Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘My brother likes his music, and he said a band called Utopia Avenue was playing. My ears pricked up, and hey presto.’

‘I’m amazed yer bothered after the last time.’

‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’

Shanks pops up behind her, signalling that they need to go.

Dean signals for two more minutes. ‘Me and Jasper are staying over at a friend’s here in town. D’yer want to …?’

My my , say Jude’s lifted eyebrows. ‘One step at a time, Speedy Gonzales. My brother’s driving me back to Brighton. I’ve got a job at a cosmetics wholesalers. But …’ she waves a folded-up square of paper ‘… if you’re free – as in not seeing anyone else – here’s my work number. You’ll have to pretend to be a customer or my boss’ll get suspicious. Plus, that’s written on Mission Impossible paper that’ll turn to dust in forty-eight hours.’ She reaches inside Dean’s jacket and slips the paper in. She gives him a peck on the cheek. ‘Call me. Or repent at your leisure. Seriously – the band’s great. You’re going to be famous.’

Shanks puts the nozzle to his mouth and smoke curls down the hookah’s neck – bubble, bubble, toil and trouble – and into his well tanned lungs … and out, in clouds of cauliflower.

‘Are these things legal?’ Kenny asks.

Shanks mimes the scales of justice. ‘The apparatus, yes. The herbal cocktail in the vase might excite the fuzz. I pay insurance.’ A long and living hush unfurls. Jim Morrison sings about The End. ‘Oy, Deano – are we doing okay?’

‘Very,’ says Dean. He takes the nozzle’s nipple, squeezes it between his lips, thinks of Jude and … Suck it up, bubbly-bubble, here it comes, now hold it in … And lets it out again. ‘It’s … like …’ Words are failing me tonight. ‘Breastfeeding plus levitation.’

Brother Ray rocks with laughter. Not a sound comes out.

‘You ’n’ Jasper,’ Kenny says, ‘are like a married couple.’

Jasper’s face reminds Dean of Stan Laurel’s as he thinks this through. ‘Let’s not go there.’ He sucks upon the nozzle. The hookah’s nothing new to him. Jasper lived in Amsterdam.

Dean asks, ‘Would they dig us over in Amsterdam?’

Jasper’s words reverberate a bit ahead of time. ‘First we need a record deal. Otherwise, it’s amateur hour.’

Our end-o’-the-rainbow record deal . Dean feels lost in space and needs to take his bearings. Shanks’s flat above his shop, the fabled Magic Bus. The wee small hours. Who’s who? Yours truly; Shanks the Shanks; his lady friend called Piper; brother Ray; Kenny Yearwood; Jasper and a girl who just appeared, post-gig, with clear designs on Herr de Zoet. She says her name is Ivy. The six of them are motionless. A Rembrandt. See? I know art . Painted by the candle’s brush upon the living dark …

… till Shanks dispels the Rembrandt spell with a flutter-by of words. ‘You four were something else tonight. Out of this freaking world! One o’ these days soon, I’ll be shooting off my mouth, “ Oh, yeah, yeah, me ’n’ Dean Moss go back – we saw Little Richard – I taught him his first chords … ” Those songs! “Darkroom”, “Smithereens”, “Mona Lisa” … each one could be a hit. Don’t you reckon, Piper?’

‘FM radio in Seattle would eat you with a spoon.’

‘I hope it happens soon. I ain’t got a pot to piss in.’

Jasper isn’t listening. His ear is being whispered in by Ivy, Ivy, Ivy. He looks at Shanks who reads his mind. ‘Spare room’s down the landing, kids. It’s only got a single bed. Dare say that’ll do you.’ Ivy leaves, the way cats do, dissolving into shadow. Dean makes sure Jude’s number’s safe. It’s still here in my jacket .

Brother Ray warns Jasper, ‘Mate, I’m impressed. My cock’s as stoned as I am.’ Jasper shrugs.

‘A word o’ warning,’ pipes up Kenny, ‘a scientific fact. Gravesend girls are eggs on legs – all you do is sneeze on one and suddenly they’re three months late, the family’s banging down yer door, all calling you the daddy. Ray here knows of what I speak.’

