to read it later when he wrote up the article, something suddenly caught his eye. Just for a moment, but it was enough.

One of the guitarists-- "the eccentric one" as he had dubbed him in his notes-- had turned aside, pulling down the scarf that covered the lower section of his face. What Gavin had seen was, well, to put it plainly, impossible. The man sneezed violently, then went about the task of re-wrapping his face. Before he was finished, however, Gavin nudged his photographer.

"There. Now."

"But what---"

"Just aim and snap. That's what the paper is paying you for."

The elderly Hispanic man, (what was his name again? Mack? Marcus?) nodded and took a quick shot. "Aye, aye cap'n. But I don't see what's so important about the Looney Toon in the band. Everyone in the press core leaves him be. Why? Well, frankly, Ringo and Paul are much more photogenic and interesting and---"

"Just give me your camera." Gavin barked out his second order. This one more confusing than the first.

"But don't you want a few more pictures? Of Sir Paul, perhaps?"

Gavin felt his blood pressure rising. Irritating little-- "No! Now go on back to the truck. I'll be there in a bit. I have to ask that guitarist a question."

"No one interviews him." Marc objected as he turned and headed towards the exit.

"I will." Gavin took off in the direction of the stage door. "And be the first to do it, too."

The photographer mumbled something in Spanish, which, had Gavin had the patience to have actually listened to, would have been roughly translated to: "You'll be laughed out of the industry." But, as stated, Gavin had no time to give the mumbling of his companion a second thought. He had one goal in mind-- find out who that man was. And if he was who Gavin suspected he was, a hefty sum of cash would be in the reporter's future. Gavin could see it all now: He'd be the toast of town. A shoe-in for the Pulitzer Prize in Journalism.

It was with these fantastic dreams swirling in his mind that Gavin walked off, eyes glazed over.

Had he been more aware, he would have seen a man watching him from the wings, face creased with worry, typing on his laptop to a friend hundreds of miles away.

}}}} We have a problem. {{{{

* * * * *


Gavin Adams might also have noted a woman standing just inside the backstage door, head bent down, clearly nervous. She wasn't a fan, oh no. More an old acquaintance who'd finally decided to check in with her past.

"Right this way." A friendly female stagehand came to the blonde woman's side.

She pulled at the strap of her purse anxiously. "Thank you." She returned with a smile.

The arena was actually quite luxurious backstage, she noted. Rather like the ones they played back in '64. You wouldn't know it from the rough exterior, of course. Hockey players don't really use the dressing rooms, do they? They just go out on the floor and hit each other around for a while and--- Her thoughts ran all over the board. Strange, disjointed-- all with one goal in mind: keep from thinking about seeing him again.

At that moment, the door opened.

He looked good. Well, aside from that damn habit of his to dye his hair, but she could understand that, she guessed. Being the "Cute Beatle" and gray hairs really didn't mix.

"Hello, Paul."

"My God. Cynthia!"

* * * * *


Outside he was smiling, but inside his brain was screaming. How Paul was managing to keep an intelligible conversation going was beyond him. Especially since all his brain was supplying him at the moment was Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap..... "How's Jules?"

"He's well."

She was still beautiful. John had been an idiot to let her go. John. He finally got his brain out of curse mode. Where's John? He tried to make glancing around frantically look as natural as possible. George. He'll know.... Great and all.... but where's George?

"Paul? Everything okay? Should I have waited longer before I came back here?"

"No. It's quite alright. Just many things ta take care of, that's all." Damn you, Geo.

Another knock came on the door and Paul was almost afraid to answer. Maybe if he ignored it, it would stop.

"Paul?"

"Everythin's fine, luv."

"The door?"

Pause. "Oh."

He swallowed hard and turned the knob. It would be the mother of all Explanation Times if that was John on the other side of the door. "Who's there?" He leaned against the door to block it.

The door flew open, sending Paul into the wall and sandwiching him behind the door.

