Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘This isn’t that kind of show,’ says Elf.

‘Customer’s always right, honey-pie,’ says Shark Eyes. ‘Boys?’ He and his gang link arms and perform the can-can with the jerky malice of mods on speed. They advance to within a few yards of the stage, where the can-can stops as suddenly as it began.

‘Play something, then,’ says a mod in a Union Jack jacket.

‘None of your hippie bollocks,’ warns another.

Levon steps in front of the stage. ‘Lads, we play what we play. If you don’t like the music, the door’s back there.’

Shark Eyes gurns mock astonishment. ‘A Yank ? Fucksake. What are you doing here?’

‘Canadian,’ says Levon, ‘and I manage this band, so—’

‘If it looks like a faggot,’ Shark Eyes drops a glob of spit onto the floor, ‘dresses like a faggot and squeals like a faggot …’

‘You won’t like our music,’ says Jasper. ‘You may as well leave.’

‘“ You may as well leave ”!’ mimics Union Jack Jacket. ‘You beastly wuffians! Who are you? Little Lord Fauntleroy?’

‘OY!’ Griff stands up. ‘We’re FOOKIN’ WORKING .’

With his vest and wild barbarian hair, Griff looks crazy enough to be a threat – but not to Shark Eyes, who starts laughing: ‘ A Yank, a toff, a hippie moo, and a Yorkshire Yeti! It’s like the first line of a fucking joke. What are you?’ He’s pointing at Dean. ‘The Pixie Bumboy?’

Off to one side, an arm swings and a projectile spins at Dean. He ducks, but Griff stumbles back clutching his head, falling over his drums. The cymbals clash like a punchline. Union Jack Jacket calls out, ‘ One hundred and eightyyy! ’ like a darts scorer.

The mods hoot and laugh, but Griff doesn’t get up. Levon and Elf hurry over. Dean peers at the damage. Griff’s face has a gruesome gash oozing blood. The zig-zag cap of the bottle , thinks Dean, or an edge on his drum-kit …

‘Griff?’ Levon’s saying. There’s blood on his shirt. ‘Griff!’

Griff mumbles, ‘Lemmegetmy’andsonth’fooker …’

Levon roars at the bar: ‘Barman! An ambulance! Now! An emergency! His eyeball’s half out!’ Dean doesn’t think an eye is out … but the mods don’t know that .

The barman shouts back, with a phone in his hand, ‘I called the porter! He’s calling the cops and an ambulance!’

Dean shouts at the onlookers: ‘Remember their faces!’ He points at the mods, whose smirks are fading. ‘The cops’ll want witness statements. D’you fuckers know what that is?’ He points at Griff. ‘That’s five years’ prison a head for GBH!’

A flash goes off. It’s Jude, with a camera.

The flash goes off again. The mods take a step back, and another, and another, except for Shark Eyes who marches at Jude, snarling, ‘Gimme that fucking camera!’ Dean drops his Fender and jumps down from the stage. Now Shark Eyes is in a tug-of-war with Jude over her camera. He’s roaring, ‘GIMME THAT, YOU BITCH!’ It’s a one-sided fight until Dean grabs a bottle of brown ale from a bystander and brings it down on Shark Eyes’s head with all his might. Dean feels something crack. Shark Eyes lets the camera go and turns to look at his assailant, woozily. Fuck , thinks Dean. Am I the one going to prison for five years? To Dean’s relief, Shark Eyes’s gang hustle their leader from the scene of the crime.

Drizzle coats the Students’ Union car park, and everyone in it, in a cool, wet layer. Most of the spectators have left. The mods have vanished into the night. ‘Your friend’s injury looks worse than it probably is,’ says the ambulance man, discussing Griff. ‘But I’m guessing the duty nurse’ll want to keep him in over the weekend. He’ll be X-rayed, he’ll need stitches and there’s a concussion risk with head injuries. On the whole, your friend’s lucky he didn’t lose an eye.’

