Chosen

by Paddy Bostock

  “Take it or leave it, ducky,” Sir “Six Gun” had texted.

  “Men,” Clarissa/Phoebe spat in response, wondering as she spat how good a plan it would be to implicate Sir “Six Gun” in an inappropriate behaviour towards female—and possibly male—officers scandal. It had worked with Hollywood producers and with the bosses of international aid organisations, so why shouldn’t it work with the boss of the British armed forces?

  But, as usual, Clarissa/Phoebe couldn’t make up her mind on that.

  “Oh, for the love of Christ on a bike,” she screamed instead. “Where is the megalomaniac bonkers banker when I need him? He’s got to be somewhere.”

  Which was a perfectly understandable assumption. As Spike Milligan replied when walking into a room and being asked what he was doing there, “Everyone has to be somewhere!” Clarissa/Phoebe’s problem was she didn’t know where Jeremy’s somewhere was. Time and time again she had called Milly, only to be sent straight to a cryptic voicemail reply saying: “Due to unforeseen circumstances Milly is unavailable. Do not leave a message.”

  The head of MI6 unavailable for a conversation with the prime minister, what in tarnation was that all about? Clarissa/Phoebe toyed with accusations of absence without leave, desertion of post, treachery and even treason but, as with her potential sex pest “Six Gun” allegations, couldn’t make up her mind on this case either. Instead she merely smashed a few smartphones by throwing them on her office floor and stamping on them. For a fleeting moment, she considered calling Hubby at MI5 to see if he had any idea of the whereabouts of either Milly or the bonkers banker or both. The Secret Services were meant to be in constant communication with each other, weren’t they? Also she’d heard whispers on the Westminster rumour mill that Milly and Hubby were an “item.” But Clarissa didn’t call Sir Hubert because she had never liked him much. And liked him even less when he’d been quoted in a Daily Grunt article as referring to her Brexit performances to date as, “Much like a headless chicken ice-dancing in wellingtons.”

  So where was Dame Muriel when Clarissa/Phoebe placed her last despairing call, you will be asking.

  At number thirteen Oakshot Street Tooting is the answer. Watching on with Terpsichore/Tiddles/Cat as Maurice OO17 Moffat sat before his bank of computers morphing The Reconstructed Beatles into an Internet weapon capable of competing with Igor Ripurpantzov’s IRA cyber troll farmers in St Petersburg. And with any luck raising the American public’s resistance to the tweeted delusions of the head case in the White House, the latest of which had proposed arming teachers as the best way to protect students from being shot to death by crazed gunmen, using the tired old wild west cliché, “The only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun.”

  “And you honestly think we can make a difference here, Double O Seventeen? With just a dead-but-not-dead person and a few songs?”

  “And the alternative is what, ma’am? We declare a military war against the Ruskies and the Americans? No, no, in my humble opinion cyber subterfuge is a much more cost effective strategy with the possibility of much higher returns. It has its risks, of course it does. What in human history doesn’t? But an interesting way of puncturing the balloons of the crazies in both the White House and the Kremlin would be to turn their populations against them, do you not think?”

  “Through electoral revolution you mean?”

  “Who knows? That’s how the trick was worked in the US election and indeed in the Brexit nonsense. You may also remember Florida’s hanging chads during the George W. Bush election. But a better alternative would be direct action. After all where did the French revolution come from? Radical ideas generated by largely bourgeois thinkers to begin with and only then the trickle-down mass reaction from les citoyens. After that goodbye monarchs. Similar situation in the American revolt that robbed us Brits of our cherished slab of God’s chosen country. What was the slogan again? ‘No taxation without representation,’ if memory serves.”

  “Mmm,” said Dame Muriel.

  “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.”

  Twenty-eight

  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.”
<
br />   “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 awfully 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?”

  “At this rate, there’s no telling, ma’am,” said Maurice, nodding at the tractor up ahead, which was making farting noises and expelling clouds of smoke, causing the dung wagon to quiver and list dangerously towards a ditch. “But more haste, less speed, eh? Meanwhile I do have cups and a thermos of tea on the back seat should you wish to be mother.”

  Dame Muriel laughed, a rare occurrence for her. “Don’t suppose you brought along any choccie biccies too, then we could have a picnic.”

  “In the glove compartment, ma’am.”

  “Muriel.”

  “Muriel. By the way, just to keep you fully abreast of matters in the hoped-for expectation of your agreement, I have released a little teaser across the Internet to whet appetites of what might be to come.”

  “Teaser?” said Dame Muriel, ferreting in the glove compartment and, to her delight, finding a packet of Jaffa Cakes.