"Stop playin' games, Paulie." Ringo walked through, tossing his coat on a nearby chair. "Ah need a shower, a snack, an' then go out for a bite with Jo---" He was brought up short when he caught sight of John's ex. "-- Cyn!"

"Richard." Cynthia extended a hand, which he took quite awkwardly.

Upon peeling himself off the wall, Paul came to Ringo's rescue. "'Ey mate. Look who hid in the audience tonight. Didn't even 'ave the common decency to let us know ahead of time so we could publicly embarrass 'er onstage."

She laughed. "Precisely why I didn't say anything."

The next few minutes were filled with "catching up"-- information on old friends, stories about others-- anything to stall until Paul could figure out what to do next.

Maybe Ah could excuse myself, step out into the hallway an' find George before---

"What's this?" Cynthia leaned over and picked up a coat slung haphazardly on the costume rack.

Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap... There went that old train of thought again. It was John's. A few weeks back he'd ordered it off the Internet from a man who claimed it was an exact replica "Of the coat John Lennon wore on the roof of the Abbey Road studios". Of course, it wasn't, as John instantly proclaimed, but he kept it anyway, just because he found the whole business terribly funny. John Lennon, paying some Joe Schmo so he could have an exact copy of his old clothing!

But now Cynthia had it in her hands. Alarm bells rang through both Ringo and Paul's minds.

"It looks like---"

"That needs to be washed!" Ringo snagged it, quickly hurling it across the room. "Terribly dirty thing. Ah think some roadie left it."

"But it's almost identical to---"

"Somethin' we should 'ave burned a while ago!" Paul cut in. "Quite right. Not sure why we left it laying there. But ya get busy, ya know? Tourin'."

Cynthia studied them both for a minute. "It's alright. You can say his name around me. I got over John a long time ago." She sighed. "And I do miss him. Every day. Just like I know you boys do."

Paul was hit with the worst feeling in the pit of his stomach. They were pitiful liars. Keeping John's existence from his own ex was.... cruel. But they had to. For everyone's sake.

"But you know what? I'm sure he's watching us right now."

That's it. Twist the knife a little bit more, why doncha? Ringo grunted a bit in spite of himself.

Cynthia didn't pick up on their anxiety however, taking it as discomfort instead. "He'd only have good things to say about all three of you, I know."

* * * * *


"Yer a bleedin' ass, George Harrison." John mumbled as they rushed through the halls backstage.

"Love you too." George glanced over his shoulder. That damn reporter was still chasing them. Can't take a hint, can 'e?!

John rolled his eyes. "What's this all about, anyroad?"

"Nothin'. Just keep walkin'."

"Just "nothin'" doesn't warrant bein' pushed about the corridors!"

"Keep yer voice down."

"Got a headache?"

George gritted his teeth. "There's a man with the LA Times right behind you. Now, ya want yer face plastered all over the news tomorrow, ya stop. Ya want ta keep goin' on this tour, ya shut yer yap an' pay attention."

Shocked out of his cockiness, John nodded numbly. How---? Oh Christ. That damn sneezing fit. He'd had to readjust his wrap.... "'E saw?"

"Well, 'e isn't followin' us ta ask for mum's chilli recipe." George turned a corner sharply.

"Sure about that? Didja ask?" John couldn't help cracking.

"Shit." They'd hit a dead end. No way out now.

"Such language, Georgie." John reprimanded. He joked, but he knew they were trapped. This didn't look good at all.

"Sir! Could I speak with you for a minute?" The voice of their persistent persuer echoed in the hallway.

Only one card left ta play. Muttering a quick prayer for deliverance, George turned slowly. He needed to buy John time. They needed a miracle, and they needed it now. "What can Ah do for ya?"

"Mr. Harrison!" The reporter, who George noted from the press pass was named Gavin Adams, looked absolutely stunned. "I didn't know that was you."

"Evidently." He answered coolly.

"I, uhm, I was wondering if I could talk with your friend there."

