Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

Bonfire Night. Dean was sixteen. He came back from a firework party at Ebbsfleet and found his father frowning over the Mirror on the kitchen table. The day’s bottle of Morning Star was empty.

Dean just said, ‘Evening.’

‘Give the boy a prize.’

Dean drew the kitchen curtains, noticing a small bonfire in the garden incinerator where they burned rubbish, leaves and weeds, usually on a Saturday. That day was a Friday. ‘Had a bonfire, I see.’

‘Some old shite needed burning.’

‘I’ll say g’night, then.’

Dean’s father turned the page.

Dean went upstairs to his room – and noticed the sickening absences, one by one, like punches to his gut. His Futurama guitar. His Dansette. His Teach Yourself Guitar books. His signed photo of Little Richard. Dean heard the bonfire crackle.

He rushed downstairs, past the man who’d done this, and out into the frosty air to see what could be salvaged …

The bonfire was burning nicely. Only the Futurama’s fretboard remained, its varnish bubbling. Purple flames licked its neck. The Dansette was a spindle and blackened Bakelite. The books were sheets of ash. The signed photograph of Little Richard was gone. Dean’s dad had added lumps of coal and a few firelighters. The purple flames toasted Dean’s face. The smoke was oily and toxic.

Dean went back inside. ‘Why?’ His voice shook.

‘Why what?’ Dean’s father still didn’t look up.

‘What was the point o’ that?’

‘Till now yer’ve been a work-shy long-haired pansy with a guitar. Now yer just a work-shy long-haired pansy. That’s’ – Dean’s dad looked up – ‘a step in the right direction.’

Dean got his rucksack and packed his nine albums, twenty singles, a packet of guitar strings, his birthday cards from Mum, his best clothes, mock crocs, photo album and his notebook of songs. He said goodbye to his old room for the last time and went downstairs. Before he could undo the chain, a force hurled him down the hall. Dean’s ear smacked into a doorframe. Footsteps approached on the lino. Dean slid himself vertical. ‘What? Yer going to keep me locked up here?’

‘No son of mine’s a guitar-twanging fairy faggot.’

Dean looked into the hard eyes and hated them. Was his dad in there? Was the vodka talking? ‘Yer dead right, Harry Moffat.’

‘Yer what ?’

‘I’m not yer son. Yer not my father. I’m off. Now.’

‘Piss and wind. It’s high time yer stopped fannying about with art ’n’ music ’n’ this shit and got yerself a real job. Like Ray. I warned yer, but now I’ve – I’ve – I’ve taken action . Yer’ll thank me for it.’

‘I’m thanking yer now. Yer’ve opened my eyes, Harry Moffat.’

‘Say that again – once again – and by fuck you’ll regret it.’

‘Which bit, Harry Moffat? The I’m-not-yer-son bit, or—’

Dean’s jaw cracked, his skull smacked the wall; his body thudded; and he came to on the lino. He tasted blood. Pain in his skull and jaw tapped in time with his pulse. He looked up.

Harry Moffat looked down. ‘See what yer made me do?’

Dean got up. He checked his mouth in the mirror. A cut lip, blood, a mashed gum. ‘Is that what yer used to tell Mum? When yer hit her? “ See what yer made me do ”?’

Harry Moffat’s sneer was gone.

‘No secrets in Gravesend. The whole town knows. “ There goes Harry Moffat, beat his wife like a carpet, she got cancer and she died .” Never to yer face. But they know.’

Dean undid the chain and stepped into the November night.

‘I’m done with yer!’ shouted Harry Moffat. ‘Yer hear me?’

Dean kept walking. Curtains were twitching.

Peacock Street smelt of frost and fireworks.

Seven years and a quarter of a mile away, Dean wakes to the sound of rain and Kenny snoring on the sofa. Someone has put a cushion under Dean’s head. Ray’s in the armchair, asleep. The hookah is surrounded by glasses, bottles, ashtrays, peanut shells, cards. Dean pads into the kitchen for a mug of water. Gravesend water tastes less soapy than London water. He sits at the table and munches a Jacob’s cracker. From its high shelf, a spider-plant has unfurled tendrils over a tapestry of a god with an elephant’s head and a photo of Shanks and Piper somewhere foreign and sunny. The furthest Dean’s ever been from Gravesend was a Battleship Potemkin gig in Wolverhampton. His share of the cut was less than a pound. He would have earned more busking at Hyde Park Corner. Is Utopia Avenue a cul-de-sac? We were good last night, but that was a home match … What if nobody wants us? Roofs step down from Queen Street to the river. Tugs pull a freighter out of Tilbury Docks. As the freighter’s middle section clears the hospital, its name is revealed to Dean a letter at a time – STAR OF RIGA . Shanks’s Gibson acoustic sits on the chair opposite. Dean tunes it and, accompanied only by the hiss of rain and his own thoughts, he lets his fingers strum and pick …

‘One o’ yours?’ Ray stands in the doorway of Shanks’s kitchen.

Dean looks up. ‘Hmm?’

‘That tune.’

‘Just something I’m messing about with.’

Ray drinks a mug of water. ‘Aunt Marge was right, Mum’d be that proud. It’d be “’ Course, Dean always was the artistic one .”’

‘It’s you she’d be proud of. “’ Course, Ray always was the one who applied himself. ” She’d spoil Wayne rotten, too.’

Ray sits down. ‘Are you ’n’ Dad going to bury the hatchet?’

Dean plays a discordant twang. ‘He’s the original hatcheter.’ A droplet of rain runs down the window. ‘Bill’s been more of a dad to me. You, too. And Shanks.’

‘I’m not trying to excuse him, but he’s lost everything.’

‘We’ve been here before, Ray. “ It’s the vodka’s fault ”, “ His dad slapped his mum ’n’ him about too ”, “ He went through hell watching Mum die ”, “ Refusing to call him ‘Dad’ is a childish grudge that’s eating me up. ” Miss anything?’

‘No. But if he could un-burn yer guitar, he would.’

‘Told yer that himself, did he?’

Ray makes a face. ‘He’s not a man to discuss his feelings.’

‘Stop. This isn’t a grudge. It’s consequences. If yer want him in yer life, great. Bully for you. That’s yer choice. I don’t want him in mine. That’s my choice. End o’ story. Just … stop.’

‘Men his age can and do drop dead. ’Specially if their liver’s fucked. The dead can’t sign peace treaties. And he’s still yer dad.’

The dead can’t sign peace treaties , thinks Dean. Good line. ‘Genetically, legally, yeah, he’s my father. In every other sense, he’s not. I’ve a brother, a nephew, Nan, Bill, two aunts, but not a dad.’

Ray heaves out a long sigh. Drains gurgle.

Shanks’s phone in the hallway starts ringing.

Dean doesn’t answer: Shanks is a man with fingers in many pies and any pie might be calling. Their host’s bedroom door opens and his footsteps thud up the hallway. ‘Yeah?’ A long pause. ‘Yeah, he is … Yeah … Who shall I say is calling?’ Shanks appears in the doorway. ‘Dean, son. It’s yer manager.’

‘Levon? How did you know I was here?’

‘The Dark Arts. Is Jasper there?’

‘Sort of. He’s with a girl.’

‘I need both of you at Denmark Street.’

‘But it’s Sunday morning.’

‘I know. Griff and Elf are on their way.’

This sounds like urgent bad news. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Victor French happened.’

‘Who’s Victor French?’