Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

There’s a pause. ‘I don’t remember.’

The Beast pulls into the Students’ Union car park, where Levon is leaning against his 1960 Ford Zephyr. Dean steers the Beast into the adjacent space and kills the engine. There’s no sign of Shanks’s van. We’re still early. The silence is sweet, as is the air as they climb out. Dean stretches. ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’ escapes from a nearby window. The moon is a chipped cue ball. The Beast is attracting attention: one passing joker calls, ‘Oy, pal, where’s Batman?’

Levon, too, assesses the band’s new purchase with interest. ‘Well, it’s definitely not a joy-rider’s magnet.’

‘She’s a sturdy workhorse, is the Beast,’ states Griff. ‘And, thanks to my uncle, it’s a fookin’ bargain.’

Levon scratches his ear. ‘How does she handle?’

‘Like a tank,’ says Dean, ‘’cept on corners, when she handles like a coffin. Won’t go above fifty, either.’

‘We bought her for lugging gear,’ says Griff, ‘not for setting land-speed records. When did you get here, Levon?’

‘Early enough to collect our cheque from the Students’ Union. Once bitten by the we’ll-post-it-on-Monday line, twice shy.’

A gum-chewing girl passes Dean and eyes him up as if she’s the guy and he’s the girl. Yes, he thinks. I’m in a band.

‘Well,’ says Levon, ‘this lot won’t lug itself up the stairs.’

‘Give our roadies the evening off, did you?’ asks Griff.

‘If you get a gold disc,’ says Levon, ‘we’ll talk roadies.’

‘If you get us signed,’ growls Griff, ‘we’ll talk gold discs.’

‘Play a hundred scorching shows,’ replies Levon, ‘and recruit a legion of fans, you’ll get signed. Until then, we all lug the gear. Three journeys’ll do it. One of us stands guard. If you never trust anyone older than five and younger than a hundred not to steal your gear, you might just hang on to it. What is it, Jasper?’

‘Us.’ Jasper’s pointing at a noticeboard.

Dean’s eyes skip over posters for ‘ANTI-VIETNAM WAR SIT-IN’; ‘BAN THE BOMB’, ‘JOIN CND TODAY!’ and ‘WHY NOT TRY BELL-RINGING?’ before finding his own face in a 2x2 grid of the band’s portraits, taken by Mecca. The reproductions have come out cleanly. ‘UTOPIA AVENUE’ is printed in a fairground font with an empty rectangle below for location, time and price, if applicable.

‘Welcome to the big time, boys and girl,’ says Griff.

‘It came out pretty nicely,’ declares Elf.

‘It looks like a Wanted poster,’ says Dean.

‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’ asks Jasper.

‘It’s the rock ’n’ roll outlaw thing,’ says Elf.

‘Less “outlaw”,’ Griff scrutinises Elf’s portrait, ‘more “Employee of the Month”. No offence.’

‘None taken. Less “outlaw”,’ Elf studies Griff’s portrait, ‘more “Third in the King Charles Spaniel in a wig contest”. No offence.’

The venue is a long thin hall, like a bowling alley, with a bar up near the door and a low stage at the far end. Windows run down one side with evening views of a treeless campus. To Dean, the whole place looks like it’s made of Lego. The decorator was keen on glossy sewage brown. If full, the venue would hold three or four hundred. Tonight, Dean guesses, there are fifty. Ten more are gathered around the bar-football table. ‘I hope nobody gets hurt in the crush when we start.’

‘We’re not on till nine,’ says Elf. ‘Plenty of time for a cast of thousands to walk on. Any sign of the Gravesend mob?’

‘Obviously not.’ Stupid question.

‘Excuse me for existing.’

Two students approach from the bar. He has a musketeer’s beard, a mauve satin shirt. She has a black bob, big mascaraed eyes and a zigzag sleeveless one-piece that barely reaches her thighs. I wouldn’t say no , thinks Dean, but she’s staring at Elf as the musketeer speaks first. ‘I’m Gaz and my powers of deduction tell me you’re Utopia Cul-de-Sac.’

