Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘The reality is this.’ Günther stubbed out his cheroot. ‘Ilex spent thirteen thousand pounds on Paradise Is the Road to Paradise . Therefore, Ilex chooses the singles.’

Dean stubbed out his cheroot. ‘No.’

Günther, Nigel Horner and Victor French looked at Dean first like men checking they’d heard right, then like men realising they had. Günther spoke quietly: ‘What do you mean, “No”?’

‘The band chooses the single.’

Levon jumped into action. ‘Moonwhale and the band are grateful for the investment, Günther, of course—’

‘Quiet.’ Günther made a Halt sign. ‘Elf. Do you not wish to prove the band is not men with a novelty keyboardist in a frock?’

‘Divide ’n’ rule, Günther?’ Dean sniffed. ‘Subtle.’

Elf looked out of the window. ‘I agree to wait my turn.’

‘ Thank you,’ said Dean. ‘So you see—’

Günther wasn’t going to be distracted. ‘What is this “agree”? This “turn”?’ Do I detect’ – he drew an oval in the air – ‘a plot?’

‘The band is keen to …’ Levon chose his words ‘… nip jealousies in the bud by treating its songwriters equitably.’

Günther studied the words. ‘So … you conspired – between yourselves – to release first a de Zoet song, then a Moss song, then a Holloway song. Is this the …’ he searched for the word ‘… gist?’

‘It’s a gentleman’s agreement,’ said Dean.

‘And my opinion is –’ Günther pfff ed ‘– immaterial? And, Elf, why do you come after the boys? Is this the modern feminism?’

‘Elf’s not last because she’s female,’ said Jasper. ‘She’s last because she only rolled a one.’

Dean cursed the educated idiot’s honesty.

Günther flinched. Nigel Horner and Victor French looked askance. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘When she rolled the dice,’ explained Jasper. ‘I got a three, Dean a two and Elf a one. That’s why her single is third.’

Günther released a Hah? ‘If you believe I decide a major commercial decision on a dice , you’re living in the Cloud Cuckoo Land. No. In a padded cell in the Cloud Cuckoo Land. Listen—’

‘ You fookin’ listen!’ Griff leaned forward. ‘It’s us lugging our arses up the M2 night after freezing fookin’ night while you’re tucked up in bed. Us. It’s us dodging bottles, or not’ – he touched his scar – ‘flung by mods on hoppers. Us. So if you want your thirteen thousand quid back, we choose the fookin’ single. Not you. Us. And “Abandon Hope”’s the next single.’

Thank you , thought Dean. At bloody last.

‘So your threat,’ summarised Günther, ‘is this. “Do what we say, or we sabotage our own careers”?’

‘Nobody’s threatening anyone,’ said Levon, ‘but I’d ask you just to give us this one. It’s how the band want it.’

‘I sign the cheques and we –’ he indicates Victor and Nigel Horner ‘– choose the singles. That is how I want it.’

‘Fook this.’ Griff stubbed his cheroot out on the sofa’s arm, dropped it on the carpet, got up and left the office.

‘He’s bluffing,’ stated Nigel Horner. ‘He’ll be back.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Elf. ‘He’s from Yorkshire.’

‘Drummers are two a penny,’ stated Victor French. ‘If he just quit, which he appears to have done, we’ll simply hire a new one.’

‘No, yer bloody won’t.’ Dean stood, defiantly. Elf stood, resolutely. Jasper stood. Levon stood, mumbling, ‘Oh, great.’

‘ What? ’ Günther Marx’s voice soared. ‘A walk-out? A strike? Not so clever. Simply, I’ll fire all of you.’

‘And kiss yer thirteen grand goodbye?’ asks Dean. ‘How’ll that look when yer speak to Toto Schiffer at Berlin HQ?’

Günther’s face changed. ‘ Blackmail ?’

‘I’ve never known a label so eager to accommodate its artists as Ilex,’ Levon tells Amy Boxer. ‘Günther Marx is a visionary. He’s a member of the Utopia Avenue family. Quote me on that.’

‘My my,’ says Amy. ‘That’s a glowing review. Back to you, Dean. You’re not related to royalty as well, are you?’

‘I’m the Duke of Edinburgh’s love-child. Shh .’

‘The band have deep respect for the Royal Family,’ said Levon.

Amy sipped her coffee and shot a He is a worrier, isn’t he? look at Dean. ‘Your titles are nihilistic. “Smithereens”, “Abandon Hope”, “Purple Flames”. Are you the Angry Young Man of Pop?’

That word again. ‘How d’yer mean, “nihilistic”?’

‘Bleak. Fierce. A belief that life is meaningless.’

‘Oh. Right. Yeah, well if something pisses me off, I might write a song about it. That don’t mean I think life’s meaningless.’

‘What kind of thing pisses you off?’

Dean lights a Dunhill and takes a drag. The hammering downstairs starts up. ‘What pisses me off? Music critics who play God. People who use fancy words to lord it over yer. Men who hit women. Bent coppers. Old men who think, “I fought the war for you lot” ends any argument. The nobs who killed pirate radio. Anyone who shits on someone’s dream. Pies that’ve got more air than filling, The Establishment, for skimming off the cream. The rest of us, for letting the bastards get away with it.’

‘Well, I did ask,’ says Amy. ‘Isn’t Jasper “Establishment”?’

Dean’s housemate looks his way. ‘No. Jasper’s cool.’

‘And I’m as common as muck,’ says Griff, ‘so when Dean needs to talk ferrets, outdoor bogs or socialism, I’m right here.’

Amy Boxer’s silver dagger glints. ‘If you all hit the big-time and are buying mansions in Surrey as a tax write-off, will you still be “common as muck”? You’ve had a nibble of stardom. Haven’t things started to change already?’

‘Stone – the – sodding – crows , Deano!’ Stewart Kidd stood in the hallway, gawping at Jasper’s flat. ‘Talk ’bout landing on yer feet.’ Kenny Yearwood was speechless. Rod Dempsey’s eyes darted from item to item, fitting to fitting. Dean guessed he was totting up the value. ‘Yer not going to do the place over, are yer Rod?’

Rod just cackled as his eyes kept scanning.

‘This really is yer digs?’ checked Stew.

‘This is my digs,’ replied Dean.

‘It’s like out o’ Playboy ,’ said Stew. ‘Yer’ve got the telly. Yer’ve got the stereo. Got a helicopter pad on the roof, have yer?’

‘Jasper’s dad bought the place as an investment. Jasper’s the caretaker, and I’m Jasper’s caretaker, I s’pose.’

‘So where’s Jas- pah now?’ Kenny did a posh accent.

‘Oxford. He’s back tomorrow. And just so’s yer know, he’d never take the piss out o’ your accent.’

‘Punch his bloody lights out if he tried,’ said Kenny.

Stew was still gazing at the flat. ‘Yer’ve been living here since January and yer only inviting us for a gander now ?’

‘Ain’t Dean’s fault,’ stated Rod Dempsey. ‘It’s a brutal game, showbiz. Bet he hardly has time to take a crap.’

‘Yer not wrong,’ said Dean. ‘Shoes off, Stew. House rules.’

Stew went, Huh? but Rod Dempsey was already unstrapping his biker boots. ‘This flooring’s worth more than yer aunt Nelly’s house and everything in it.’

‘Including yer aunt Nelly,’ added Kenny. ‘Who charged top dollar in her day. Worth every penny, mind. Like yer mum.’

‘Hilarious.’ Stew unlaced his shoes. ‘Can I take a wazz, or would it stain the gold toilet bowl?’