November 17^th 7.00pm

 

“Paul! Paul! Have you got any comments for us, Paul?!”

 

The reporters and cameramen all clamoured towards him, blocking the driveway, forcing Paul to stop the car. He shook his head through the glass, holding his palm down on the horn. It made no difference, the journalists didn’t move. Paul revved his engine threateningly. They moved slightly apart and Paul inched the Mini forward. As he was part way through the gate, Paul looked to his left.

 

A little way off from the throng of journalists, three of the girls – Paul’s ‘Gatebird’ female fans – were standing. They caught Paul’s eye and he stopped the Mini again. The news of the charge against George had obviously leaked out already. Their faces were grey; their usual smiles replaced by lost, miserable, tearful expressions. One of the girls, Harriet, Paul seemed to remember she was called, shook her head at Paul and mouthed to him, “It’s not true”.

 

Paul turned to the driver’s door and wound down his window. The reporters instantly leapt towards him, sticking microphones into his face. Paul leaned back instinctively.

 

“Paul, what’s going on?” one shouted.

 

“I don’t know…” Paul began.

 

“Have you just come from the police station? Did you speak to Harrison?”

 

“Yes,” Paul said, clearing his throat. “I’ve been at the station all day, but no, I haven’t spoken with George yet.”

 

“Paul, did George murder his girlfriend?”

 

The frankness of that question took Paul aback. He blinked and then turned more towards the reporter who had asked it. “There is no question over George’s innocence. I am outraged that George has been arrested when anyone who knows him knows he would never do a thing like that. Its very sad that that girl had been killed, but if you ask me George has been framed!”

 

Paul stopped himself. He glanced back at the Gatebirds. Harriet managed a weak smile at him and wiped her eyes. Paul smiled back.

 

“What do you mean by framed Paul? Can you elaborate?”

 

“Framed by who Paul?”

 

“You’ve got your comment,” Paul said. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” None of the reporters shifted. Paul blasted the horn again. “If you don’t move, I shall just go over you!” he yelled out the window as he wound it back up, nearly trapping someone’s arm in the process.

 

“Paul, where’s Brian Epstein?” one of the reporters yelled through the glass.

 

Good question, Paul thought but ignored it, pushing the car forward slightly instead. Reluctantly, the press moved aside and Paul was able to move inside the grounds to the house, checking in his rear view mirror that the gates were closing properly.

 

He parked the Mini around the back and wearily dragged himself up to the backdoor, only just remembering, as he reached for the door handle, about the ‘guest’ Jane had said was waiting for him there. That was the last thing Paul wanted to deal with. With a deep breath he readied himself.

 

“Jane?” Paul called as he let himself in. Jane appeared in the kitchen doorway and rushed to him, throwing her arms around him.

 

“Are you alright?” she asked, holding him. “You’ve been gone forever. I was so worried. What’s happened?”

 

Paul put his arms around her, resting his head on her shoulder, taking a deep breath of her sweet smelling hair. Jane, what would he do without her?

 

“Did they get you at the gate?” she asked.

 

Paul nodded as he broke away from their embrace. “I gave them something so perhaps they’ll leave us alone for a bit now.”

 

“Paul, when have they ever left us alone?” she smiled.

 

Paul grimaced. “Bloody hell, Jane, I need a drink.”

 

“I’ll get you something,” Jane said.

 

“Is that man still here?” Paul asked as Jane reached for a glass.

 

Jane nodded, “He insisted he has to talk to you.”

 

“What does he want?”

“I don’t know, he wouldn’t tell me,” Jane replied, pouring whiskey. “So you want water or lemonade with this?”

 

Paul shook his head. “Neither. Neat. Well, perhaps some ice.”

 

“What’s happened to George?”

 

“Haven’t you seen the news?” Paul took the glass from her.

 

Jane shook her head, “No. Like you can trust anything they say on the TV. They’ve had George arrested, released or convicted, depending on which channel you’re watching!”

 

“Excuse me,” a voice said behind Paul. “I couldn’t help but overhear. What’s happened?”

 

Paul turned around. Behind him was a tired looking young man in a grey suit. His tie hung loosely around his neck and his hair was dishevelled. He seemed to notice what Paul was looking at and nervously combed it down with his fingers.

 

“Oh, Mr Morris, I was about to come and wake you,” Jane said. “Paul, this is Mr Morris who has been waiting for you.”

 

“Mark, please,” the man said. “I hope you don’t mind, I had a quick nap. I’ve just got off a plane from Los Angeles this morning. I’ve always been badly affected by jet lag.”

 

“Er, not at all,” Paul said. “If you don’t mind, could you tell me what this is about? I’ve had a very tiring day myself. I need to get some rest myself.”

 

“Of course,” Mark said. “I wouldn’t impose myself like this, if it wasn’t extremely important, Mr McCartney. It’s all I could think of to do. I’ve tried to contact Mr Harrison and Mr Epstein by mail and telephone. I even tried to speak to Mr Harrison in person a few months ago when you were visiting Los Angeles.”

 

“About what?” Paul already had a bad feeling about this.

 

“My sister,” the man replied. “I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me to come to you before. Or Mr Lennon or Mr Starr or someone. My sister can be very… uh, concealing, if you don’t know the whole story, but there are some things you and Mr Harrison, especially Mr Harrison, should know, before anything happens.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Paul said, rubbing his aching head. “I’m not following. Who’s your sister?”