  “You know, a mere hint at the as yet unverified but nonetheless distinct possibility of John and George not having died after all and perhaps—just maybe—being prepared to make a one-off and one-time only comeback.”

  “To tempt the cats amongst pigeons, eh? You naughty boy,” said Dame Muriel, leaning backwards across her seat in search of the tea thermos.

  “Quite. You’ll also find sugar sachets in the box. Two for me, please,” Maurice was saying as magically up ahead the tractor stopped farting and blowing and its driver, Sam Smyles, strolled back to the stopped Morris Minor Traveller to offer his apologies for any delay.

  “Sorry, big end problem,” he said as Maurice wound down his window. “Happens all the bleedin’ time with the old darlin.’ Just needs a bit of a rest and a good talking-to and she’s right as rain before you know it. Anyway, sorry for holdin’ you folks up.”

  “No problem,” said Maurice, “Similar problems with my old darling.”

  Sam nodded sympathetically at Dame Muriel’s backside as she struggled with the tea preparation until Maurice clarified matters by tapping at the Morris Minor Traveller’s dashboard.

  “Ah, yes, sorry, the car,” said Sam. “Also an old lady.”

  “Indeed,” said Maurice. “Care for a cup of tea yourself before you head back with your load of…”

  “Shit for the fields,” Sam explained. “But, yeah, a cuppa would be nice. Very generous of you, squire.”

  And so it was that the head of MI6 and her top trouble-shooter, agent OO17, spent the next half hour sipping tea and chewing Jaffa Cakes in the company of Sam Smyles, who outlined to them with some passion the disasters awaiting local farmers like him once Brexit ensured there would be no more subsidies from Brussels.

  “Be without a living we will,” said Sam. “But the bleedin’ government here couldn’t give a toss, could it? Let alone money. And still they expect us to provide the food for folks to eat. And the cow jumped over the moon,” he added tapping at his right temple.

  It was with those words ringing in their ears that, some hours later, Maurice and Dame Muriel finally pulled up outside the Shepherd’s Hut.

  ~ * ~

  Maurice couldn’t even have guessed at the impact his John Lennon comeback teaser was to have in St Petersburg, where the old man who had inspired his project still looked out to sea daily in hopes of his hero’s return. His neighbours all believed poor old Fyodor Frumkin to be bonkers, harmless, but nonetheless two sandwiches short of a picnic. So they humoured him. Brought him flasks of vodka and plates of pryaniki and stood alongside him as he tended his shrine and sang “Imagine” to himself and anyone else in the vicinity. He’d learnt most of the words in English and had had them translated for him by his clever son Yuri, who worked for some top-secret computer outfit in town. And Fyodor so loved those words. Just to imagine all the people sharing all the world, how good was that? What the hell was the point, he would argue with anyone prepared to listen, in Russia and America continuing to threaten each other with more and more missiles capable of obliterating all the people in the world? No point, was Fyodor’s view. As, of course, had been Lennon’s in his and Yoko’s campaign for peace. Soon Fyodor would die and in some ways that would be a relief. But before that day, even for an instant, could there be a glimmer of hope? And as fate would have it, that glimmer came on a Tuesday evening as
Fyodor was giving Lennon’s shrine a final polish and taking a last hopeful look at the sea before heading home to his shack.

  “Papa, Papa, look at this,” said Yuri, running up to thrust beneath his father’s eyes a smartphone and click on Maurice Moffat’s teaser with its mini clips of the newly emergent and not-dead recluse John Lennon singing some of his favourite songs with his old band. Then came “Give Peace A Chance,” at which Fyodor wiped tears from his eyes before punching air and shouting “alliluyya” (hallelujah in Russian).

  Yuri was delighted. The only child of a widower, he loved the father who had sacrificed so much to ensure his son had the best education in town. Okay, the old man was a bit doolally, but who wouldn’t be after enduring the privations of the soviet time, then rejoicing in glasnost, then watching on as the criminal in the Kremlin stole back all the freedoms? So often as a teenager Yuri had listened as Fyodor told him tales of better times when the world had been more open. When he’d also listened on an old record player to a bootleg original of the Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band LP with its exciting sleeve...and to the Rolling Stones, and to Elvis and Chuck Berry, and to many more. But it had always been to Lennon that Fyodor returned, saying: “Hear what this man is saying, son. He has truth in his heart and isn’t afraid to tell it.” Devastated Fyodor had been when news came through of the New York shooting in which he had never fully convinced himself to believe: hence the shrine, hence the hope. And now it was Yuri who brought his father the news he most wanted to hear, that Lennon was still alive. What better gift could a son give such a father?