People were just sitting, staring, and waiting for what might come next. On stage, Paul gazed out at the small crowd and smiled. “This will have to do.” He turned and said to George and Ringo, both of whom walked to the rectangular box. George walked to one end and Ringo the other. Each lifted what looked like a latch and threw open the lid to the box. George looked in the box, turned to Paul, and nodded. Paul smiled at George, faced the audience, and began to speak. “We are so happy to be here tonight. This show has been a long time coming. We are even happier you have chosen to join us.” When he opened his mouth, it sounded like someone had put on an old record, complete with the crackle and hiss before the song started. Derek looked around to see if anyone noticed the voice abnormality. Everyone else seemed to be staring at the stage as if caught in a trance. Derek felt an uneasy fear creep into him. Something wasn’t right and he couldn’t put his finger on it. He looked towards. I opened the connecting door to the living room and searched through his records for something loud and aggravating to the ears. I would play it on the vinyl player and crank up the volume. At first he acted impervious to it, then in a fit of stoic anger he would get up and slam the door to his library close and turn the lock. He would remain in there till the late hours of the night before coming out and lighting a candle to take upstairs to his bedroom. Sometimes I lay in his bed waiting for him. Other times I stayed in the guest bedroom down the hall from his, preferring to leave him alone till morning. Morning would arrive and it would be the same thing all over again: me coming down the stairs just as the first cock crowed and meeting him there in the kitchen fixing himself a sandwich while a kettle steamed on the stove. ‘Morning,’ said I to him. ‘Morning to you,’ he mumbled with a mouth full of bread. ‘How’s the work coming along?’ ‘Fine.’ ‘Think you’ll be done by the end of.
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