Missing You...

Chapter Twenty-One

Thursday, 10 September 1981

Paul had recently returned to his London home, exhausted and miserable. He had been touring around most of the known world (and, he felt, some unknown) for over nine months. Normally he wouldn't have felt quite so melancholy, but some awful feeling of remorse still hung over him like a shadow. It was as frightful as it was inconvenient.

Paul hadn't heard from John since the night of the shooting. The loving note he had discovered on the floor of the ambulance was all he had left; a note and wonderful memories. Paul dug in his pocket and brought out the little cartoon drawing John had given him on that fateful night. He carried it around wherever he went now, keeping it carefully folded and tucked away in his jacket pocket.

Paul gazed at the drawing, taking in every tiny detail. Then he unfolded it further, hands trembling, to reveal the affectionate inked message inside. Reading it was especially hard now, for it had been exactly a year since Paul had last seen his dearest friend.

"If only I could speak to you again," he murmured, fighting back tears.

The silence was harshly disturbed by the sound of a phone ringing. Paul snapped out of his despairing trance and got to his feet, shuffling over to the table in the hallway where the phone was. He didn't really feel like answering it, but being the polite person he was, it felt wrong to ignore it.

Sighing heavily, Paul picked up the phone on its fifth ring. "Hello?" he mumbled.

"Hello?" said a strange, nasally voice. "Hello?"

Paul didn't recognize the voice for a moment. "Who is this?" he asked suspiciously.

"Who is this?" the voice asked.

"Paul McCartney," Paul replied after hesitating for a moment.

"Oh, good! I've got the right number!"

There was silence.

"Hello?"

"I haven't hung up," Paul said. "Now, who's calling? This better not be a joke."

"No joke, Paulie. Just an old friend wanting to say hello."

Paul's eyes nearly popped right out of his head. Suddenly, he knew whose voice it was. He knew who was calling. He hoped it was who he thought it was.

"Johnny?" he whispered.

"The one and only," the voice replied, then burst into peals of laughter.

"Oh my Lord, is that really you, John?"

"Of course it is! Who else would it be?"

"Well, I was expecting a call from Queen Elizabeth," Paul said. He laughed. "Just messing with you, John. Oh, God. It's so great to hear your voice again."

"Yeah, makes a difference from your own, doesn't it?" John joked.

"An immense difference," Paul replied. "How have you been?"

"Fine. Sore, but fine."

"You're still sore?"

"Am I, heck! My shoulder still feels like it's got a bloody great hole in it!"

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"But I'm back on my feet, so I guess that's something."

"Mmm."

Another silence.

"So how have you been, Paulie?" John asked. "How did your tour go?"

"I've been fine, more or less. The tour went great. Lots of people turned up to see me and my band." Paul paused, then added in a whisper, "But I miss touring with my old band."