Paddy Bostock - Chosen

“By the by, speaking of revolution, would you care to see my version of the bonkers banker singing Lennon’s song of the same name. The voice and image syncing is pretty decent even if I say it myself. I’m particularly pleased with the way Jeremy handles the line about refusing to contribute money to people with minds that hate.”

“With pleasure,” said Dame Muriel, the echoes of “All You Need Is Love” still playing in her hippocampus.

And so impressed was she with what she saw and heard that, tentatively when The Reconstructed Beatles’ version of “Revolution” was over, she asked OO17 if she might have the pleasure of finally meeting this bonkers banker chappie in person.

“His name is Jeremy, ma’am. Jeremy Crawford.”

“Ah.”

“But yes, I’m sure a visit could be arranged.”

It was on the journey to Fanbury in the old Morris Minor Traveller that Maurice and Dame Muriel thrashed out a few of the key operational elements when it came to the release of the new Beatles material across the Internet. And now she was fully on board with the plan, Dame Muriel proved her worth. Not for nothing had she been promoted through the ranks to become head of MI6.

“A number of questions I have for you, Double O Seventeen,” she said as they left behind them the mayhem of London traffic and took to pottering along country B roads.

“Fire away, ma’am,” said Maurice, braking behind a flock of sheep herded by a rookie Collie called Ronnie who was being put through his paces to no great effect by a pipe-smoking shepherd called Albert, such that the sheep were confused and wandering about all over the place.

“Numero uno,” said Dame Muriel. “And do let us drop the ‘ma’am,’ shall we? From here on in you can be Maurice and I can be Muriel.”

“Okay… Muriel. And your numero uno?”

“What the narrative is that shall accompany your message, video or blog or post or tweet or whatever these things are called nowadays.”

“Narrative ma’am… um, Muriel?” said Maurice, watching on in amusement as Ronnie failed to obey Albert’s double-whistle command to coax a ram from a ditch and instead cocked his leg against a silver birch sapling.

“Yes. You see, in my understanding, what you have on offer in this band of yours is a bunch of well-rehearsed and very cleverly computer-manipulated nobodies purporting to be The Reconstructed Beatles. Correct?”

“Indeed so.”

“And how are we going to cover our backs with the two that are still alive? Remind me.”

Maurice nodded, one eye on how Albert might persuade Ronnie to stop pissing on trees and get on with his job.

“As I said, I’ve already talked to them and they’re happy to lie low and let others impersonate them,” he said. “I’ve shown them clips of my work and they just laughed and said ‘good luck, pal,’”

“Okay, that all seems in order. And are we also safe as far as the dead ones’ families are concerned? We must be super-careful not to give rise to either offense or legal repercussions in their case, particularly that of Lennon’s, seeing as he’s so critical to your story. In regard to which, have you consulted his widow yet?”

“Yoko. Yes, I called her in New York and she’s on board big time. Loves the idea. Nothing she’d like better than a revolution and she is even prepared to make a cameo appearance herself if required, so no danger of law suits there,” said Maurice.

“She lives in New York?”

“Yes,” said Maurice, watching on as Ronnie the Collie, with Albert’s assistance, finally managed to persuade the ram (called Desmond) back to his feet and join the rest of the flock.

“Problem there, Double O Seventeen?”

“No, ma’am. Not if what you’re suggesting is fellow New Yorkers and friends would know the truth of her whereabouts and it would not have been on some desert island with John.”

“That is precisely my suggestion. Could blow our entire enterprise wide open.”

“Indeed it could have, but as it happens, that was a problem Yoko herself foresaw and addressed.”

“By?”

“Explaining her absences from New York were frequent and, to protect her valued privacy, she never told anyone where she was going so she might just as well have been on a desert island with John as anywhere else.”

“Fine. So that just leaves the other dead fellow. George, if memory serves. You have spoken to his kin too?”

“Yes. And they have no more of a prejudice against tribute bands than Paul, Ringo or Yoko as long as a slice of any proceeds go to the support of Hare Krishna. George was a very spiritual person.”

“And where is he supposed to have been since he ‘died’?”

“In a Hindu monastery at a secret location in India. The death was feigned in order to escape the evils of the material world. Like John, however, he becomes so disturbed by the re-emergence of oligarchic and fascist tendencies across the globe that he agrees to break his purdah this one true time and play a few of his old band’s songs to remind folk of the sort of world he still dreams of and the urgency of reawakening that vision.”

“And you truly believe people will swallow all this?”

“In the alternative facts world we live in, ma’am, I suspect there is a distinct possibility. The power of Internet myth these days is such that people will believe practically anything,” said Maurice as Ronnie managed to herd his sheep into an adjacent field and Albert tapped out the dottle from his pipe on a boot and waved cheerily at the Morris Minor Traveller to continue its journey.

“And Lennon’s voice will be his own or…”

“It will be his, but coming from the mouth of Jeremy Crawford, his avatar. You seemed to like the way I had fitted those things together.”

“I did , Double O Seventeen, pardon me ‘Maurice.’ I thought it a splendid piece of work.”

“Well then, we finally seem to be singing from the same hymn sheet here ma’am… Muriel,” said Maurice, tapping his foot on the accelerator, which responded with a tired grunt but at least they were underway again.

“And your other pertinent questions were?”

Dame Muriel had two more. Firstly, which songs Lennon and the faux Beatles would be performing, and secondly which channels he was thinking of using to maximize their distribution.

Maurice shrugged while yet again being obliged to halt the Morris Minor Traveller, this time behind a broken down tractor that had jack-knifed across the road the wagonload of dung it was towing.

“Well,” he said, “my preferred compilation would be ‘All You Need Is Love,’ ‘Working Class Hero,’ ‘Revolution’ of course, and then after the Beatles’ split up, ‘Give Peace A Chance,’ and ‘Imagine,’ although the latter would have to be a solo piano effort. Not too hard to work it up, though. If I can manipulate whole bands, solo piano jobs shouldn’t be too hard.”

“And the distribution?”

“The usual Internet channels. Unless of course you could…?”

Dame Muriel chuckled. “Use my influence with GCHQ to see what sources they might be able to open up for our little charade?”

“Well, that would be an aw fully good idea. Wish I’d thought of it myself,” said Maurice, who had thought of it himself but didn’t like to say so. “An excellent source. Just think of the contacts they must have,” he added, winding up his window against the stench of dung seeping through it from the stricken wagon ahead of them.

“Well, I believe that about settles matters, Double O Seventeen. So it’s all systems go and let us hope we hit our targets. Now , I’m so looking forward to meeting these new chums of yours,” said Dame Muriel rubbing her hands. “Take us much longer to get there, will it?”