You Say Goodbye, I Say Hello

Good Morning, Good Morning

"Darling?" A voice in the phone asked sweetly.
"Oh, lovely you're back!" Grace smiled, twirling the phone cord around her finger.
"Yes, yes, I'm back," he paused to yawn, "I want to be home already, but Bri needs me for an hour in the studio first... but then I'll be back home to you..." he said sleepily.
"It's already 11– please be careful on your way back, will you? It's raining like all hell out there..."
"Oh love, you have no idea how much I missed your worrying," Paul soothed.
"Mm.." Grace hummed.
"I'll be home soon, alright? I'll be carefu- yes, Mr. Martin, I'm coming! I'm sorry Gracie, I hav'ta go."
Grace hummed, "I love you..."
"I love you too, dearest. Bye now," he said before the line went dead.
Grace placed the phone on the receiver and made her way towards the kitchen. She picked up the empty kettle and filled it with water from the tap before placing it on the stove. Lingering by the small flame for warmth, Grace looked out the window anxiously. It had been a rainy few weeks, and she had protested Paul driving up North to see his father for the weekend because of the rain, but he had promised that he'd be careful and that he'd call at his last pit stop. Brian had called earlier to tell her that they needed Paul's opinion on some of the mixing for Revolver, so him being tied up at work wasn't a total surprise to her. The kettle had started to squeal, and she quickly removed it from the stove as to not wake Mary and Stella who were sleeping upstairs. The sound, however, did wake their newest addition to the family. An old english sheepdog puppy that Paul had named Martha.
"Oh, Martha, hullo," she cooed as the ball of fluff waddled up to sit by her feet.
Martha's tail wagged at the attention as she looked expectantly at Grace for a piece of whatever she was having. Grace opened one of the drawers where they had stashed Martha's treats and knelt down to give it to her. Martha laid down with the bone shaped biscuit between her paws and gnawed on it with her back teeth.
Grace soon finished fixing her tea, and patted her hip for Martha to follow her to the sitting room. She was used to waiting for Paul to get home and would often find herself reading or knitting to pass the time. This time, however, she snuggled up with Martha on the couch and sipped slowly at her tea. After what seemed like a decently long amount of time of sitting in silence, she looked up at the clock and furrowed her eyebrows. It was 12:45. Paul had said they'd only be there for an hour. She stared at the clock for a moment before standing up and walking towards the front door. She pried it open just slightly to get a look outside. His car wasn't there, and it was still raining.
She shut the door and sighed, giving one last glance towards the clock before slowly making her way towards the linen closet. She pulled out a blanket and retreated to the couch where Martha had fallen asleep. She laid down as quietly as she could as to not disturb the puppy and wrapped herself in the cover. She closed her eyes, but tried to be aware for the door.