"Who?" George knew the question was stupid and useless, but anything to hold off a bit longer. To his credit, John tried his best to look oblivious behind George. Not like the trapped rat that he felt like.

"You, sir." Gavin spoke to the wavering figure behind George. "I was hoping for an interview."

The imposing form of George blocked his path. "'E can't. 'E's busy."

"How about we ask him that?" Gavin felt himself gaining confidence. What the heck was George Harrison doing protecting some strange guitarist? Unless he was right all along.... Pulitzer, here I come. He smiled a bit.

George was stuck. No way out now.

* * * * *


"Could I have an interview sir?"... "What's your view on the conflict in the Middle East?"... "When are you and Heather tying the knot?"

Three heads whirled in response to the commotion originating directly behind them.

"Now ease off, blokes. Ah'll answer everyone in good time." Paul turned the corner, bearing down upon John, George, and a reporter who appeared to have backed them into a corner. "'Ey George! Imagine meetin' you 'ere! What a coincidence."

Thank god. George could have laughed with relief. Leave it ta Macca.

In the swarm that had gathered in the corner, Gavin could barely make out "Eccentric". Let alone get up close to him. He tried the polite way, but after meeting with no success that way, he opted to duck under hundreds of photographers, journalists, and, to his surprise, other members of Paul's band. What was this? A moshpit? Elbows flying, he felt as if he were making no headway at all. After several minutes of floundering uselessly, ihe stood up in a fashion akin to a man surfacing after scuba diving. Rubbing a bruised cheek, he looked around frantically. Where'd he go?! Left. Right. Nothing.

"It'll be some time in June." Paul answered in regard to the date of his and Heather's wedding. Frankly, they hadn't even thoroughly discussed such a thing yet, but the Press jumped all over "the date" anyway.

There!! Gavin caught a hunched over figure in baseball cap and scarf heading for the exit. Ducking under the sea of arms again, he made a bee-line for the rapidly retreating form.

"Everythin' alright?" George Harrison appeared before him, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Yeah. I just have to leave now. Breaking news." Why is it every time I come close, George shows up to run interference?! He thought angrily. Then a light bulb went off over his head.

Literally.

"What happened to the lights?!" A frantic man with the New York Post exclaimed with alarm.

"No need to panic, folks. Just a fuse, Ah'm sure." Paul's voice echoed from somewhere in the mass of bodies.

George has been covering for that damn Eccentric all along! Betcha he cut the lights too. Gavin whipped out his flashlight, casting the beam all around. Fool me once, shame on you, but fool me twice... He fumed.

In the dim beam, he saw him. The Eccentric. No one in my way this time. He took off at a dead run, snagging the man by the arm. "Finally." He yanked the hat off, grabbing at the scarf. "Proof!" He exclaimed.

The lights came back on suddenly. Gavin's face fell.

"Whaddya want?" The unmasked, unshaven roadie hissed. "Can't a man walk around without bein' soddin' accosted?!"

"I-- I thought---"

"Well, ya didn't think enough, didja? Goin' around an' yankin' at people's hats. REALLY. I'm filin' a complaint with your paper, son. See if you work in this town again."

How could I have been WRONG?! Gavin thought with despair.

* * * * *


But Cynthia had seen it all. She'd tagged along with Paul's press envoy, despite Ringo's protests. And now she knew why he was so frantic to keep her in the dressing room. From the dim beam of the reporter's flashlight, she saw two men exchange outfits, the first ducking off into a side room, the other taking his place lounging up against the wall.

The second man was a roadie.

The first was unmistakable.

It was John.

* * * * *

Maybe it was just a trick of the light. She couldn't have seen what she thought she had. It was impossible. He was dead. Sure, she hadn't seen the body, or the ashes.... and the last time they'd talked they were fighting.....

But he was dead. Everyone said so. The world had mourned him. Yoko had cried publicly on many occasions.

Had it all been one big act?