‘Avenue.’ Dean rests his amp on the ground.

‘Just my little jest,’ says Gaz. Dean thinks, He’s stoned .

‘I’m Levon, the manager. I’ve been dealing with Tiger.’

‘Ah, well, Tiger’s otherwise engaged. He asked me to stand in and guide you to the stage. It’s’ – he points – ‘there.’

‘I’m Jude,’ says the girl. She’s not stoned and speaks with a West Country twang. ‘Elf, I adore “Oak, Ash And Thorn”.’

‘Thanks,’ says Elf. ‘Though the music we’re playing tonight’ll be a little … wilder than my solo work.’

‘Wild’s good. When Tiger told me you were in the band, I said, “Elf Holloway? Book them now.”’

‘She did.’ Gaz puts a proprietary hand on Jude’s rear.

Dean thinks, A pity. ‘Better do the sound-check.’

‘Just play loud,’ says Gaz. ‘It’s not the Albert Hall.’

‘Could I ask …’ Elf peers at the stage ‘… where’s the piano?’

Gaz’s eyebrows fuse when he frowns. ‘Piano?’

‘The piano Tiger promised to have ready onstage and tuned for the show tonight,’ says Levon. ‘Twice.’

Gaz whistles softly. ‘Tiger promises a lot of things.’

‘We absolutely need a piano,’ says Elf.

‘Bands bring their own instruments,’ adds Gaz.

‘Not a piano they don’t,’ says Griff. ‘Not unless they turn up in a fookin’ removal van.’

‘I don’t care if Tiger’s otherwise engaged or not,’ says Levon. ‘He’s paid to do the logistics. Just get him here.’

‘Tiger’s undergone a metamorphosis,’ explains Gaz. ‘His Third Eye’s opened. Here.’ Gaz touches his brow. ‘He set out last Tuesday and no one’s seen him since. On the cosmic scale—’

‘Look, Gaz,’ says Levon, ‘I don’t give a shit about the cosmic scale. We’re on the we-need-a-piano-now scale. Get us a piano.’

‘Man, your aggro is bumming me out. I’m not your skivvy. Wrong attitude. I’m doing Tiger a favour just by being here. I’m not the ents officer. Bugger this, man.’ He glances at Jude, who looks pained, and heads for the exit.

‘Oy, Fuckface!’ Dean steps after the departing stoner. ‘Don’t—’

‘Don’t waste your energy.’ Levon grabs Dean’s arm. ‘I’m afraid it happens with student unions from time to time.’

‘You booked us this gig. Why are we even bloody here?’

‘Because student unions pay relatively well, relatively reliably, for relative nobodies. That’s why we’re here.’

‘But Elf needs a piano. How do we do our set?’

‘I knew we should’ve loaded up the Hammond,’ says Griff.

‘If yer knew that, Mr All-Knowing Wise One,’ says Dean, ‘why didn’t yer bloody say so when I said, “Shall we load up the Hammond?” and everyone was all, “No need, Levon’s checked twice and there’ll definitely be a piano”?’

Griff comes to within head-butting distance of Dean. ‘If anyone has the right to be pissed off, Mr Arseypants, it’s Elf. You’re fine. You’ve got your bass.’

‘It’s spilled milk,’ says Elf. ‘Next time, we’ll load the Hammond. Levon, what do we do now? Cancel the gig and go?’

‘Problem is, if the Students’ Union cancel the cheque, I can’t really get legal on them. If you can play for an hour, the money’s ours. Forty quid. Divided by five.’

Dean thinks about his debts and his bank book.

‘Let’s think of it as a band practice,’ says Jasper. ‘It’s not as if any press or reviewers are in the audience.’

‘But what do I play?’ Elf scratches her neck. ‘If I had a guitar, I could at least do a couple of folk numbers.’

A rowdy cheer explodes over at the bar-football.