Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘Hiya, Wombat!’

The floor sways like the deck of a ship.

‘Hey,’ says Bruce, ‘you’re spilling that milk!’

So I am. She puts down the bottle.

He says, ‘Take two. “Hiya, Wombat!”’

Everything is still and very quiet.

‘Wh-what-wh— why? How—’

‘Overnight ferry.’ He dumps his rucksack by the coatstand. ‘Haven’t eaten since Calais – so there’s very little I wouldn’t do for a cheese ’n’ ham sarnie. So how in hell have you been?’ He runs his hands back through his lush golden hair. He’s deeply tanned and a little older. ‘God, I missed you.’

Elf takes a few steps back, into the kitchen cupboard. ‘Hang on – wait – I …’

Bruce looks confused, then not. ‘Ah … You didn’t get my postcard, I guess?’

‘No.’

‘All praise Royal Mail. Or maybe the French facteur cocked up.’ Bruce walks over to the kitchen sink, slaps water over his face, pours himself a mug of water and drinks. He eyes her up. ‘New hair, right? Lost a few pounds, too.’ He drapes himself along the sofa, showing midriff. ‘Cheese and pickle’ll do fine, if you’ve got no ham.’

Elf feels as if she’s in the wrong play. ‘You dumped me. You pissed off to Paris. You do remember that?’

Bruce winces. ‘“Dumped”? We needed oxygen. We’re artists.’

‘No. You don’t,’ she steels her voice, ‘dump me, break my heart, then turn up and act like the last six months never happened.’

His jokey pout says, Am I in the dog-house?

‘I’m serious.’

His jokey pout fades. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. I came straight here from Charing Cross. I …’

‘Maybe Vanessa will be pleased. I’ve got very mixed feelings.’

Bruce scrunches up his face as if he can’t quite place the name … ‘Oh, her? Oh, Wombat. Jealousy doesn’t suit you.’

So she dumped him . ‘Try Wotsit.’

‘Wotsit’s back in Greece. People move on.’

‘What if I’ve moved on too?’

Bruce pretends she didn’t just say that. ‘Hey, I heard about Utopia Avenue. Review in Melody Maker. Nice one. May I?’ He takes one of her Camels from the little table and lights up.

Elf fights an impulse to knock it from his hand.

‘A long way from Islington Folk Den, eh? I’m proud of you.’

Elf notices she has no desire to tell him about ‘Darkroom’ on The Bat Segundo Show . ‘Look, I’ve got a gig tonight, so—’

‘Cool. I’ll come along and guard your handbag with my life. I could even play, if you’re a guitarist short. Where’s the gig?’

‘Basingstoke, but—’

‘One of those nowhere places?’

Elf sighs. I have to say it. ‘You walked out, Bruce. It’s over. We’re over. And I’d like my key back.’

Bruce lifts his eyebrows, like a teacher waiting for the truth to emerge. ‘And are we “seeing” anyone else?’

‘Give me my key. Please.’ Elf hates that ‘please’.

But Bruce’s cockiness ebbs away. The fridge shudders into silence. ‘What’s good for the gander’s good for the goose, I s’pose.’ He puts the key on the arm of the sofa. ‘Sorry. About February. About everything. The more of a dingo’s arse I am, the more I bluster. I know I can’t wave a magic wand, fix the damage …’ His voice wobbles. ‘Or bring back Fletcher and Holloway.’

Elf’s throat contracts. ‘True.’

‘Thinking that you still hate me, that’s … the worst. Before I throw myself off Waterloo Bridge –’ he makes a brave face ‘– could I … could we … part as mates?’

Careful. Elf folds her arms. ‘Your apology’s a few months late, but okay. We’re parting as mates. Goodbye.’

Bruce shuts his eyes. To Elf’s surprise, they start to stream. ‘God, I hate my guts sometimes.’

‘I can understand why,’ says Elf. ‘Sometimes.’

He dabs his eyes on his granddad shirt. ‘Shit, I’m sorry, Elf. But … I’m in a bit of trouble.’

Drugs? Syphilis? Crime? ‘Tell me.’

‘The arse fell out of France. The cops beat me up for busking on the Champs-Élysées. They nicked my guitar. My flatmate did a runner with my savings, clothes, everything. I’m broke. I’ve got two francs, seven centimes, eight shillings and a threepenny bit. I – I – I came via Toby Green’s office.’ Bruce is red and sweaty. ‘He was out, but his secretary checked our “Shepherd’s Crook” royalties.’

‘It’s not a lot.’

‘It won’t buy a cup of pigeon food. I know I’m a king of the shits for asking you , of all people, but … I honestly, honestly , don’t have anyone else to turn to. So I’m …’ he takes a deep breath to compose himself ‘… I’m begging. Please. If there’s any way you can help … any way at all … please … help.’

The Prize

‘A very very very good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome one and all to this week’s Top of the Pops . I hope you’re feeling fit and well, and if you’re not feeling fit and well, I hope this next half-hour cheers you up.’ The golden mop-topped Jimmy Savile smiles for the TV camera. ‘So, how’s about we start off with a nice, brisk number from one of the best new bands of the summer – and, gentlemen, do not adjust your TV set when you cop a load of the scrrr umdiddley ump tious keyboard player! With no further ado – in at number nineteen with their debut song “Darkroom” – the one, the only, the weird, the wonderful … Utopia Avenue!’

Electric ‘APPLAUSE’ signs light up; a cheer goes up; Jasper glances offstage at Levon, Bea, Dean’s girlfriend Jude, and Victor French from Ilex. Here we go . The intro comes over the PA and the thirty or forty hip young things selected for the dance-floor sway to Elf’s chords, which she now pretends to play on her unplugged-in Farfisa. Bea and Jude spent three days on Elf’s outfit: an American Indian squaw look with a tasselled suede embroidered headband and glass beads. Dean is in a dusty pink frock coat he bought at the Marshmallow Cricket Bat. He does an Elvis lip-curl for the camera. Griff, drumming on a kit with sound-deadening rubber mats and a special plastic cymbal that goes Tssh! , sports a jazzer’s loose shirt and a psychedelic waistcoat. Vocals. Jasper leans into the mic and lip-synchs his vocal track. A second camera moves closer to Elf. A producer told them that Elf’s the first woman ever to ‘play’ an instrument on Top of the Pops. Jasper moves in to the mic:

You took me to your darkroom

Where secrets get undressed.

Jerusalem is east of there,

And Mecca’s to the west …

Dean joins Elf at her mic for the second chorus. He points into the camera’s lens, and out of millions of TV sets across Great Britain. After the bridge a third camera moves in to catch Griff’s drum-burst before Jasper’s solo. He plays it on his unplugged-in Strat as he would onstage, complete with bent notes and shading. Back to Elf and Dean for the last chorus, cut off midway by a big cheer from the audience. APPLAUSE! Their three minutes are up.

An assistant hustles the band offstage as Jimmy Savile, nestling in a bevy of miniskirted women, introduces the next band on the adjacent stage. ‘How’s about that, then, ladies and gentlemen? “Darkroom” by Utopia Avenue and isn’t it a cracker? Now then now then now then. Three clues about our next guests. Clue one: they’re all quite small . Clue two: they have faces . Clue three: they’re itchy and live in a park . Who can they be? Why, it’s The Small Faces and their latest dotty ditty – “Itchycoo Park”!’