 

“Um… Bridget?”

 

“I don’t know anyone called Bridget.”

 

“Oh. Well, that’s what she was calling herself when she was living with Maxwell. She might be using a different name now she’s with Mr Harrison.”

 

“With… Are you talking about Grace?” Paul said, suddenly realising.

 

“Grace, yes,” Mark smiled. “That’s actually her real name… I didn’t think she would be calling herself that…”

 

Paul glanced at Jane. She looked as surprised as Paul felt. “Grace is your sister?” Paul asked.

 

“Yes…”

 

“Sorry, Grace Burgess?”

 

“Um, yes, Grace Morris, as was.”

 

Something wasn’t quite right. Something in the man’s manner was amiss. Paul swallowed. “You haven’t heard, have you?” he said, his voice having an involuntary waiver to it.

 

“Heard what, Mr McCartney?”

 

Paul gave his empty glass back to Jane, “Could you get me another one?” he asked her. “And Mr Morris too, I think.”

 

“Mark, please, call me Mark.”

 

Jane nodded. Paul turned back to Mark.

 

“Come into the living room,” Paul said. “You should sit down before I say this.”

 

“What?” Mark asked, allowing Paul to shepherd him into the living room. Paul sat down. He beckoned for Mark to as well, but the man remained standing, a worried expression on his face. “What is it? What’s happened?”

 

“You haven’t seen the news today?” Paul asked.

 

“No. Well, I don’t read a newspaper, but I got off the plane today and came straight here. Why?”

 

“Please sit down,” Paul repeated.

 

Mark shook his head. “You tell me what’s happened.”

 

“Grace…” Paul began, having no idea how he was going to actually say it. For some reason his fathers words, telling him and his brother about his mother passing away, ran through his mind. “I’m sorry… she’s dead.”

 

Mark said nothing for a moment, just staring at Paul. Then, finally and slowly, he lowered himself onto a nearby chair. “Wha… How can she be?” he eventually said.

 

Paul sat forward. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

 

“I’m… I’m too late…”

 

“They… uh,” Paul coughed. “They found her this morning. It’s been all over the news. I’m quite surprise you didn’t see anything…”

 

Jane came in carrying a tray. She handed a glass to Mark and then one to Paul. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to Paul. “I didn’t know who he was. I told him you’d gone to the studios.”

 

Paul shook his head, and managed a thin smile to Jane. She excused herself and left them with the bottle. Paul refilled his already empty glass.

 

“How… How did she do it?” Mark said, his voice sounding strangled and forced. Paul could see tears forming in his eyes. Finally, someone other than George with a good word for Grace. “She killed herself, didn’t she?” he said, suddenly recovering his voice. He swallowed his whiskey.

 

“Oh, no,” Paul said, though in some twisted way, he wished that was true. “No she didn’t.”

 

“Are you sure? She’s tried to… before.”

 

“No, she… oh God, I shouldn’t be the one to tell you this…” Paul looked into his face, crumpled with grief. Tears now running freely down his cheeks and off his chin. So many tears today Paul thought. “She was… killed… by someone.”

 

“What?” Mark’s voice was failing again. “Who?”

 

“I don’t know…” Paul said. “But… they’ve arrested…”

 

“Who?” Mark demanded.

 

“He didn’t do it,” Paul said quickly.

 

“Harrison. They’ve arrested him, haven’t they?”

 

Paul nodded. “But…”

 

“What did he do? What did he do to her?!”

 

“Nothing, he didn’t do anything…”

 

“Then why have they arrested him? Answer me that.” Mark stood up, stepping towards Paul and for a fleeting moment Paul thought he might hit him.

 

“I’ve been at the police station all day, trying to talk to George.”

 

“What the fuck did he do to my sister?!” Mark was shouting now.

 

Paul got up, “Nothing. Look, I know you’re upset, but I know George, he wouldn’t…”

 

“He will fucking pay for this. I will see to it!”

 

“Please, Mark…”

 

“I have to go.” He stepped towards the door.

 

“No, wait, what were you going to tell me about Grace?” Paul said, following Mark to the hall.

 

Mark looked back at him, putting his coat on. “What’s it fucking matter now?” he spat, wiping the tears from his face angrily. “It’s too late.”

 

“Please, you can’t leave like this,” Paul said. “At least tell me where you’re staying.”

 

“Mr McCartney, I have to be with my family.”

 

“Yes, but…”

 

Mark wrapped a scarf around his neck and then took a step closer to Paul. “You better hope for his sakes that your… friend didn’t have anything to do with this. You don’t know who my family are. I am going to see someone… hung for this. One way or another.”

 

Paul swallowed, his throat suddenly quite dry. The prospect of Grace having a family hadn’t crossed his mind. The news had made no mention of a brother, parents. Only George. Paul had just assumed Grace was alone. Before he could reply, or find the words to reply, Mark had slammed the door and gone.

 

“Paul?” Jane said.

 

Paul turned. Jane was standing half way up the stairs.

 

“Has he gone?” she asked.

 

Paul nodded.

 

“Is everything okay?”

 

Paul shook his head. Jane came to him and put her arms around him again. Paul stood motionlessly. “They arrested George,” he said quietly. “They’ve charged him with the murder.”