Lydia sits on a bench in Strawberry Fields in Central Park. Sitting on the other end of the bench is John Lennon.
“Alright, love,” says Lennon, flashing her a grin.
“Hi, John,” says Lydia.
“By ’eckers like, is that a Yorkshire accent?”
“Yeah.”
“Ee bah gum,” Lennon says loudly in broad imitation of Lydia. “Don’t say that in America, they’ll go ‘Who buys gum? And why are you telling me this?’” No one else can hear him, because he’s an ayaie that interacts with your glasses when you’re in Strawberry Fields, and everyone has their own private Lennon—unless you turn him off. If you turn your head to the front and look out of the corner of your eye, around the edge of your glasses, he isn’t there. Turn back and there he is, dressed in double denim and a NEW YORK CITY T-shirt.
Lydia is here because she’s putting off a decision and, depending on the outcome of that decision, also a confrontation. She has a notion of what’s going on but she has to get it all clear in her mind, because she’s going to get only one chance to say it to Fitz and hear his immediate reaction: she won’t even get to record it, she’ll have to pay full attention in the moment. She looks for avenues she hasn’t explored, possible ways she’s misinterpreted things, potential evidence that Jene was just a sad, unstable fantasist—and the word is was, because on the way here she received a note from Ondine saying the police let her know Jene turned up in the sewers early this morning, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, and she’d been there since Sunday. She wonders if the bullets will match those used to kill Fitz.
“You’ve got a face like a slapped arse,” says Lennon.
“Yeah, cheers John.”
“What’s up with you?”
“Got a dilemma, mate. Someone I know might’ve done something shady, and I dunno whether to confront him with it or go to the police.”
“That’s not a dilemma,” scoffs Lennon. “You don’t dob a mate in to the bizzies.”
“He’s not exactly a mate. He’s my boss.”
“That is different.” Lennon seems to consider this. “Do you like him?”
“Yeah. So I sort of don’t believe he did this, or that if he did he must have had good reason.”
“But if you grass him up—”
“Thing is, he can’t get in trouble now. He’s dead.”
“Right.”
“But I’m still talking to him.”
Lennon shrugs. “I’m dead and you’re still talking to me, love.”
“Yeah, it’s becoming a habit. I just … if there’s nothing in this, I don’t want to drag his reputation through the shite. I’ve got to be sure.”
“You’ve got your answer then, haven’t you?”
Lydia nods. She has. She knew it all along. But sometimes it takes an artificially intelligent simulation of a long dead Beatle to put things in perspective.