Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘And will the Post be paying us for this interview?’

‘Initially they offered us two, but I played them off against the News of the World and we agreed on four.’

‘Four hundred pounds for one interview? Bloody hell.’

Levon smiles sweetly. ‘Bless his heart. Four thousand .’

Dean stares. ‘Yer never joke about business.’

‘I do not. I propose this. Half the four thousand pounds goes to you. You’re the one doing bird. The remaining two thousand pounds replaces the tour fees that Ferlinghetti took, so you’ll get twenty per cent of that, too. Acceptable?’

Two thousand quid for six days picking my arse in a police cell? That’s more than Ray earns in a year. ‘Shit, yeah.’

Symonds and Ferlinghetti make their entrance.

‘Mr Symonds and Captain Ferlinghetti,’ says Dean.

They sit down. Symonds speaks. ‘I trust Mr Frankland has explained how lucky you are, being allowed to scuttle out of this with a rap on the knuckles?’

Ferlinghetti puts a pen and a typewritten page in front of Dean. The paragraphs are in English and Italian. Dean scans it, finding the words confess , wrongdoing , unprovoked , possession of cannabis , apologise and treated with dignity .

Dean rips the confession down the middle.

Ferlinghetti’s jaw drops like a cartoon villain’s.

Symonds takes a carefully controlled breath.

Levon’s face is telling him, That’s my boy.

‘You no want go home?’ demands Ferlinghetti.

‘Of course I do,’ Dean addresses Symonds, ‘but I never hit a copper, and that cannabis was planted. P’rhaps yer’ll believe me now. If I was guilty, yer’d not see me for dust. Would yer?’

Symonds looks troubled. ‘The Italian state is handing you a pardon. I must advise you to take it.’ Ferlinghetti unlooses a string of pungent-sounding Italian at the consular official. Symonds sits calmly until the captain is finished. ‘He’s saying that there’s no guarantee this pardon will be repeated.’

‘We’re at cross-purposes here,’ replies Dean. ‘I’ve been beaten black ’n’ blue by Italian police. I’ve had drugs planted on me by this –’ Dean points without looking him in the eye ‘– Ferlinghetti . I don’t want a pardon, Mr Symonds . I want a bloody apology. In writing. And till I get one –’ Dean stands and presses his wrists together ‘– it’s the Hotel Shit-hole for me.’

Ferlinghetti looks angry but also, Dean thinks, anxious.

Symonds addresses Levon. ‘If this is about publicity, be warned. It’s high-stakes poker and your boy’s liberty’s at stake.’

‘One moment.’ Levon is scribbling rapidly in his reporter’s notebook. ‘The columnist Felix Finch at the Post asked me to keep track of proceedings, ahead of his arrival tomorrow … So. Where were we? “Poker”. “Publicity”. No no no. Let me assure you, this is Dean’s decision. I suggested he did the wretched deal. But as you see, Dean’s a man of moral fibre.’

‘Yer a decent bloke, Mr Symonds,’ says Dean. ‘We got off on the wrong foot. Sorry ’bout that. I was scared. But look me in the eye. If yer were me – innocent – would yer sign that confession?’

Her Majesty’s Consular Representative sniffs, looks away, looks back, twitches his nose and takes a deep breath …

Albert Murray, Member of Parliament for Gravesend, meets flight BA546 on the tarmac at Heathrow Airport along with the Post photographer. The evening sky has the drama and colours of an exploding battleship. Dean, Levon, Griff and Jasper – still jittery from the flight – are ushered aside for brief introductions and handshakes, not before fifty or sixty or seventy girls on the viewing platform atop the terminal building spot the party and shriek ‘ Deeeeeeaaan! ’ A sign is draped over the safety rail: ‘DEAN WELCOME HOME’. Dean waves. The Monkees and the Beatles get many hundreds, but they started off with tens, once, surely . He can’t help but notice the signs read ‘Dean’, not ‘Jasper’ or ‘Griff’. ‘ Deeeeeeaaan! ’

Levon steers Dean back to the parliamentarian. ‘The band’s truly touched you found the time, Mr Murray. And arranged such glorious weather for Dean’s homecoming.’