No! Cynthia's brain screamed. Deception on this level wasn't possible! It couldn't! He wouldn't do this to her! No matter how much they had said, quite publicly, that they hated each other and couldn't stand to be around the other... he--

She broke down outside Paul's dressing room. She couldn't even bring herself to walk in and face a man who had also lied to her. Sure, she hadn't seen Paul for many years, but what right did that give him to lie to her? Frankly, he was the worst kind of liar in her mind. He had brought John along on the tour with him, playing under a false identity. She'd been in the dressing room, seen John's coat---

Confront him about it. That was the only choice left to her now. She'd walk in and ask him point blank what he knew about John, and why he had kept it from her for 21 years.

"Bloody amazin', Macca."

One idea scratched. It was his voice. John's. How had they gotten back to the dressing room before her?

"Why do ya think I'm picky about the arenas Ah play? They need ta 'ave a good system of 'idden escapes just in case of--"

"A Press press?" John laughed at his own joke. "Ya set that up, didn't ya? Brought as many reporters with ya as ya possibly could ta create chaos."

"An' what's wrong with that?" She could sense in the tone of his voice that Paul was smiling. "It saved yer ass, didn't it?"

This isn't happening. I'm dreaming. I'll wake up and find myself flat on my back in Paul's dressing room. Ringo will be standing over me, waving his hand like mad, checking to make sure I didn't smash my brain. I'll laugh at him and push him aside, saying I'm fine. Then George will come back and all four of us will head out to a diner somewhere for a late meal, catch up on some business---

So why was it when she pinched herself, nothing happened? Worse than nothing, actually. For she was still standing in the hallway, listening to her "dead" husband's voice.

Which had just stopped. Had she tipped them off? Damn. Hiding place... hiding place... Cynthia looked around frantically for anything to conceal herself behind. She was determined of one thing; not to leave until she knew the truth of this whole ugly business.

"Where's Ritchie at?" John’s voice came through the door once again.

"Ah told 'im ta stay 'ere with---" Paul stopped.

"With---?"

Silence seemed to indicate Paul was considering how to break the news he had. "Cynthia. She was... she saw the show tonight."

"CYN?!"

He sounded mad. She laughed bitterly. I've more the right to be mad than him. When things fell silent within the room, she cursed silently. They'd heard. She turned heel and ducked behind a large garbage bin parked against the far wall. It smelled something awful, but it would have to do.

Paul emerged into the hallway, followed closely by George.

"Who's there, Macca?"

"No one." Paul scratched his head.

"Ah'm hurt." Ringo's voice heralded his entrance long before he came into view at the end of the hallway. "Ah'm a someone by now, aren't Ah? Been mates with ya long enough ta account for somethin'."

"So it was you then, Ring?" The direction of John's voice indicated to Cynthia that he was right inside the doorway, just out of her line of sight. She tensed.

"Me? What did Ah do?"

"Laughin' at the door. Spyin' on us."

"Me?" Ringo repeated, eyes wide as saucers. "Ah didn't say---"

"Did she go 'ome, then?" Paul cut in.

Frustrated at receiving no answers to his questions, Ringo asked, "Who?"

"Cynthia."

"Laughin' at me. Imagine such a thing." John elbowed George.

"Ah didn't!" He shot, then turned to Paul. "An' she didn't. She just vanished."

"Vanished?"

"Ah wouldn't think Ah laughin' at ya, John. Too much me mate for that, ya see." George and John continued on with their side conversation, plunging the Beatle banter further into chaos. Cynthia chuckled. Just like the old days. She sighed. When I was part of it. Relevant. When John didn't feel that the only way to shut me out was to fake his own death.

"There it is again!" John walked straight out into the hallway. "The laughin'."

Ringo cocked his head. "Ah didn't 'ear any laughin'."

"Clean out yer ears, then."

She could have sworn her heart stopped beating at that moment. He was alive. It was true. No joke. And he looked good... for a dead man. "John." She whispered the name several times in succession, as if to validate that he was really there standing before her, shaggy gray hair flopping about comically. Older, but there's no doubting who that is.

