Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

There was a knock-knock at the door.

‘Did you hear that?’ Jasper was trembling.

‘Hear what? You’ve got me worried.’

Formaggio was grim. ‘So it’s worse now than it’s ever been before?’

‘Like my skull’s a wall and this is a hammer.’

‘Have you kept data?’

‘Formaggio, keeping my sanity’s the best I can manage.’

‘And there’s been no dialogue?’

‘None. He just knocks. Without let-up.’

‘Is he knocking now?’

‘Yes.’

‘That must be terrifying.’

‘Now I know what that word means.’

‘Can I try something?’

‘Anything.’

Formaggio looked into Jasper’s eyes as if peering into a cave entrance. ‘Knock Knock. We want to ask some questions. Knock once for no and twice for yes. Please. Understand?’

The knocking stopped. The silence of Swaffham House was blissful. ‘He’s gone quiet,’ said Jasper. ‘I think he—’

Knock-knock , came the answer, loud and clear.

Jasper was astonished. ‘Two knocks. Did you hear it?’

‘No, but … ’ Formaggio thought. ‘If he hears me, he’s wired into your auditory nervous system. Knock Knock? Can we call you that?’

Knock-knock , came the reply. ‘Yes,’ said Jasper. ‘Two knocks. Does this make me more crazy or less crazy?’

‘Knock Knock: do you know what Morse Code is?’

A pause was followed by a single knock. ‘No,’ said Jasper.

‘Pity.’ Formaggio leaned forward on his bed. ‘Knock Knock, do you exist independently of de Zoet?’

Knock-knock. ‘Yes,’ confirmed Jasper.

‘Knock Knock. Do you think of yourself as a demon?’

A pause. Knock . ‘No,’ said Jasper.

‘Did you once have a body, like me and de Zoet?’

Knock-knock . ‘A strong yes,’ said Jasper.

‘Knock Knock. Do you know the name of the country we’re in?’

Knock-knock . ‘Yes,’ said Jasper.

‘Is it France?’

Knock. ‘No,’ said Jasper.

‘Is it England?’

Knock-knock. ‘Yes,’ reported Jasper.

‘So you know the year is 1962, Knock Knock?’

Knock-knock . ‘Another yes.’

‘Knock Knock, how many years have you been resident in de Zoet? Can you knock once for each year?’

Slowly, as if to ensure Jasper wouldn’t lose count, Knock Knock knocked sixteen times. ‘Sixteen.’

‘Sixteen? All of de Zoet’s life, then?’

Knock-knock . ‘Yes.’

‘Are you older than de Zoet?’

A firm knock-knock . ‘Yes.’

‘How old are you?’ asked Formaggio.

Ten knocks were followed by a pause. Jasper said, ‘Ten,’ and the knocks continued to twenty. ‘Twenty.’ The knocks went up to thirty. ‘Thirty.’ Jasper continued in this way, up to a hundred. Two hundred. A couple of minutes passed before the knocks finally stopped and Jasper reported, ‘Six hundred and ninety-three.’

Swaffham House was utterly silent.

‘Let’s try this.’ Formaggio went to his desk and drew a grid with letters on a sheet of writing paper. He brought it to Jasper’s bed and laid it on the blanket:

12345 1 – abcde 2 – fghij 3 – klmno 4 – pqrst 5 – uvwxy 6 – z

‘These numbers are x-y coordinates,’ Formaggio explained in his Knock Knock voice. ‘You spell out words, letter by letter. Columns first, then rows. So, if you want to spell the word “sun”, you’d knock four times’ – Formaggio indicated the fourth column across – ‘pause, then four times again –’ he counted down the rows ‘– to get the s , once across and five times to get the u , four then three times for the n . Understand?’

A crisp knock-knock . ‘He understands,’ said Jasper.

‘Great. So, Knock Knock: what do you want?’

Knock Knock knocked twice and waited for Jasper to say, ‘Two’; then three times. ‘L’. Formaggio wrote the letter on a jotter. Next came four and two knocks for ‘I’; and after two minutes,

l - i - f - e - a - n - d - l - i - b - e - r - t - y

had appeared. Jasper hadn’t considered that the squatter in his skull might also be a prisoner. Formaggio asked, ‘How can we give you life and liberty?’

Knock Knock got to work again.

d - e - z - o - e - t - m - u - s - t

Knock Knock stopped there, or appeared to.

Old pipes in the walls juddered and groaned.

‘“De Zoet must” what?’ asked Formaggio.

The knocks began again, and spelt:

d - i - e

Formaggio and Jasper looked at each other.

Every hair on Jasper’s arms was standing up.

‘Why?’ asked Formaggio. ‘What’s de Zoet done to you?’

Knock Knock’s reply came rapidly and sharply:

t - r - e - s - p - a - s - s

‘But you’re the one in his head,’ said Formaggio.

Blow by blow, the answering knocks spelt out:

i - n - t - h - e - b - l - o - o - d

Jasper stared at the letters.

‘It’s like a cryptic crossword,’ said Formaggio.

A crossword for you , thought Jasper, but a death warrant for me . ‘Formaggio, I can’t do this any more.’

‘But this is the most incredible thing I’ve ever—’

‘Stop. Please. Stop this. Now.’

The Hook

‘Pick a nice fat bastard.’ Dean’s dad took a maggot from the jar and held it up to the hook. ‘Squeeze him very gentle-like. Below the head. Yer don’t want to kill him, yer just want his mouth to open … Open wide, that’s it … See? Feed him onto the hook … Like feeding a thread through a needle.’ Dean watched up close, fascinated and disgusted. ‘Twist the hook out of his arse, just so the point shows. See? That way he can’t slide off, but he’ll still twitch a bit and the fish won’t rumble he’s a maggot on a hook. He’ll just think, Oh, dinner, yum , bite ’n’ swallow … and then the hook’s lodged in him good ’n’ proper-like. Then guess who’s dinner after all?’ His dad smiled. It was a rare sight. Dean smiled too. ‘Check yer weight ’n’ float’re tied proper one last time – they cost a few bob – and then yer ready to cast.’ His dad stood up, reaching halfway to the sky. ‘Stand back, we don’t want you getting snagged on the hook and flying into the river. Yer mum’d never let me hear the end of it.’ Dean trotted back down the jetty, almost to the shore. His dad held the rod back over his shoulder and cast. Weight, float, maggot on a hook, flew over the glossy Thames, and landed with a plop and a splash many yards out.

Dean trotted back. ‘It went miles !’

His father sat down with his feet dangling over the edge. ‘Hold it. Good steady grip. Both hands.’ Dean obeyed while his dad swigged from the bottle in a brown-paper bag. The river slid by. The river slid by. The river slid by. Dean wished it could be like this all the time. Father and son did not speak for a while.

‘The mystery o’ fishing’s this,’ said Dean’s dad, ‘what’s the hook, who’s got the rod, what’s the maggot, what’s the fish?’

‘Why’s that a mystery, Dad?’

‘Yer’ll understand when yer older.’

‘But ain’t it obvious what’s what?’

‘It changes, son. In a heartbeat.’

The tip of Amy Boxer’s fang indents her lip. ‘When I chat with John or Paul, or the lads in the Hollies, I’m speaking with guys who met at school. They’re as close as brothers. They plodded around the talent shows, they survived the variety circuits, they slaved in dives like the Cavern. Compared to them, don’t you feel … a little –’ the Melody Maker reporter has to raise her voice over the noise of hammering ‘– manufactured?’