Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

Through the window of the music room came the music master’s voice: ‘ No no no – that will not do! ’

‘So what’s Theory D?’ asks Jasper.

‘It’s Theory X. Theory X concedes that Knock Knock is neither a lie nor a ghost nor a psychotic episode but an unknown, X.’

‘Isn’t Theory X just a fancy way of saying, “I’m clueless”?’

‘Literally so: we have no clues. Theory X is about gathering them. Have you tried to engage with Knock Knock?’

‘Every day at prayers, I sort of “broadcast” a message: “ Speak to me ” or “ Who are you? ” or “ What do you want? ”’

‘No reply so far?’

‘No reply so far.’

Formaggio blew a ladybird off his thumb. ‘We need to think scientifically. Not like a boy who’s afraid he’s insane or haunted.’

‘How do we think scientifically?’

‘Record the durations, times and patterns of the knocks. Analyse the data. Are the “visitations” random? Are there patterns? Observe. Is Knock Knock tied to Ely, or will he travel to Zeeland in July?’ Bells rang, doves cooed, a mower mowed. ‘Could Knock Knock be some kind of messenger? If so, what’s the message?’

‘A “ knock-knock-knock ” in your head isn’t much of a message.’ Brian Jones cuts in before Jasper gets to what happened next. ‘Is that a birthmark? Or a Hindu spot?’ The Rolling Stone is peering between Jasper’s eyebrows with drug-constricted pupils. He taps the place. ‘Here. It’s closing. It’s shy. Ought I to know you?’

‘I’m Jasper. I play guitar in Utopia Avenue.’

‘In Gloucestershire, “jaspers” are wasps.’ Brian Jones asks someone over Jasper’s shoulder. ‘I say, Steve. Do you East End herberts call wasps “jaspers”?’

‘We don’t call the little bastards nothing. We just splat ’em.’ Steve Marriott of the Small Faces hands Jasper a brown ale. ‘Welcome to the big-time. And for His Satanic Majesty –’ Steve Marriot presses a small Ogden’s snuffbox into Brian Jones’s palm ‘– Happy birthday.’

‘Is it today?’ Brian Jones blinks at the box. ‘Snuff?’

Steve Marriott squeezes a nostril flat and mimes a snort.

‘ Oh. In that case, I’m off to powder my nose …’

Jasper takes a swig from the brown ale.

‘You just broke the first rule,’ says Steve Marriott. ‘Never accept a drink from a stranger. Could be spiked.’

‘You’re not a stranger,’ says Jasper. ‘You’re Steve Marriott.’

The singer smiles as if Jasper had made a joke. ‘That chick in your band. Is she a gimmick, or does she really play?’

‘Elf’s no gimmick. She plays. She sings. She writes.’

Steve Marriott juts out his jaw. ‘It’s novel, I’ll give you that.’

‘There’s Grace Slick. Jefferson Airplane.’

‘She sings, she’s sexy as hell, but she don’t play.’

‘Rosetta Tharpe.’

‘Rosetta Tharpe has a band. She’s not in one.’

‘The Carter Family.’

‘They’re a real family first who became a band second.’

‘Now then, now then.’ A hand grips Jasper’s shoulder, a nasal Yorkshire voice fills his ear. ‘There’s enough star wattage in this room to light up Essex, but I came straight to you , good Sir Jasper, to congratulate you on popping your Top of the Pops cherry.’ Jimmy Savile puffs a fat cigar. ‘How was it for you?’

‘It all went by in a bit of blur,’ admits Jasper.

‘That’s what the ladies tell young Stephen here.’ Jimmy Savile leers at Steve Marriott. ‘Who is arisen from the dead.’

‘Hadn’t noticed I’d died, Jimmy,’ says Steve Marriott.

‘The artist’s always the last to know. Jasper: is Captain Didgeridoo over there nobbing your lusty, busty organ player?’

‘If you mean Elf and Bruce, they share a flat, yes.’

‘She’s a bit old for you, Jimmy, surely,’ says the singer. ‘I mean, she’s over sixteen. Legal, like.’

‘ Ooofff !’ Jimmy Savile’s chin juts out. ‘Marriott’s right hook strikes again! Is that what you’re aiming at when your Adventures in Stardom sputter out? Boxing? I can’t see it myself. Not with that physique. You’re not called the “Small” Faces for nothing. How does it feel, Young Steven? Getting utterly, royally fleeced out of every last penny by Don Arden? Not even owning the clothes you stand up in? Don’t you just want to shrivel up and die? I know I would.’

Even Jasper can identify the hatred in Steve Marriott’s face.

‘So sorry if I touched a raw nerve,’ says Jimmy Savile. ‘Shall I lend you the bus fare home?’

Chin- chingggggg ! Howie Stoker, freshly returned from Saint-Tropez, sporting a turquoise blazer, taps a wine glass with a spoon in the private function room in Durrants Hotel. His week in Saint-Tropez has deepened his tan. If he was a roast chicken , thinks Jasper, he was in the oven twenty minutes too long. Chinggggggggg! Howie’s gaze circumambulates the private room. Guests include Freddy Duke of the Duke-Stoker Agency, underneath Moonwhale; Levon, in a raspberry-and-vanilla-striped suit; Bethany, with her hair up, black pearls and a black dress; Elf still in her Top of the Pops warrior squaw get-up; Bruce Fletcher in rusty flannel and shark’s tooth necklace; Bea Holloway, dressed like an acting student at RADA; a pale art student called Trevor Pink who’s come with Bea and has pink paint on his hands, so he’s easy to remember ; Dean in his Union Jack jacket, Dean’s girlfriend Jude, who’s fractionally taller than Dean; Griff; Humpty-faced A&R man Victor French, and whippet-faced publicist Nigel Horner. Too many eyes . Social gatherings are archery ranges and memory tests.

Chingggggggggggg! A hush descends.

‘Friends,’ Howie Stoker begins, ‘Moonwhalers and well-wishers. I’d like to say just a few words. So I shall! When I told my buddies back in New York I was venturing into the music biz in London, a typical reaction was, “ Howie, are you nuts? A Wall Street maestro you may be, but you’re a showbiz novice and those limeys’ll milk you dry! ” My enemies just laughed, fit to bust, at the prospect of Howie Stoker losing his goddamn shirt. Well. Those sons of bitches sure as hell aren’t laughing now! Not now that my very first signing ’s very first single is in the UK Top Thirty! ’

Cheers and applause bubble up and spill over.

‘We’re here today because of five truly talented individuals,’ says Howie Stoker. ‘Let’s name ’em and shame ’em, one by one.’

Five? wonders Jasper. He must be including Levon.

‘First: our gorgeously proportioned, lyre-strumming, ivory-tinkling Queen of Folk. The one, the only, Miss Elf Holloway!’

Applause. Aristocrats look down from paintings spaced around the room. Elf’s smile strikes Jasper as complicated.

Howie Stoker turns to Dean. ‘Plenty of folks say that a bassist is a failed lead guitarist. I say, “ Horse pucky! ” Round of applause!’

People applaud. Dean lifts his glass jauntily.

Howie Stoker pushes on. ‘Drummers are unjustly the butt of too many jokes. Jokes like …’ Howie unfolds a sheet of paper and puts on his glasses ‘… “ What’s the difference between a drummer and a savings bond? ” Anyone? “ One will mature and make money .”’ A few polite smiles. Griff nods, like he’s heard it all before. ‘“ What has three legs and an asshole? ” No? “ A drum-stool ”! One more? Here we go: “ What do you call a beautiful woman on the arm of a drummer? ”’