Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

Armed columns of days, weeks, months and years march towards Dean out of the future. A first hearing. Transfer to a real prison. I’ll look back at this boredom when I’m banged up with a psycho cell-mate with sexual frustration and pubic lice and I’ll think, ‘Christ, those were the days …’

Dean sets himself the task of doing a hundred sit-ups.

As if that’ll keep yer safe in a real prison wing.

His underwear feels disgusting. A bag of clean washing is waiting for him at the launderette near Chetwynd Mews. It’ll be clean and smelling of soap powder. It may as well be on the moon.

Gridded moonlight lies on the concrete floor. The whole of Day Three passed with no word from anyone. Dean should be at Fungus Hut this week, recording a demo for ‘Nightwatchman’ . Or ‘The Hook’. Dean’s stomach growls. Supper was a jug of water, a stale roll, an inch of salami, a cup of cold rice pudding. A conversation would be nice. No wonder people lose their sanity in prison. People say, ‘Where there’s life there’s hope,’ but every saying has a B side and this one’s is ‘Hope stops you adapting to a new reality.’ Dean is an inmate. Inmates can’t be pop stars. He wonders if his arrest is in Melody Maker . He expects Amy’s line will be ‘Let’s hope the Italians throw away the key.’ Fleet Street will agree, if anyone notices that Utopia Avenue’s lesser songwriter has been detained in Italy. ‘ Bravo, Italy! Lock the bleeder up! ’ The public won’t believe the cannabis was planted. The public believe what the papers tell them. Nan Moss and the aunts might not, but Harry Moffat will. He’ll want to believe it …

What if Harry Moffat dies while I’m in prison?

Alcoholics aren’t known for long lives.

Dean tells his cell, ‘Harry Moffat’s dead to me already.’

If that’s true, why do you think ’bout him so much?

Once upon a time in Gravesend, a gang of kids threw Dean’s schoolbag down the railway embankment and Dean came home in tears. His dad put him in his car and they drove around Gravesend until Dean identified the bullies. ‘Wait here, son.’ Harry Moffat got out and went over. Dean couldn’t hear what his dad said, but he watched the kids’ faces. They went from cockiness to ashen dread. Harry Moffat returned to the car and said, ‘I doubt they’ll be bothering you again, son.’

It was simpler when Harry Moffat was a monster.

The moonlight’s gone. The cell is darker.

Maybe the night sky has clouded over.

Maybe the moon has shifted its position.

The sound of rain. Day Four. Tuesday. No. Wednesday. Wednesday? Something has to happen today. Why?

Why must something happen today?

The toilet smells worse. Dean folds his prison blanket and scrubs his teeth with the prison toothbrush. Now what?

What wouldn’t I give for one cigarette?

Or a notebook and pen. He’d like to work on a song, but if he thinks of brilliant lyrics and forgets them, it’ll torment him.

Then I’ll just have to remember them. Dean starts off with the old blues trope: Woke up in the Hotel Shit-hole. That’s no good. The BBC will ban it and kill the single. What about—

There’s a jangle of keys in the lock of the door.

Here is Big Cop, making a bored come-with-me gesture.

Levon stands up as Dean enters the interview room. He’s freshly shaved in a clean shirt. A good sign . Big Cop locks them in. ‘Bloody hell,’ says Dean, ‘I could hug yer.’

Levon opens his arms. ‘I promise not to lose control.’

Dean hasn’t smiled in three days. ‘I am one stinky bastard. Yer might pass out if I come closer. What’s happening? Where’re the others? Are yer in the clear?’

‘I am. Jasper and Griff are well – just worried about you.’

‘Elf?’

‘She’s been in touch with Bethany. It’s awful, of course. One thing at a time. Are you holding up okay?’

‘Depends on what happens next. That guy Symonds was talking ’bout a three-year sentence.’

‘Bullshit. Günther’s lawyers have taken to the air. Even prior to the fake drugs bust, your arrest was riddled with errors. Time’s short, Dean, so let me get to the point. Very soon Mr Symonds and El Capitano will walk in with a c onfession-cum-apology. “S orry for punching the nice policeman. I didn’t know cannabis was illegal. Let me go and I’ll mend my ways. ” Sign it and you’ll be free to go …’

Relief floods through Dean. I’m going home.

‘And yet I’m asking you to refuse to sign it.’

‘Yer kidding.’ Oh no he isn’t. ‘Why?’

‘On Sunday I placed a call to the Canadian consul and had him place a few calls to London. On Monday, Bethany got busy and contacted a few allies, including a certain Miss Amy Boxer.’

Dean winced. ‘Amy? “Ally”?’

‘When she stopped laughing, she wrote a three-hundred-word piece about Utopia Avenue’s mistreatment by the dastardly dagos – and sent it to a pal at the Evening Standard who ran it in Monday’s edition.’

Dean’s confused. ‘Amy did that for me?’

‘Amy did it for Amy, but she did it, and that’s the main thing. After the Standard hit the stands, the Mirror came calling.’

‘The Record Mirror ?’

‘The Daily Mirror. National circulation, five million. By mid-morning tea break yesterday, all five million readers knew that Dean Moss, working-class hero of British pop, was facing thirty years in a foreign jail for a crime he did not commit.’

‘ Thirty? Symonds told me to expect three.’

Levon shrugs. ‘Is it my fault if they don’t check their facts? Better yet: a two-page exclusive in the Standard with Dean Moss’s fianceé, pop journo Amy Boxer: “ Star’s Sweetheart says ‘God Help My Dean in Third-world Hell-Hole’.” It’s a publicist’s wet-dream.’

‘Her last words to me were, “I’m dialling nine-nine-nine.”’

‘Only in reality: not in print, where it matters. Amy had the shoot done at that Catholic church off Soho Square while she was praying for you.’

‘Amy’s as religious as Chairman Mao.’

‘I know she’s talented, but that was genius. Bat Segundo dedicated his show to you and played “Purple Flames”, “Mona Lisa” and “Darkroom” back to back. The Financial Times cited your case in a piece on British citizens in corrupt foreign jurisprudences. Then – I’ve saved the best until last – we have the vigil.’

‘What vigil?’ says Dean. ‘In fact, what is a vigil?’

‘A dawn-to-dusk gathering of two hundred fans outside the Italian Embassy. “Free Dean Moss” placards. A fan in a flat opposite is playing Paradise non-stop through the window. Harold Pinter’s said he’ll pitch up tomorrow. Brian Jones, if he can get out of bed. Elf’s going to make a speech, despite the awfulness at Imogen’s. Even the weather’s on our side. It’s embarrassing the shit out of the Italians.’

Dean tries to grasp all this. ‘Why don’t the fuzz move in?’

‘A municipal peculiarity. The Mayfair cul-de-sac through which the embassy is accessed isn’t a public thoroughfare, so the landlord has to serve an eviction notice. It’ll take weeks. So the police can guard the building, but they can’t disperse the vigil.’

Dean begins to grasp it. ‘And in the meantime, we’re getting coverage, glorious coverage.’

‘Bethany’s been fielding press calls every hour. Including American stringers. Orders are flying in. Vinyl is flying out. Günther called. He says Hi. Ilex is printing thirty thousand Paradise s. And’ – Levon places his fingertips together –‘if you’re still behind bars tonight, the London Post is flying Felix Finch out first thing tomorrow. He’ll interview us, then join us on your grand homecoming. You should be out on Friday.’