The Attic

Nine

            “No.”

            John was adamant.

            “But it’ll be safer for you to be apart, less chances—“

            “Paul’s ill, and he’ll need someone to take care of him. And we can’t endanger anyone who isn’t a target. So we’ll be staying together.”

            “We can have agents assigned to his care—“

            “No.”

            The officer turned to Paul. “What do you think?”           

            Paul was fiddling with the hem of the shirt he’d been stuffed into, even though he was in no state to be out and about, much less dressed. He looked up, surprised that all the noise was meant for him to hear and respond to.

            “Oh, I’d rather stay with John.”

            John squeezed Paul’s arm slightly in reassurance and gratitude, but this time Yoko saw.

            Her face acquired a slightly pinched expression that none other than her son noticed. “Mummy?” Sean asked, wondering why she looked so upset.

            Yoko looked down at him and smiled. John knew her quite well, but she was good enough to hide her moods from him when she wanted to. Sean was the only one who could read her no matter what; he was a bright child, and they had a connection. He’d spent nine months growing inside of her, in which she’d whispered things to her swelling belly, explained the world and her fears and happiness to that little bean of a baby that grew up to be her five-year-old son.

            “It’ll be alright,” she said, though she wasn’t sure if it was true; she wasn’t even sure why she was saying it.

            “Visitors for Mr. McCartney,” a nurse said, knocking on the open doorway next to Yoko, who was standing awkwardly outside Paul’s room. Inside, both John and Paul looked up, and Paul nodded, looking confused.

            Paul shifted around his bed. Another police interview? He’d told them all he knew already. He could already hear the footsteps leading up to the room.

            And then he saw her, red-faced from the cold, her hair a puffy blond mess, behind her trailing from each arm James and Stella, with Mary running to jostle her way to Daddy’s bed.

            Paul smiled his wide, chipmunk smile, that made his entire face look rounder and softer, as Stella tried to crawl her way into his bed. Linda didn’t miss the wince when Mary leaned into his arm, but patient as ever, Paul said nothing.

            “Are you okay?” Stella asked, her little eyebrows arched and her miniature face showing pure desolation.