‘Nothing’s too good for a Gravesend hero. We were proud of his music before, but now we’re proud of his backbone.’

Felix Finch inserts himself. ‘Felix Finch, sir – of A Finch About Town . Would you elaborate on Dean’s backbone?’

‘With pleasure. The Italian Gestapo did their damnedest to get Dean to kowtow. But did he? Did he heck. I read your column from time to time, Mr Finch, so I know we’d disagree on a lot, politically. But can we not agree, me as a socialist and you as a dyed-in-the-wool Tory, that in that godforsaken dungeon in Rome, what Dean Moss showed was true British bulldog spirit? Can we not agree?’

‘We most certainly can, Mr Murray.’ Finch’s pencil captures every word. ‘Superbly put, sir. Superb.’

‘Rightio,’ says Albert Murray. ‘Time for a few pictures.’

The columnist, the politician, the manager and Utopia Avenue stand as the photographers’ flashbulbs pop and dazzle.

An airport official escorts the band through a VIP entrance. The immigration man tells Dean he doesn’t need to see his passport – but could he write ‘To Becky, with love’ and sign his daughter’s autograph book? Dean obliges. Steps lead to a corridor, to more steps and a side-room next to a busy-sounding conference room. Waiting there are Elf, Bethany, Ray, Ted Silver, and Günther Marx and Victor French from Ilex. First, Dean hugs Elf. She looks hollowed, like Griff in the days after Steve’s death. He murmurs, ‘Hey. Thanks for coming.’

‘Welcome back, jailbird. You’ve lost weight.’

‘Trust you lot to go skiving off in Italy,’ says Bethany.

‘Nan Moss ’n’ Bill ’n’ the aunts send their love,’ says Ray. ‘They was planning a prison bust. Seriously.’

‘Enzo Endrizzi’s made himself the most famous crook in Europe,’ says Ted Silver. ‘Professional suicide.’

‘Did you write a prison ballad?’ asks Victor French.

‘We could rush it out before the next album,’ says Günther.

Dean examines the sentence. ‘The next album?’

The German is almost smiling. ‘Pending negotiations.’

I didn’t think today could get any better. Dean looks at Levon who tells him, ‘Günther wanted to give you the good news.’

‘Let’s get incarcerated more often,’ says Griff.

‘Next time,’ says Dean, ‘ you get banged up. Greef. ’

Griff cackles. Jasper looks as pleased as Jasper ever looks. Elf looks complicated. Victor French is peering through the slats of a blind. ‘You should see this.’ Utopia Avenue and their manager look into the function room. There must be thirty reporters and photographers waiting for the press conference. Up front is a TV camera with THAMES WEEKEND TELEVISION on the side.

‘That,’ says Levon, ‘is the next chapter.’

Even The Bluebells

The taxi drives off. Elf stares at Imogen and Lawrence’s house. Her suitcase stays by her feet. Honeysuckle blooms around the porch. Her father’s Rover stands in the drive, behind Lawrence’s Morris. The other car must belong to Lawrence’s parents. The day had been a sleep-deprived blur, of saying goodbye to Dean and the others in Rome; a drive to the airport; the flight; navigating Heathrow; a coach to Birmingham; a taxi, all the time thinking, Faster, faster … yet now she’s here, Elf’s courage has deserted her. What can I say to Immy? What can I possibly do? The late April afternoon is cruelly perfect. A thrush sings, very near. A word, ‘threnody’, arrives in Elf’s head. If she once knew what it meant, she doesn’t now. You’ll never feel ready for this, so just begin. She picks up her suitcase and walks to the front door. The upstairs bedroom curtains are drawn, so Elf taps on the front window quietly, in case Imogen is sleeping. The net curtains part and Elf’s mother looks out, inches away. Normally her eyes would have lit up. Today isn’t ‘Normally’.