Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

A sweaty bouncer enters. ‘They’re getting rowdy, boss.’

Angry shouts find their way in: ‘ Where’s the fackin’ band? ’; ‘ Eight bob for four songs? ’; ‘ We’ve been had! We’ve been had! We’ve been had! ’; ‘ Re–fund! Re–fund! Re–fund! ’

‘What happens next, boss?’ asks the bouncer.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Oscar Morton leans into the mic. ‘Due to –’ a jag of feedback buys Dean extra seconds to check the leads ‘– unforeseen circumstances, Archie Kinnock’s Blues Cadillac won’t be joining us for Act Two …’ The crowd jeers and boos. ‘But, but , we have a very special act lined up instead …’

Dean tunes up while testing the levels on Ratner’s amp. Jasper tells him, ‘We’ll go in A major. Griff, give us a driving canter, the way the Animals do it?’ The drummer nods. Dean makes a ready-as-I’ll-ever-be face. Levon stands with his arms folded, looking pleased. It ain’t yer who’ll get torn to shreds by a mob of hopped-up Archie Kinnock fans if this goes tits up , thinks Dean. Jasper tells Oscar Morton, ‘When you’re ready.’

‘The 2i’s is proud to present, for one night only … I give you …’

Only now does Dean realise they don’t have a name.

Levon’s face goes, Okay, a name, think of a name!

Jasper looks at Dean and mouths, Any ideas?

Dean’s about to step in with – with what? The Pickpockets? The Evicted? The Penniless? The Anythings?

‘I give you,’ bellows Oscar Morton, ‘the – Way – Out!’

A Raft And A River

By Day Three after the bust-up, Elf admitted to herself that, this time, Bruce might not be coming back. The misery was incessant. Bruce’s toothbrush, any song about a break-up, no matter how slushy, or even the sight of his jar of Vegemite in the pantry was enough to set her off sobbing. Not knowing his whereabouts was unbearable, but she was too afraid to phone their friends to ask if they’d seen him. If they hadn’t, she’d have to explain why she was asking. If they had, she’d only humiliate herself and embarrass them by insisting on every last agonising detail.

On Day Four, she went to pay her phone bill before she got disconnected. She stopped for a coffee at the Etna where she bumped into Andy from Les Cousins. Before he even asked after Bruce, Elf blurted out that he was visiting relatives in Nottingham. Her lie appalled her. Pathetic, the speed at which she went from a modern girl who wasn’t going to be treated like a doormat to a dumped dumpy ex-girlfriend. ‘Ex’. She felt like Billie Holiday in Don ’t Explain , minus the tragic glamour of heroin addiction …

All of which only partly explained why Elf slid her key into the lock of her own flat’s door as quietly as a burglar. If, if, if Bruce had come home, she didn’t want to startle him into taking flight. Stupid? Yes. Irrational? Yes. But broken hearts aren’t clever or logical. Creaklessly, then, on a midweek afternoon in February, Elf let herself in, praying that Bruce would be home …

… and there was Bruce’s suitcase. His coat, his hat and his scarf were draped over it. Elf heard him in the bedroom. She breathed properly for the first time in four days. She held his scarf to her face and inhaled its woolly damp Bruceness. Those Twiggy-thin fans who showed up to Fletcher & Holloway gigs, who gazed at Bruce, who glowered at Elf, they were wrong, wrong, wrong. Elf wasn’t Bruce’s stepping stone. He loved her. Elf called, ‘I’m home, Kangaroo!’ then waited for Bruce to reply, ‘Wombat!’ and rush through to kiss her.

But when Bruce came through, his face was stony. LPs poked out of his rucksack. ‘Thought you were teaching this morning.’

Elf didn’t understand. ‘The class had flu … but hi.’

‘Thought I’d pick up the rest of my stuff.’

Elf realised the suitcase by the door was not full of things Bruce was bringing back but removing. ‘You came when I was out.’

‘Thought it’d be better.’

‘Where have you been staying? I was worried sick.’

‘A friend.’ Flatly, like it was none of her business.

‘Which friend?’ Elf couldn’t help it. If it was a male friend, Bruce the Australian should have said a ‘mate’. ‘A girl?’

Bruce sighed like a patient grown-up. ‘Why do you do this?’

Elf folded her arms like a wronged woman. ‘Do what?’

‘You’re so possessive. That’s why you pushed me away.’

‘Meaning, “I’ll do whatever I want and if you complain, you’re a hysterical bitch”?’

Bruce shut his eyes as if at a throbbing headache.

‘If you’re dumping me, just tell me it’s over.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Bruce looks at her. ‘It’s – over.’

‘What about the duo?’ Elf could hardly breathe. ‘Toby’s about to offer us an album.’

‘No, he isn’t.’ Bruce said it like she was a foreigner he had to speak loudly at. ‘The album isn’t happening.’

‘You don’t want to make an album?’ Her voice was a husk.

‘A&B Records don’t want a Fletcher and Holloway album after all. “Shepherd’s Crook”, I quote, “did not meet expectations”. No album. We’re dropped. The duo’s finished.’

Below, a motorbike snarled through Livonia Street. Dispatch riders and petty criminals used it as a short-cut.

Two floors up, Elf wanted to dry-retch. ‘No.’

‘Call Toby if you think I’m lying.’

‘What about the gigs? Andy’s given us the nine o’clock slot at Cousins next Sunday. There’s the Cambridge Festival next month.’

Bruce shrugged and jutted out his lips. ‘Cancel ’em, do ’em solo – do what you want.’ He put on his coat. ‘My scarf.’

Elf’s hand passed it to him. ‘If I need to contact—’

Bruce clunked the door shut behind him.

The flat was silent. Record label: gone . The duo: gone . Bruce: gone . Elf fled to her bed – hers , no longer ours – curled up under her blanket and in that stuffy womb sobbed her heart out. All over again.

On Day Nine, February rain batters the Holloway family’s mock-Tudor windows, erasing the muddy garden and Chislehurst Road. Lawrence, the besuited boyfriend of Elf’s older sister Imogen, is acting oddly. ‘So, um …’ He half stands, sits down again, then leans forwards. ‘So, um …’ His fingers check his tie. ‘So, um, a … an … a, surprise announcement.’ Imogen gives him an encouraging smile, as if Lawrence is a nervous student at a nativity play.

My God , thinks Elf. They’re getting engaged.

One glance tells her that both her parents are in the know.

‘Not that Mr Holloway’ll be surprised,’ says Lawrence.

‘I’d say we’re on “Clive” terms now,’ says Elf’s dad. ‘Eh?’

‘Don’t steal the lad’s thunder, Clive,’ instructs Elf’s mum.

‘I’m not stealing anyone’s thunder, Miranda.’

‘My God!’ Bea, Elf’s younger sister, acts concerned. ‘Lawrence is turning purple.’

Lawrence is indeed blushing impressively. ‘I’m fine, I—’

‘Shall I call nine-nine-nine?’ Bea puts down her champagne glass. ‘Are you having an attack?’

‘Bea,’ Elf’s mum uses her warning voice, ‘enough.’

‘What if Lawrence combusts, Mummy? It’ll take more than bicarb of soda to get Lawrence-stains out of the carpet.’

Normally Elf would laugh at this, but since Bruce left, nothing’s funny. Elf’s dad takes charge. ‘Carry on, Lawrence, before you get cold feet about joining this mad-house.’

‘Lawrence is not getting cold feet,’ insists Elf’s mum. ‘Are you, Lawrence?’