‘I’ll follow you to the hospital in my car,’ says Levon.

‘I’m coming with you,’ states Elf.

‘There’s no need,’ says Levon.

Elf ignores him. ‘Dean can drive the Beast back, and …’ Dean guesses she’s stopped herself saying, ‘Jasper’s not going to be much use to anyone’. ‘I’m coming with you.’

Dean asks the ambulance man, ‘Can we say goodbye to Griff?’

‘Be quick, and don’t expect sparkling conversation.’

‘He’s the drummer,’ says Dean. He goes around the back and steps into the clean, cream-coloured interior where Griff is sitting up on a trolley. Half his face is bandaged. He looks at Dean. ‘Oh, bugger. It’s you. I’ve died and gone to Hell.’

‘On the bright side,’ says Dean, ‘if that scar turns out nice, yer’ll get a lifetime of work in horror movies.’

‘How’re you feeling?’ Elf holds his hand. ‘Poor thing.’

‘Getting glassed is light entertainment up in Hull,’ says Griff. ‘Who’s minding my drum-kit? I don’t trust them students.’

‘It’s in the Beast,’ says Jasper. ‘We’ll keep it at my flat.’

‘If yer snuff it,’ says Dean, ‘we’ll flog it to yer replacement.’

‘Good luck finding a drummer who’ll keep you on the beat.’

‘’Scuse me?’ There’s a girl’s voice behind them. Dean turns around to see Jude hesitating by the ambulance door. ‘Can I …?’

‘Come on up,’ says Levon.

‘Sorry to barge in. I just … I feel awful, for you.’

‘Apologies are due from the Students’ Union,’ says Elf, ‘but you’ve got nothing to be sorry for.’

‘Your music was fab.’ Jude tucks a fallen strand of her hair behind her ear. ‘Until you were so rudely interrupted.’

‘Wish I could agree,’ says Dean. ‘But thanks.’

‘Will you be back to finish the gig?’ asks Jude.

The band look at each other. ‘Not unless we’re paid blood money,’ says Dean. Levon pfffs . ‘We’ll wait until Griff is back to full strength before planning our next move.’

She glances at Dean. ‘So I guess it’s bye, then …’

The A23’s cat’s eyes vanish beneath the Beast in sweeping curves. Now you see ’em, now you don’t. The amps, drums and guitars shift around in the back. Four of us drove down , thinks Dean, and only two of us are going back. Jasper has retreated into Jasper. Or maybe he’s asleep. What’s the difference? Dean wishes the Beast’s radio worked. His mind is busy. Thank God Ray didn’t witness that shit-show. Shanks, Ray and Co would have fought off the mods, but Utopia Avenue’s disastrous debut would have had credible witnesses. Sounding good in rehearsal doesn’t count for shit if we can’t do it onstage. A band is only a band if it believes it is, and Dean isn’t sure if he, Jasper, Elf and Griff do. When push came to shove, they didn’t click. He’s got a working-class affinity with Griff, but Jasper’s from a different planet. The Planet of the Posh Weirdos . Dean’s lived with Jasper for eight weeks, but he still hardly knows him. Elf thinks Dean’s an oik. How could she not? Her naughtiest swear-word is ‘damn’. Her parents will bail her out if her adventures in showbiz go wrong. She lives life with a safety net. Even Griff’s got a safety net .

‘Not me,’ mutters Dean.

‘Did you say anything?’ asks Jasper.

‘No.’

The Beast enters a tunnel of trunks and branches.

A dead pheasant is smeared into the road.

I need the others more than they need me , thinks Dean. Jasper could jump ship tomorrow. Any band in London would want him. And then I can kiss my Mayfair flat goodbye. Griff has the jazz circuit. Elf has a solo career to go back to. Levon has Moonwhale, an office in Denmark Street and, after tonight, Dean guesses , serious doubts about throwing good money after bad. What have I got? Utopia Avenue. Dean’s future was supposed to take off tonight.