"Come back in, John! 'Ave you lost yer mind?! Someone could see you!" Paul reached for John's arm, only to be eluded by mere inches.

"Ah 'eard someone laughin' at me, Ah tell ya!" He insisted.

"You an' yer delusions. Tell me, was it a bird?" Paul retreated back into the dressing room.

John turned in exasperation. "Now 'ow am Ah supposed ta know that from a laugh?"

"John's got a fantasy bird!" Ringo stifled a giggle. "ESP an' all that."

"Ah see funny people." George bugged his eyes out, voice in a hushed whisper.

Paul threw his makeup towel at George from inside the room. "Come 'ead, you daft buggers. John won't get yer jokes, George."

"Ah've seen the bloody "Sixth Sense"!" John protested as he followed the others back inside. "Ya left me alone in the trailer so damned long Ah think Ah've seen every movie made from 1980 until yesterday!"

"Yesterday..." Paul sang from inside the room as the door closed.

"Don't you start. Ah never liked that song anyroad."

"Sod off!"

Cynthia stood up. Her shock and heartbreak turned to rage. She'd teach them a lesson about playing with the public... and her. This was more than an outrage. Thousands of dollars had been donated to various groups "in loving memory" of John Lennon. Not to mention that 8 million dollar Strawberry Fields memorial Yoko had erected in Central Park. How could John have sat and watched all of this? Didn't he have any conscience at all?

She'd fix him yet. Starting with that reporter from the LA Times.......

* * * * *


Gavin couldn't remember the last time he'd spent such a long time focused on his shoes. But it was better than the alternative, he realized. Meeting his boss' gaze was infinitely more terrifying right now. Mr. Peterson might not have had that cauldron in the back of his office, and those stories of human sacrifices could have been just talk--- but right now, he didn't want to test the wrath of the "News Warlock" any further.

"Well, Mr. Adams...."

They were just joking about the scores of young reporters that had seemingly vanished off the face of the Earth after entering this office, right? He tensed. "Ye-yessir?"

"Nervous, I see."

He cleared his throat, fighting to control the stutter. "Yessir."

"Good." Peterson turned to the manila file folder on his desk, contents spread out like a deck of playing cards. Mr. Peterson was just deciding what to play out of his hand first. "You've cost us a lot the past 12 hours."

"I know, sir."

"Stop "sir-ing" me, kid. God, you'd think you had been called up in front of the military tribunal." He leafed through the papers for the dozenth time in the last five minutes.

Considering I'm in the line of fire, and it's about 2am, one has to wonder. Gavin licked horribly dry lips.

"Assault, huh? Quite interesting."

He was done. Toast. About to be run through the paper shredder.

"Now, I might have been able to help you clear that little matter up if it weren't for the fact that I don't have a story in front of me. Or pictures. Just a police report."

"Should I go pack up my desk?" Gavin almost added a 'sir' at the end of his statement, but cut himself off quickly. No sense in raising more ire than he already had.

Peterson nodded slowly.

Gavin turned. This was it. The end of the line. Ironic that he had just remembered what that dope Marcus had said: "..out of the industry." Talk about insult to injury.

"Where are you going, kid?"

"To pack my things?"

"Did I tell you to leave?"

"Uhm, well, not as such, but---"

"Sit."

Gavin descended into the chair next to the desk with a thunk.

"Stay."

"If I could explain---"

"Did I say 'speak'?"

"No." He closed his mouth quickly. I'm such a good little puppy. He chided himself. Silence made the air in the room feel extremely thick and hot. Gavin knew his future with the paper was being considered at this very moment, and nothing he could say now would change the decision about to be handed down.

"While this is against normal policy---"

"It's been a pleasure working with you, sir." Gavin cut in quickly.

"Adams?"

"Yes?"

"Shut your freaking mouth."

"Yessir."