There was knocking. It had woken her up with a start. She rubbed at her eyes as the knock came again. She hadn't remembered falling asleep, but she looked up at the clock. 5:39 am. She clenched her jaw, wondering what Paul could've possibly been doing that warranted him being out all night. If he had spent the night at John's, why would he come back so early in the morning?
It hadn't occurred to her until she reached the door that Paul had a key.
She opened the door and her heart dropped with so much force that it winded her.
"O-Officers?" She asked.
"Agents Maxwell and Donald from MI5, actually. Are you Mrs McCartney?" one of the door men asked.
God, he couldn't have gotten arrested, Grave thought, He's not careless like that. And certainly not by the government.
"Ma'am?"
"O-Oh—" she said blankly, "Yes... what—... what's this about? Has Paul done something?" She asked, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. Her voice wavered, worried for her poor husband who probably was falsely accused and had rotting away in a cold cell somewhere all night.
"Are your children home?" Maxwell questioned.
"Y-Yes, sir. Now where is Paul?" She asked again.
"Take a step outside, Mrs McCartney," Donald told her, gesturing with his arm.
"No— Not until you tell me where my husband is!" She said sternly.
Both agents gave her a pitying look and it clicked for Grace instantly. She gained a dazed expression of disbelief, and she began to shake.
"Come on outside, Miss," Donald said again, but with a quieter tone of voice.
She stepped forward, her expression still blank. She wouldn't believe it. No, she would not. Not until someone said something.
"Where is he?" she spoke bleakly, "Where's Paul?"
Maxwell hesitated, "This morning at 5 o'clock..." he started, "Paul left Abbey Road Studios in his car..."
Grace could only hear small chunks of what was being said. It felt like a horrible dream.
      "....ran a stop light..."
                         "..fog..."
"Collided with a traffic pole..."
                                             "....fire..."
"...died upon impact..."
Grace fell back against the closed front door as though someone had pushed her and began to sob. She cried into her hands, scratching at her face and trying to make it all stop. The agents stood in front of her, allowing her to cry for a moment before speaking again.
"I'm so sorry for your loss..." he started, "But you have to understand that this is all highly confidential—"
"What?" She sobbed, "Confidential for what?" She growled.
"I..." he paused, "Your husband was one of the most famous individuals in the world, ma'am. News of his death could cause mass suicides of young fans around the world."
"Take me to him," she demanded.
"I'm afraid we can't."
"Why not?" She began to raise her voice, "I'm his wife. H-How can you be sure it's him? I-I need to see him!"
The agents shushed her and looked around, "Mrs McCartney— I can assure you it's him. The other Beatles identified him and..." Maxwell paused to pull something from his pocket wrapped in tissue paper.
Grave covered her mouth with her hands and whimpered. She held one hand out to grab what Maxwell held in front of her.
"We found it on him," Maxwell said, placing it into her hand.
It was Paul's bracelet that John had bought for him when they went to Paris.
"No... No no NO..." she wailed, caressing the silver bracelet.
It had burn marks around the edges and a blood splatter across the engraving of Paul's name.
"I-I need to see him, please— PLEASE, Oh, Paul—"
"One of the young men who identified him asked that you don't see him," the Donald, keeping a level tone.
Grace looked up from the bracelet angrily, "No. He's my husband. You can tell my brother where I told him to shove it I—"
"Mrs McCartney, it was Mr Lennon that requested you don't see him."
Grace blinked at him, her tears still falling in fat droplets down her cheeks, "Take me to my husband," she demanded softly.
The agents exchanged a look, "Ma'am I—" he paused, "He doesn't look like how you remember him... The accident was very severe... If it were me... I wouldn't want to subject my wife to that sight."
"I don't care! Take me to Paul."
Maxwell sighed and nodded hesitantly, "Don, stay in the house with the kids until we're back," he said, "I'm going to escort Mrs McCartney to the coroner's office."
Don, as Maxwell had referred to him as, nodded and quietly opened the front door of the McCartney home. As the door shut behind him, Grace turned to the other officer.
"Are you sure you want to see him, Mrs McCartney?"
Grace nodded and hugged her arms around her waist meekly.
The officer gestured for her to get into the black car that sat in their driveway. She made her way towards the passenger side door before looking up at him.
"W-Why aren't you driving a government car?" She mumbled.
"It's suspicious for us to be here in a government vehicle," he said.
Grace swallowed hard and opened the door. She sat down and looked at her lap. It felt like the world was spinning. There was a constant ringing swelling in her ears and everything was moving in slow motion. If Maxwell had spoken to her at all during the car ride, she hadn't been alert enough to hear it. It felt like they had been driving for hours before they finally reached the coroner's office. Grace could feel her heartbeat in her throat, choking her.
"This way," he said, leading her through the doors.
She followed as they drew deeper into the halls of the building. There was a door that was blocked by men dressed in dark suits standing stately on either side.
"His wife," Maxwell said quietly.
The man on the left opened the door and Grace stepped in slowly, Maxwell close behind her.
There were three mops of hair sitting in chairs along the side of what seemed to be a waiting room. The walls were plain and it smelt heavily of embalming fluid and old flowers. The three Beatles had their faces buried in their hands until she walked in.
George was the first to raise his head, "Oh, Gracie..." he said bleakly. His face was red as though he had been crying all morning. He stood up and enveloped his sister in a tight hug that made her certain that it was true.
She shook in his arms, "Please... Please tell me I-I'm dreaming, Geo— he c-can't—"
George shook his head, "I can't..."
"I thought I told you fuck heads not to bring her here," a familiar voice spoke.
"She was insistent. She is his wife after all, I can't deny her the right to see him."
Grace pulled away from her brother to look at John. He looked impossibly worse than George did. His eyes were red and it looked his his whole face was swollen from crying.
"Grace, don't see him," John demanded, "I'm telling you now."
His voice was hoarse and nearly completely gone, either from screaming or crying or both.
"I have to," she whimpered, "I-I c-can't belie—"
"His head's not on," John said harshly.
The other beatles flinched at the comment, but Grace only stood looking dumbly at John.
"W-What?"
"I said his head's not on," he repeated, "He's burnt and m-mangled just don't see him. Please, Grace."
Grace felt like she was going to be sick from that knowledge, but couldn't work up the strength to move a single inch.
"Where is he," she whispered, staring through John.
John stared right back and pointed at the door on the far corner of the room.
It took every last bit of will power for Grace to move her feet towards the door, but eventually reached the doorknob. She turned it slowly, the creak of the wood rang throughout the room. She hadn't realized that her eyes had been closed until she peeled them open.
Then she screamed.
It was unlike anything she could've ever imagined. She could hear distant sobbing from the three Beatles behind her as she rushed to Paul's side. His hair was sparse, almost entirely burned off which left only the blistering skin of his scalp. He was burnt all over, skin peeling and withering away from his corpse. One eye had been crusted shut whereas the other seemed to be missing. His eyelid was torn, but had sunken into it's socket in the eye's absence. His cheeks were shredded, looking like something had stabbed through them on each side. The tearing continued to his lips which led Grace to believe that it had been his teeth that had done the damage. Then there was the worst of it.
His head wasn't attached to his neck. She could clearly see the stringy tendons and vessels of his jugular, although it had probably been significantly cleaned up. She gagged and covered her mouth with her hands. She saw the small bin beside the table and threw up until she was dry heaving. She cried into the bin— a piercing wail that echoed in the room and surrounded her. Finally standing up again, she gently let her fingers run across Paul's face.
"P-Pauly..." she whimpered, "G-God... look what's h-happened to you..."
She stared at him and thought of everything that they had done together.
It all seemed so far off, like another lifetime...