Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

Jasper is noodling on his Stratocaster in his room.

‘Crash us a ciggie too, would yer?’ asks Kenny.

‘Take the pack. What Floss left, anyway.’

Kenny’s hand’s trembling. Dean helps him light up. Kenny takes a grateful drag. ‘When did I see yer last?’

‘March. Grosvenor Square. Day o’ the big demo.’

‘Yeah, me ’n’ Floss tried smack a bit after that. Ever done it?’

‘I’m scared o’ needles,’ admits Dean.

‘Yer can cook it on a spoon and suck the fumes up a straw, but … whatever yer do, don’t go near the stuff. Yer know how everyone tells yer, “Don’t touch drugs” , and yer do ’em , and yer think, They were feeding me bullshit? Well, smack’s the one where it’s not bullshit. First time, it was … a-fucking- ma -zing. Like coming. With angels. Can’t describe it.’ Kenny rubs a sore on his nostril. ‘But yer have to get that feeling back. Not “want to”. “Have to”. Only the second time, it’s not as good. Third time’s not as good as the second. Down it goes. Now … yer gums’re bleedin’, yer feel like shit, yer hate it, but … yer need it to feel normal. Lost my job. Flogged my guitar. Rod gave us a few bags o’ weed to sell. To pay for the smack, like. As a favour. I kept it under the floorboards in our room.’

‘The commune in Hammersmith? Rivendell?’

‘Nah, there was a bust-up.’ Kenny flinches. ‘Rod got us into a place he owns on Ladbroke Grove. A no-questions-asked sort o’ bedsit. A friend o’ Rod’s minded the door, day ’n’ night, so Floss felt safe. All our earnings from the weed, though, went on smack. But yer need more ’n’ more o’ the stuff. So, last week, Rod said he’d pay us a fiver plus an ounce o’ Afghan White a week for “storage”. Meaning, he stored a stash o’ coke under the floorboards in our room. It was our job to mind it.’

Why’d Rod Dempsey trust two junkies to mind a stash of drugs? Dean is afraid he can guess.

‘The Afghan was the purest we’d had in ages. The high wasn’t like the first time, but it was like the fifth or sixth. Better than it’d been for ages. Two days later –’ Kenny sucks the life out of his cigarette ‘– the coke was gone. The floorboards’d been lifted. I told Rod. Straight away. He’s got a psycho side. He screamed at me. Asked if I thought he was stupid. But we never nicked it. I swear on my life. On Floss’s life. On bloody everybody’s life. We never.’

Rod Dempsey nicked it , Dean thinks. ‘I believe yer.’

‘When Rod calmed down, he told me that me ’n’ Floss owed him six hundred quid. I told him we didn’t have six quid. Six bob. So Rod said, me ’n’ Floss could pay him back by …’ Kenny’s finding it hard to talk ‘… going to parties.’

‘What kind o’ parties?’

Kenny’s breathing speeds up. ‘Yesterday night, we were taken to a … a place in Soho, behind the Courthouse. Quite classy. Me ’n’ Floss was separated. I was given a bath, scrubbed down, shaved … They gave me a dab o’ smack – and … there was three men …’

‘What?’

‘Don’t make me spell it out. F’fucksake, Dean. Use yer imagination. Yeah? What yer thinking, that’s what they did. In turns. Get the fucking picture?’

The words are ‘drugged’ and ‘raped’ , realises Dean.

Kenny wipes his eyes on his sleeve. He tokes on his cigarette, sharply. ‘Floss was in the car. After. She didn’t speak. I didn’t. The driver did. We’d earned back ten quid of our debt, he said. Five hundred and ninety more to go. He told us to forget the police. They’re paid off. If we ran away, he said our families’d be liable. He showed Floss a photo of her sister and said, “Lovely little thing, ain’t she?” Back at Ladbroke Grove we had a sleeping tablet ’n’ ice-cream and this morning we got Methadone. Floss told me to get her out o’ this or … she’d kill herself. I know she’s not bluffing. ’Cause I’m the same.’

‘D’yer want to hide out here?’

‘This’ll be one o’ the first places he’ll look.’

‘Why didn’t yer ask for help off the bat?’