"As I was saying before you interrupted--- and don't think I didn't notice that 'sir'---"

"Yes s---" Gavin caught himself. "Yes, I see."

Peterson continued, "You've been quite reliable in the past, so, while this is a highly irregular procedure, I'll grant you a reprieve this once."

Gavin gaped happily. "Oh thank you!" Sir.

"But---"

"But?"

"But." The editor stood, eyeing the boy icily. "You have to bring in a headline making story. By Friday."

"But today's Tuesday."

"Then you have some time on your hands, don't you?" Running a hand through his carefully maintained brown hair, Peterson waved dismissively with the other. "Friday."

"Ah." How the hell am I supposed to come up with something that big in three days? "Easy as pie." He was a terrible liar, he knew it. But what else was he supposed to say?

Mr. Peterson chuckled. "See you Friday, then."

"Friday." Gavin squeaked.

* * * * *


"So, then 'e says ta Georgie, "Ah didn't know that was you!!" John exploded into drunken giggles. Ringo and George followed suit, minus the 'drunken' part. Paul, however, could have been pushed off the bar stool with a feather. After a night of near-misses, John's coping mechanism of choice was booze. And a good deal of it. One of the perks of fame was finding a bar at the drop of a hat... and having it cleared out, especially for you.

"Such a wanker." Ringo was nursing a glass of ice water, having gone "dry" many years before, but still immensely enjoying the tale of the upstart newsboy.

"An' then Georgie turns ta 'im like Schwartzenagger an' says," John did his best mimicking of George's accent, "Evidently"." He laughed again. "It was bleedin' priceless."

"Alright, boys. Enough's enough." A voice came down on their heads from above.

"God?" Paul squinted upward into the lights of the upper deck of the bar.

"If you like." Heather Mills descended down a short flight of stairs to the boys' table. "Just remember to keep calling me that after we're married."

Paul groaned. "Me ball an' chain is 'ere."

John turned his head to the wall, wrapping the scarf back over his face. He didn't go out in public anymore without a hat, but when it was just him and the boys, the damn scarf could go to hell for all he cared. But now that Paul's fiancé was in the room, it was back to incognito. Even drunk, he could manage to get his brain to realize that much. Granted, there were little pink elephants doing the Tango everywhere he looked----

"Are you drunk?" Heather sighed.

"Careful Mills. You two are already soundin' like an old married couple." George warned.

"Quite a bit, actually." Paul gave her a slobbery, booze-scented kiss.

"Well, I hate to break up the party, but I do have that charity interview tomorrow at the LA Times offices. It's nearly three in the morning. You may find it fit to sit here all night getting progressively snockered, but I have to get some sleep." Heather tapped her foot.

Paul went for his glass, missing entirely and nearly skewering his eye on the straw. "Then go. Ah'll get back ta the bus before too long."

Her eyes went wide, but it was clear she was fighting to maintain her strict, disapproving look. She wanted to laugh out loud. "Time for bed."

"Oooo. Ah'm gonna get me some." Paul laughed, elbowing the others.

"You smell like a brewery. The only 'some' you're getting is some headache pills and a cold shower."

"Aw, luv."

"See you boys tomorrow." Heather waved as she pulled Paul out the door. "Bye Joe!" She waved to John's hunched over form. He grunted deeply in response.

As soon as Paul and his intended were out of sight, George and Ringo let out twin sighs of relief.

"Ah don't think Ah can take any more close calls t'night." Ringo muttered.

"Time ta pack it in for the night." George poked John on the arm. "Let's go, boy."

No response.

"John?" George shoved the man's arm out of the way, revealing Lennon plastered to the tabletop, drooling merrily. "'E's out like a light."

"You take 'is feet, Ah got the arms." Ringo offered, standing up and coming around to George's side of the table.

"Why do Ah 'aveta take the business end?" George complained.

"Because Ah already called the safe end."

Drunk guitarist slung between them, Ringo and George made their way slowly to the exit.