Ray mimes the hangman’s noose. Ray takes the holy nozzle … and expels a genie, limb by smoking limb. ‘Make sure yer wear a thingie. Yer came prepared, I hope?’

Jasper does a Scout’s salute and follows after Ivy.

‘What ’bout you?’ Ray’s asking him. ‘Getting any oats?’

Piper floats away. ‘Think I’ll retire discreetly, boys, to spare my virgin blushes – see you in the morning.’

Stoned Dean takes another toke – Suck it in, bubbly-bubbly, hold it and release – and hopes the topic’s gone away.

‘What ’bout you?’ Ray’s asking him. ‘Getting any oats?’

Anything for a quiet life . ‘Not much. There was a girl from St John’s Wood at Elf’s sister’s wedding. We had a weekend at her place. That’s all for June.’

‘Yer jammy git,’ says Kenny. ‘All Tracy ever says is, “No engagement ring, no sex – what bit don’t yer understand?” I should just drop her now, but her dad’s my boss. Utter bloody nightmare.’

It’s Ray’s turn: ‘Some days are good. I like being a dad. Mostly when Wayne’s unconscious. But Shirl’s a moody cow, as often as not. I had more crumpet when I was single. Every day she’s turning more into her mother. Marriage is a prison, funded by the prisoners. What d’yer reckon, Shanks? Yer’ve been through the grinder twice.’

Shanks puts the Doors back into their sleeve and puts on Velvet Underground. ‘Marriage is an anchor, lads. Stops you drifting onto rocks, but stops you voyaging as well.’

The first track on side one, ‘Sunday Morning’, pulls Dean up inside it. Nico’s half a note off-key but sounds the better for it.

Ray sits up and asks, ‘Who’s Elf seeing, then?’ Dean’s too relaxed to answer. Ray gently kicks Dean’s foot. ‘Who’s Elf seeing?’

Dean lifts his head. ‘Some projectionist, in Leicester Square.’

Kenny asks, ‘Have you or Griff or Jasper ever had a nibble?’

‘Elf? Jesus , Kenny, no. It’d be like shagging yer sister.’

Now Kenny sits up. ‘Yer what ? You ’ve been shagging Jackie?’

The hookah’s spell is fading. Dean lies where he lies on Shanks’s Turkish carpet. He remembers his father telling him, ‘Yer’ve stayed at yer nan’s for long enough. High time yer came back home.’ He told Nan Moss, ‘Thanks for all yer’ve done, but Dean belongs with me. Vi’d agree, God bless her soul.’ Who could object to that? He moved back in on New Year’s Day. His mum had died in September. As winter turned to spring, his list of jobs grew longer. Cooking, shopping, cleaning, laundry, ironing, polishing the shoes. Everything his mum once did. ‘The world don’t owe yer a living,’ his father said, ‘any more’n I do.’ Harry Moffat had always liked his drink, but Dean was shocked to see him drink a bottle of Morning Star a day – a cheap and nasty vodka. He functioned fine. No one guessed. Not the neighbours, no one at work. His dad was still a charming rogue once he left the house. At Peacock Road, ‘bad’ slid into ‘worse’. He made rules. Impossible rules. Rules that always shifted. If Dean stayed out, he was dossing around. If Dean stayed in, he was sat on his arse. If Dean didn’t speak, he was a stroppy shit. If Dean spoke, he was lippy. ‘Hit me, then, if yer fancy a pop. Go on. Let’s see what happens.’ Dean never dared. Father press-ganged son into his noble-widower act. Dean had to stow the empty bottles in a different bin each day. Answering the phone was Dean’s job too. If his dad was blotto, he’d say, ‘He’s just popped out.’ Dean did what was necessary, exactly like his mother. He lied to Ray. ‘Yeah, can’t complain, how’s Dagenham?’ What was Ray supposed to do? Give up his apprenticeship? Try to reason with the man? If reason worked on alcoholics, there’d be no alcoholics. But when Dean started art school, something had to give …