‘Floss didn’t think yer’d believe me. Do yer?’

‘I didn’t know Rod did this – but … I’ve seen how he puts hooks into people. Plus, how could yer make this up? Why would yer?’

Kenny, in the half-gloom, grips Dean’s wrist.

Dean takes everything he has from his wallet – over eleven pounds – and puts it into Kenny’s hand. ‘The heroin. I’m no expert, I know from Harry Moffat that just saying, “Quit what’s killing you,” does nothing. But if yer don’t get clean …’

Jasper’s noodling turns into his ‘Nightwatchman’ solo.

Kenny stuffs the money into his pocket. ‘I’ll get us out to the middle o’ nowhere. Somewhere there’s no dealers. Isle o’ Sheppey maybe. I dunno. Find a bit o’ shelter, and … we’ll try cold turkey again. Yer feel like yer bloody dying. But that house in Soho, it was worse than dying.’

The telephone rings. Kenny stands up, pale and shaking.

‘It’s okay,’ says Dean. ‘It’ll be Elf to say she’s late.’

Kenny crouches, like a frightened animal. ‘It’s him .’

‘Honest, Kenny. Apart from at a party last month, I’ve hardly seen him.’ Dean picks up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

‘Dean, how the hell are yer? Rod Dempsey here.’

The air is sucked out of Dean’s lungs. ‘Rod?’

Kenny’s backing off, shaking his head.

Rod Dempsey does a friendly little laugh. ‘Yer sound … funny. Case o’ speak o’ the devil, is it?’

If I needed proof, this is it.

Kenny’s left the flat. The front door’s half open to the pale dusk. I can’t help him, ’cept by lying well enough to fool a world champion. ‘Yer must be a bloody mind-reader, Rod. Swear to God, ten minutes ago – no, five – me ’n’ Jasper were talking ’bout the best dope we ever smoked, and we thought o’ that Helmand Brown. Yer brought it over last autumn, with Kenny ’n’ Stew? Remember that?’

‘An unforgettable night. I can get yer some more, if yer want. Different batch, but just as good.’

‘Perfect. Yeah. Uh. We’re just finishing the new album, but soon after, maybe? I’ll give yer a call.’

‘Will do. Speaking o’ Kenny, have yer seen him? I’m trying to track him down.’

‘So’m I, actually.’ Hide yer lie in a haystack of facts ’n’ half-truths. ‘Not since Grosvenor Square. He was in a commune out Shepherd’s Bush way. Have yer seen him? Is he okay?’

Rod Dempsey calculates. ‘I met him ’n’ his lady friend last month. The Commune was giving him grief, so he asked me to keep my ear to the ground. A pal’s renting a place in Camden, all mod cons, good price. It’s perfect for him ’n’ Floss . Problem is, I’ve lost his number. Could yer track him down for me? Urgent, like.’

Rod Dempsey’s hiding his lies in half-truths too. ‘I’d like to help. I’m trying to think who might know. But I’m drawing blanks.’

‘That’s the thing ’bout London,’ says the drug dealer, pimp and God knows what else. ‘There’s no knowing who’s coming round the next corner. Is there?’

The only signs of Kenny and Floss are two cigarette stubs on the bottom step. Evening is pooling in Chetwynd Mews. Dean’s mind is a noisy Top Five chart of problems and crises. He opens the garage doors to visit his Spitfire. He switches on the bulb and stares at her. The new place has to have a lock-up garage , he thinks, or a beauty like you won’t last fifteen minutes. It’s too late for a drive, but Dean climbs in and tries to find a moment’s peace. He doesn’t. He could be some kid’s dad. That’s the last thing I want. An affair with Tiffany Hershey’s a gratifying thrill, but How’s that going to end? Being turfed out by Jasper’s father is a pain, but it won’t end in homelessness. Kenny ’n’ Floss, though, that’s another matter. Nothing can ever undo what’s already been done to them. Even if – when, if, if, when – they kick the heroin, Dean knows their peace will always be frayed, will always have shadows at the edges. Floss is right to hate me. I’ve got a part in this. Kenny came to London because of Dean, and Dean did nothing to help him. Nothing . A figure crosses the mouth of the garage, stops, and looks in. ‘Hello, Dean.’