Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘The A&R scout for Ilex Records. He was at the Captain Marlow last night. He wants to sign Utopia Avenue.’

He wants to sign Utopia Avenue . Six little words.

I have a future, after all. Shanks’s hallway is listening.

‘Hello?’ Levon sounds worried. ‘Still there?’

‘I am,’ says Dean. ‘I heard. That’s … Bloody hell.’

‘Don’t buy your Triumph Spitfire yet. Victor’s putting in an offer for three singles, then an album, if – if – interest builds. Ilex isn’t one of the Big Four, but it’s a solid offer. Being a middle-sized fish in a small pond could work better for the band than being a tadpole in a lake. Victor wanted to sign you last night, but I pushed for more money and told him EMI were sniffing. He called his boss in Hamburg this morning for approval – and it’s a yes.’

‘Yer never told us last night’s gig was an audition.’

‘No good manager would. Get dressed, get Jasper, get on the next train to Charing Cross, get to Moonwhale. We’ve got details to discuss ahead of a meeting at Ilex tomorrow.’

‘Okay, see yer. Uh, thanks.’

‘Any time. Oh – and, Dean?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Congratulations. You’ve earned this.’

Dean hangs up. The phone pings.

We’ve got a bloody record deal.

‘Mate?’ His big brother appears from the kitchen, looking concerned. ‘Yer okay? Yer look like someone’s died.’

The platform roof drips. The mouth of the tunnel drips. Signage, cables and signals drip. Pigeons huddle on the dripping girders of the dripping footbridge. The platform is an archipelago of damp patches between puddles. Dean’s right foot’s wet. He has to take his boots back to the cobbler. No , Dean realises. No, I don’t . I’ll walk into Anello and Davide in Covent Garden and I’ll say, ‘Hi, I’m Dean Moss, I’m in Utopia Avenue, we just signed with Ilex Records, so kindly show me the best bloody boots yer’ve got.’ Dean snorts a laugh.

‘What’s funny?’ asks Jasper.

‘My mind keeps wandering off, and I sort o’ forget, and I think, Why am I feeling so fantastic? Then I remember – Oh, yeah, that’s it, we’ve got a record deal! – and it all goes boom! again.’

‘It is good news,’ agrees Jasper.

‘West Ham winning three–nil away at Arsenal is “good news”. Getting a contract is … orgasmic news. And you get it on top of a real orgasm. Yer should be in a state o’ rapture.’

‘I guess so.’ He opens his packet of Marlboro. ‘Two left.’

They light up. ‘I’m half afraid,’ says Dean, ‘I’ll wake up on Shanks’s floor and this’ll all be a hookah dream.’

Jasper holds out his hand. Raindrops splash on his palm. ‘That’s not dream-rain. It’s too wet.’

‘Expert in these matters, are yer?’

‘Unfortunately, yes.’

Dean looks up the London-bound railway tracks. He thinks of his younger selves, gazing up the same tracks towards a formless future. He’d like to send a telegram back in time: You’ll be ripped off, mugged and shat on, but Utopia Avenue’s waiting for yer. Hang on in there. The tracks quiver. ‘Here comes the train.’

Dean and Jasper have their own window seats. Dean looks out onto the far platform, into the waiting room for eastbound trains, and sees Harry Moffat sitting by the window. He’s reading a paper. Before Dean can hide, Harry Moffat looks up and stares straight back. Not maliciously, not accusingly, not mockingly, not despairingly, not imploringly. It’s a simple ‘Yes, I see you’ – like a telephonist putting through a call. Harry Moffat can’t have planned this encounter. Dean didn’t know he was going to be on this train until ten minutes ago. Why is Harry Moffat travelling to Margate on a rainy Sunday morning in July? A holiday? Harry Moffat doesn’t do holidays. Harry Moffat returns to his paper … and at this angle, Dean can no longer swear it’s him. They are, after all, two rainy windowpanes and twenty rainy yards apart. There’s an undeniable resemblance – the glasses, the posture, the thick dark hair, but … it might not be . The London-bound train tenses, takes the strain, and heaves away. The man does not look up again.

‘What is it?’ asks Jasper.

Gravesend station slides into the past.

‘Someone I thought I knew.’

Unexpectedly

Levon’s parked car was hot and airless. Elf yawned and checked her makeup in her hand-mirror. It’s running. ‘Is it Thursday?’

A concrete mixer rumbled by, churning fumes and dust.

‘Friday.’ Dean lay in the back seat, his notebook open on his chest. ‘Oxford tonight. Southend tomorrow. Don’t look now. It’s Lovely Rita, Meter Maid.’ A traffic warden walked past, examining the meter. Dean called, ‘Lovely day.’ She did not reply.

Elf yawned again. ‘Last time Bruce and I did a gig at Oxford, a student accused us of looting songs from the proletariat. Bruce told him he grew up having to walk through snake-infested bush to an outdoors dunny every time he needed to take a shit, so Oxford Varsity Boy could kiss his arse.’

‘Huh.’ Dean was only half listening.

Elf wondered what Bruce was doing at that very second. Who cares? I’ve got Angus. ‘So. Oxford tonight. Southend tomorrow.’

‘Southend tomorrow.’

‘Ever played there?’

Dean wrote something in his notebook. ‘Once. With Battleship Potemkin. At the Studio at Westcliff. Lots of mods. They hated us, so here’s hoping they don’t recognise me.’

Elf switched on the car radio: ‘Even The Bad Times Are Good’ by the Tremeloes was playing. ‘Why’s this at number fifteen when “Darkroom” is nowhere? It’s rubbish.’

‘Airplay, airplay, airplay. The piano part’s pretty good.’

‘Where’s our airplay? “Darkroom”’s piano part is incredible.’

‘If you do say so yourself.’

‘I do.’

‘It’s a chicken ’n’ egg thing. If we don’t climb up the charts, we don’t get airplay. If you don’t get airplay, no chart entry.’

‘What do other bands do?’

Dean rested his notebook on his chest. ‘Sleep with DJs. Have a record label rich enough to pay the stations. Write a song so irresistible that it practically plays itself.’

Elf turned the radio dial, finding the final bars of the summer’s biggest hit. The DJ rounded it off: ‘Scott McKenzie, still going to San Francisco, and still wearing flowers in his hair. You’re tuned to the Bat Segundo Show on Radio Bluebeard one-nine-eight long wave, brought to you by Denta-dazzle gum, now in triple mint and fruity toot. Time for one more summer sizzler. Stevie Wonder’s “I Was Made To Love Her”. Weren’t we all, Mr Wonder?’

Elf switched the radio off and sighed.

‘What’s wrong with Stevie Wonder?’ asked Dean.

‘Every time it’s not us I feel sick.’

Dean screwed the cup-lid off his Thermos and poured himself a cupful of cold water. ‘Thirsty?’

‘Parched. Which side have you drunk from?’

‘No idea.’ Dean handed it through the gap between the seats. ‘What’s a spot of oral herpes between bandmates?’

‘When did you become an expert on oral herpes?’

‘No comment.’

Elf drank. A guy and a girl rode past on a scooter. ‘How did Jasper and Griff wriggle out of these courtesy calls again?’

Dean sighed through his nose. ‘Griff, by being so rude Levon doesn’t dare send him. Jasper, by sounding like he’s on drugs.’

‘So you and I are being punished for being polite and sane.’

‘Me, I’d rather be doing this with you than stuck in the belly of the Beast with Griff, lugging the gear round.’