'Tell her to get out of here,' the first voice yelled from inside the basement room.

'I can't,' I shouted back, looking up at the pattering rush of high-heel and pump shod feet above me. 'The gate's locked, and anyway there's a fucking stampede of pubescent…'

The man on the staircase with me (I couldn't get a good look at him because of the dank shadows) followed my line of sight and laughed a little. 'Yeh, I suppose so.' He addressed me. 'You can come in for a minute - I suppose you don't look like you're going to start up screaming and clawing.'

'I should hope not,' I muttered, picking up my case and walking in.

It was a room you would expect to see in the basement of an ancient church - small, damp, dark, a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling and a few rotting leather chairs. There also seemed to be a alarming amount of doors recessed in the wall of the closet-sized room. Only after I took in the décor did I notice my company - there were the Beatles and two other men: all hunched over a map, except for the one who had let me in (Ringo).

Paul looked up, muttering, 'Why'd you bring her in, Rich?'

'Didn't want to leave her to the birds of prey out there,' Ringo responded with a snicker.

'Ugg. Birds of prey, ha ha, excellent pun,' said George sarcastically.

Then I noticed something terribly wrong. Yes, these were the Beatles - the identical suits and the haircuts were a dead giveaway. I wasn't an avid follower of popular bands (hadn't much spare quid for new albums), but I listened to this one and a couple others. However much my jazz-obsessed beatnikky friends might scoff, the fact that the Beatles played fantastic music couldn't be denied. And music aside, an unlikely acquaintence of mine a few years back loved to keep me up nights talking about the Beatles and showing me their pictures (not that I minded) - so I was able to match faces with names.

Therefore, certainly I knew that there were four Beatles. But I counted the members of the room once more, and checked the faces of the other two men. No, there was definitely no John Lennon present.

Ringo must have noticed what I was doing, because he said to me, 'He's gone off on us - John has. He was complaining about the press conference all the ride here, and then one moment we looked around, and he'd disappeared.'

'You didn't look for him?' They seemed to be taking the disappearance of their friend pretty nonchalantly.

'Well, we figured he must have disappeared into the church somewhere, and none of us wanted to get lost in this place - some frightening church here.' It was true: St. Alexis wasn't the kindest-looking of the 'houses of God.' And there seemed to be at least six snaking passages to get lost in leading out from the room.

'And we're late for the conference anyroad,' he continued, but looked nervous, though, speaking of John's 'going-off.'

Paul had overheard. 'And that's because the damned driver doesn't know his way around this part of town - I'd like to know who found this guy and show him…' He trailed off into angry muttering.

'Paul's a bit harried over all of this,' said Ringo, making an enormous understatement, from the looks of Paul. 'We're supposed to be at St. Anne's, and the driver (who's out in the limo still, thank god, interrupted Paul) said this was the place, but, ahem, no conference to be found.'

I smiled as I heard one of the two other men, hunched over the map, mumble, 'I didn't even know this part of London existed.'

'So, those mad girls outside had the wrong church and so did you…what luck,' I said ironically. I proceeded to give them directions to get to St. Anne's, which was in the same decrepit part of London town around which I hung. I didn't ask why they were having a press conference in a rather lousy, out-of-the-way church, of all places; perhaps it was some crazy PR scheme. It wouldn't surprise me.

With Paul looking especially grateful for the suddenly-acquired directions to St. Anne's, they all stood up and prepared to leave. There was a brief discussion concerning which of the many doors they had come in from, but finally they agreed upon one.

As they left, I asked, 'So what will you do about John?'

Paul responded, 'Tell the press he took ill, and then…hope he shows up at home.' For all his angry muttering, I could see the worry in his face - in all of their faces.

The bare bulb hanging from the ceiling swung unsteadily as Ringo shut the door, waving goodbye. And I was left alone.