Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘I won’t remember any of this, will I?’

Unalaq doesn’t say yes and doesn’t say no.

‘I understand. If the government knew about Horology, they’d put you all in a lab and you’d never see sunlight again.’

‘I’d like to see them try,’ says Unalaq.

‘Or if the public knew about predators like Enomoto … Or that death is postpone-able … What wouldn’t change? What wouldn’t the powerful do for a supply of Oil of Souls?’

A garbage truck growls by. Glass smashes in its innards.

‘Your life is waiting, Jasper.’

‘Could I just ask if Horology—’

Jasper is on the pavement looking at Unalaq’s Arctic eyes.

‘Horology?’ she asks. ‘Isn’t that repairing old clocks? I don’t know much about it, I’m afraid. Bye, then.’

Jasper watches the car vanish around the corner.

‘Buddy,’ says a drug dealer at Jasper’s shoulder. ‘Whadd’ya need? If I ain’t got it, I’ll get it. Tell me. Whadd’ya really need?’

Elf, Dean, Griff and Levon sit around a Spanish breakfast.

‘Eh up,’ says Griff. ‘Here comes Trouble.’

‘Of all the ways to dodge an encore,’ says Elf.

‘Got a decent review, considering.’ Dean holds up the New York Star. ‘’Pparently yer collapsed ’cause of …’ he searched for the line ‘… “incandescent creative genius”. Who knew?’

Levon stands up and clasps Jasper’s shoulder. ‘I woke up and thought, Shit, I don’t even have the name of the clinic! Then the phone went, and it was Dr … Marino telling me all was well. I nearly died of relief.’

‘Indestructible, is our Jasper,’ says Dean. ‘He’s prob’ly immortal but hasn’t told anyone.’

‘What is “an endocrinal imbalance” exactly?’ asks Elf.

‘Elf,’ says Dean. ‘Let the poor guy catch his breath. Jasper mate. Sit down. Have a splash o’ coffee. How d’yer feel?’

From now on , Jasper decides, I am a student of feelings. ‘I feel …’ He looks at his friends. ‘As if my life is beginning.’

I’m A Stranger Here Myself

Why bloody not? Dean loops the strap of his Brownie around his neck, climbs onto the balcony railing, grabs the arching trunk of the tree and starts to shimmy up it, koala-like. The bark is scaly and warm against his skin. Below, Laurel Canyon falls away. Shallow-angled roofs, flat roofs, plants from Tarzan films and swimming pools in backyards. Not ‘back gardens’ in America. Dean reaches a ‘Y’ in the trunk and perches there. The ground’s a long way down. Broken limbs if not a broken neck. He looks through the Brownie’s viewfinder, doubtful that the camera could capture a tenth of the majesty of the view. Los Angeles, gridded by streets, flat as a puddle, a mile off. The Pacific Ocean is a navy stripe, tinselled. I’m the first known Moss or Moffat to see it. The Californian sky is the one real true-blue sky. British blue skies are just a cheap knock-off. Same goes for flowers. Flowers here spill, explode and riot. Scarlet trumpets, frothy lilacs, blushing stars, twisted spires. What a place, what a day, what a time … Cars rumble. Insects wind and unwind. Birds call strange notes. Dean takes a photo, just to show Ray and Shanks when he gets back. Landwards is Joni Mitchell’s verandah, almost level with the ‘Y’ that Dean is perched on. She’s trying out versions of a first line: ‘ I slept last night in a fine hotel …’ Then, ‘ I spent last night in a good hotel .’ Then, ‘ I love to stay in a fab hotel …’ The melody’s beautiful. I’m going to ask Elf for piano lessons …

The longer Dean’s away from London, the less he wants to go back. Reverse-homesickness. In England’s favour, ‘Roll Away The Stone’ is now at number twelve in the UK charts. Utopia Avenue, if it was a football team, has spent its life knocking about in the lower reaches of Division Three. Almost overnight, they’ve been promoted to the top half of Division One. People are starting to recognise Dean, and ask for his autograph. Including bouncers at nightclubs. He has a cherry red Triumph Spitfire in a lock-up behind Levon’s flat in Bayswater. Not to mention regular nookie with Tiffany Seabrook, foxier than all my old girlfriends rolled into one. On the other hand, England also means the Craddocks, a baby boy who might be Dean’s son, and Craddock’s lawyer who is proving to be no push-over. England means Rod Dempsey, who is acting more like a Kray Twin by the day. England is 80 per cent income tax, miserable weather, strikes, only one flavour of ice cream – white. Plus, if Great Britain likes the band, America bloody loves us. After their rocky opening night at the Ghepardo, the band played three strong shows to growing houses. Jimi Hendrix hung out backstage on the Friday. Ginger Baker wants Dean on his next LP. A coloured model made a move on him several nights ago at the Chelsea. How could a gentleman refuse?

‘Dean?’ Elf’s on the balcony in her yellow hippie-chick shift, looking around. Her hair’s bundled up in a towel. She can’t see him. He’s tempted to hide, but: ‘Me Tarzan,’ he calls down, ‘you Jane.’

‘Jesus! Is that safe?’

‘Relax. I’ve read a million Spiderman comics.’

‘You have a phone call.’

Here? ‘Well, yer can tell whoever that I’m up a palm tree in Laurel Canyon, and I’m never coming down. Unless it’s Jimi, Ginger, or Janis. I’ll come down for them.’

‘What about Rod?’

‘Rod Stewart? Seriously?’

‘No, you dolt. Rod Dempsey. Your pal.’

The forty-foot drop below lurches into four hundred. Dean grips tight. ‘Uh …’ If I avoid him, he’ll guess it’s ’cause I helped Kenny ’n’ Floss skip town. ‘Tell him I’m on my way …’

‘All hail the King of America!’

‘Yer voice is dead clear.’ Dean tries to sound casual. ‘Who knew the phone lines stretched this far?’

‘Age o’ the satellite, matey. Tour going well? The NME said yer went down a storm in New York.’

Dean feels like a defendant having his guard lowered by a few easy openers. ‘Jasper collapsed onstage the first night, but he’s fine now. This’ll be costin’ yer an arm ’n’ a leg. What can I do for yer?’

‘First off, my estate agent says yer ’n’ Jasper can move into the Covent Garden flat. No deposit needed for a pal o’ yours truly.’

‘T’riffic, Rod. Thanks a lot.’

‘Happy to help. Item two’s a bit less t’riffic, I’m afraid.’

He knows about Kenny ’n’ Floss. ‘Yeah?’

‘Delicate one, this, so I’ll jump straight in. Two days ago I heard a nasty rumour ’bout a set o’ shall-we-say “artistic” pictures of the missus of a famous filmmaker doing the dirty with a young British bass player on the top floor o’ the Hyde Park Embassy.’

How? How? Down the wooden hallway, Elf and Jasper are harmonising on Jasper’s ‘ Who was that in Central Park? Who was laughing in the dark? ’ line.

Rod asks, ‘Yer still with me?’

‘Yer seen ’em? The pics? With yer own eyes?’

‘I took the liberty, yeah. ‘Cause we’re mates. I needed to check if the rumour was bollocks or kosher. ’Fraid to say, it’s kosher.’

Dean forces himself to ask: ‘What can yer see?’

‘Handcuffs. Faces. Coke. Not only the faces. They’ve got yer.’

Beads in the doorway clack in the draught. ‘Who took ’em?’

‘Probl’y, an insider at the Hilton recognised yer and tipped off a specialist. Looks like a hole was drilled through the adjoining wall. They’re top quality. All very James Bond.’