Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘All we need,’ says Dean, ‘is for a million people to agree and …’ He’s distracted by someone over Griff’s shoulder. ‘ Marcus? ’

Griff turns around to find a guy wearing a pink caftan, turquoise glasses, a black cape and a runic headband.

‘Dean! Fancy meeting you here.’

‘That’s the Blue Boar for yer. Elf, Griff, Jasper: this is Marcus Daly. Guitarist of the Battleship Potemkin.’

‘The same Marcus,’ asks Jasper innocently, ‘who sacked Dean for saying the Chairman Mao song was sonic gonorrhoea?’

Marcus looks shifty. ‘Water under the bridge. Dean ought to thank me, by rights. Top of the Pops ? An LP? I mean … shit. ’

Dean smothers a burp. ‘What’s with the new wizardy look? Can’t imagine that going down too well on the picket lines.’

Marcus scratches his neck. ‘Chris is an accountant, Paul went to India after a girl, so me and Tom formed Battleship Aquarius.’

Dean stares. ‘What happened to using the capitalist pop song to turn the proletariat on to Marxism?’

‘One night at a gig in Dartford a fight broke out during “Workers United”. It turned into a brawl. We had to leave the stage. I mean, chairs were flying. Teeth were flying. The pigs were called. Eight people were arrested, another dozen got taken to hospital. When we went back for our gear, it had all been nicked. There was nothing for it but to drive back. But we couldn’t because our van was gone, too. That’s when I realised: the real revolution that people are crying out for isn’t political, it’s spiritual.’

‘So, you boot Dean out for not kowtowing to your red flag,’ says Griff, ‘then you scrawl cosmic runes all over that same flag?’

‘Everything happens for a reason,’ says Marcus. ‘At Dartford, the cosmos spoke to me. I wrote a bunch of songs around mystic themes, updated our image –’ he holds up his cape ‘– and, lo and behold, our gig fee’s fifty pounds a shot.’

Dean’s eyes go wide. ‘Fif– ty or fif– teen ?’

‘Fif– ty – Five-oh. We’ve got a manager now. He’s in talks with Decca. It’s all about energy flow. Potemkin was blocked. Aquarius flows. Come see us at Middle Earth in the new year. Our music says it all better than I can. Got to rush, but Merry Christmas and all that. Nice meeting you all … Ta-ta.’ Marcus Daly is gone.

‘You look in shock,’ Griff tells Dean.

‘He used to insist we called him, “comrade”.’

‘The decade is going insane,’ says Elf.

‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’ asks Jasper.

‘Evening, all.’ Steve arrives less than a minute later. He’s wearing an oxblood leather jacket, a thick sweater and a pleased smile. ‘Elf, Jasper, Dean, good to see you again and uh …’ he frowns at Griff. ‘What’s-his-name, the drummer guy? I always forget that one.’

‘My first name’s “You May Be Older Than Me”,’ replies Griff. ‘My surname’s “But I’ll Still Kick Your Arse You Cheeky Git”.’

Steve smiles and sits down. ‘Sorry I’m late. There was a crash near Luton.’ His smile fades. ‘Traffic was down to a single lane.’

‘It was slow going from Birmingham, too,’ says Elf.

‘Like an ice rink in parts,’ says Dean. ‘Freezing fog.’

‘We just finished our grub,’ says Griff. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘I had a pasty before I left. We ought to be off soon. Any tea left in that pot, mind? I could do with a whistle-wetter.’

‘I’ll get yer a cup,’ says Dean.

‘How was the Birmingham show then?’ asks Steve.

‘Not too shabby.’ Griff looks at Jasper and Elf.

Elf nods back. ‘We’ve got some new songs since you saw us at Derby. Griff here played like a demon. As usual.’

‘You’re exactly like him.’ Jasper looks from Steve to Griff and back. ‘And exactly different.’

‘I got the looks and brains,’ says Steve. ‘Obviously.’

‘And all the bullshit, too,’ adds Griff. ‘Obviously. You picked up the car without any trouble?’

‘Aye. Uncle Phil’s pal lives out Wembley way, so it’s the right side of the city. A Jag. Three years old, only twenty thou on the clock. Suspension like driving on air. Worth the trip down.’

‘It’s worked out well for getting you home on Christmas, too,’ remarks Elf. ‘I feel like a gangster, handing over a witness.’

‘If he wasn’t coming back to Hull for Christmas,’ says Steve, ‘Mum was going to have him kidnapped and brought back in the boot of a car. This way, he gets to drive.’

Dean returns with a cup. ‘Here you go, mi’lord.’

‘Thanks pal. I’m ready for this.’ Steve pours himself a cup, slurps and tilts his head back. ‘Ah … that’s better. Before I forget, I’ve got a job for you all.’ Steve takes out three copies of Paradise is the Road to Paradise and a black marker. ‘Would you all mind signing these?’

‘The thrill hasn’t worn off yet.’ Dean takes the marker. ‘Who’re they for?’

‘One’s for Wally Whitby, one’s for our Mum and Dad, and one’s for me. When you’re bigger than the Beatles I’ll flog it and retire from my career in the motor trade.’

‘Wally does know it’s not trad jazz, right?’ checks Griff.

‘’Course he does. He saw you do “Darkroom” on Top of the Pops . He were down Price’s Records the very next morning, telling everyone how he discovered you when you were twelve. He still brings your press clippings to Mum.’

Dean passes the records and the marker to Griff.

‘You must be right pleased with that cover,’ says Steve.

They all gaze at the photograph of the Gioconda café, with Elf, Jasper, Dean and Griff in the window seats. By using a long exposure, the photographer added the blurry ghost-trails of passers-by, a dog and a cyclist. A street sign reading ‘UTOPIA AVENUE’ was fixed to the wall on the top left; on the bottom right, a newspaper board reads, ‘ Paradise Is the Road to Paradise ’.

‘I bloody love it,’ replies Dean.

‘It took a while to get right,’ replies Jasper.

‘We blew Ilex’s art budget twice over,’ says Elf.

Griff signs his name over a pale window.

‘An LP’s like a baby,’ says Elf. ‘Us four made it …’

‘… not sure where you’re going with this,’ says Dean.

Elf goes ugh. ‘You know what I mean. You want what you’ve made to have the right face. The artwork’s the face.’

The frigid air penetrates Griff’s coat and fillets his flesh from his bones. ‘It’s fookin’ Siberia out here!’ Each word is a puff of white vapour. The party reaches the Beast. ‘Right, then,’ Griff tells his bandmates. ‘See you on the thirtieth.’

‘Me ’n’ Jasper’ll cook something at De Zoet Towers,’ Dean tells him. ‘Our last supper of ’sixty-seven can’t be the Blue Boar.’

‘Right you are,’ says Griff. ‘I’ll bring the stomach pump.’

‘Don’t open your prezzie till Christmas Day,’ says Elf, ‘or it’ll vanish in a puff of regret. Have a lovely time with your family.’

‘Aye, you too.’

Jasper shakes his hand. It’s formal and oddly intimate.

‘Merry Christmas, yer northern wazzock,’ Dean tells him.

‘Peace on Earth, you great southern ponce,’ replies Griff.

Utopia Avenue minus Griff climb into the Beast. Elf sits at the wheel and coaxes it into life on the third try, with the choke out. She wipes condensation from the windscreen and gives Griff one last fluttery wave before driving away onto the slip-road.

Steve leads him over to a moonlit S-type Jaguar.

‘Look – at – you .’ Griff strokes the bonnet.

‘Want to drive?’