Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

Clive Holloway peers at his daughters over his glasses. ‘I’d believe Elf – because she’s been raised properly. More’s the pity we can’t say as much for everyone.’ He folds up the newspaper as the waitress approaches. ‘Full English, please. Crispy bacon.’

Bethany picks up on the second ring and Elf pushes the sixpence into the slot. ‘Bethany, it’s Elf.’

‘Elf! Thank Heaven. Do you know the news?’

‘Only what the Telegraph wrote.’

‘There’s lots more. Where are you calling from?’

‘A kiosk. A hotel in Birmingham.’

‘Give me the number. I’ll call you back …’

Moments later, the phone rings and Elf picks up. ‘All ears.’

‘First, the good news. Jasper and Griff are in the clear. They’re holed up at a hotel near the airport. The bad news. Levon and Dean are still in custody. Günther at Ilex has engaged the best Italian lawyers that Deutschmarks can buy, however, and promises to call as soon as there’s news.’

‘Where’s Enzo Endrizzi in all this?’

‘Mysteriously AWOL, which smacks of a stitch-up. Press interest is off the scale. Amy Boxer, of all people, has been leading the charge via the Evening Standard. ’

‘I dread to ask, but whose side are they all on?’

‘Ours. The Telegraph was a little sniffy, but it’s “Get Your Dago Hands Off Our Boy” from the Mirror , “Bent I-Ties Stitch Up British Star!” from the Post. Ted Silver’s friend at the Foreign Office thinks the authorities in Rome want to be seen to be cracking down on “foreign influences”. They didn’t anticipate this brouhaha. Friends and fans of the band are staging a vigil outside the Italian Embassy in Mayfair. It’s a diplomat’s nightmare.’

Elf feels gears turn and levers shift. ‘What do I do?’

‘Keep your head down. I’m drafting a press release. I’ll say you’re safely in England and you’re overwhelmed by the support for Utopia Avenue at this dark hour, et cetera – but if the story keeps growing, hacks might come sniffing.’

‘Oh God. The last thing we need is reporters at the door.’

‘Exactly. How is Imogen?’

Elf doesn’t know where to begin …

Hot tears well from Imogen’s sore eyes. Elf hands her a tissue. ‘He must’ve known. He must’ve wanted his mum. He must’ve been afraid, he must …’ Imogen shakes and curls up like a child fitting into a hiding place. ‘Last night I heard him crying. My milk started up and I woke in the dark and was halfway to the door when I remembered, and my nightshirt was damp so it was out with that bloody breast pump and then when it’s done I have to wash the milk down the sink, and—’ Imogen fought for breath, as if her grief had turned to asthma. Elf clasps Imogen’s hands. ‘Breathe, sis, breathe. Breathe …’ Radio 3 is turned on in the kitchen downstairs.

The curtains are drawn against the sunshine.

After lunch, which Imogen doesn’t join, Elf returns to the end of the garden to carry on with the weeding. She and time forget about each other.

‘You’ve missed a bit,’ says a voice.

It’s Lawrence, holding a tray with a teapot.

‘That’s what Immy said yesterday.’

‘Is it? Well, um … Mum’s made gingerbread.’

‘Great. Thanks. I’ll just …’ she rips out a cable of bramble, takes off her gloves and joins Lawrence on the wall. ‘Is she still asleep?’

‘Yeah. Her safe haven. As long as she doesn’t dream.’

Elf dunks her gingerbread man, head first. ‘Mmm. It’s good.’

‘So, the crematorium called. Mark’s service is tomorrow. Four o’clock. There was a cancellation, apparently.’

‘Who cancels at a crematorium?’

‘I … uh, didn’t think to ask.’

‘Ignore me, I’m just being an insensitive idiot.’

‘Your dad told me about Dean and Levon,’ says Lawrence. ‘Stuck in Italy. You must be worried.’

Elf is worried, but Mark’s death leaves space for nothing else. ‘They have lawyers. You’re family. My place is here.’

Lawrence lights a cigarette. ‘I never knew how death messes with language. Are Immy and I still a “family”, now Mark’s gone? Or … are we demoted back to a “couple”? Until … I don’t know.’

Elf remembers what Imogen told her yesterday. It’s an uncomfortably heavy secret to have to keep. She sips her tea.

‘If I say, “ Mark is my son ”,’ Lawrence continues, ‘it looks like I’m denying that Mark’s gone. Like I’m crazy …’

The unseen kid is kicking a ball against a wall again. Elf guesses this is his or her regular practice time.

‘… but if I say, “ Mark was my son ”, it’s …’ Lawrence steadies himself. ‘It’s unbearable. It’s too …’ He almost laughs at how he’s almost weeping. ‘Sad. God. Someone needs to invent a verb tense that you only use for the … for people who have … gone.’

Willow fronds swish and flick around them. Like horses’ tails. ‘Use “is”,’ says Elf. Elf thinks of Jasper’s strange detachment. Sometimes it’s a superpower. ‘If other people think I’m crazy, let them.’

Thump-pow , thump-pow , thump-pow …

Wednesday morning is bright. The windows in the dining room of the Cricketer’s Arms are open. Warm air seeps in. Elf, Bea and their father wear black. This morning he has bought the Post . He shows the girls Felix Finch’s column:

VIGIL ON UTOPIA AVENUE

Two hundred fans of British popsters Utopia Avenue held a vigil outside the Italian Embassy in Three Kings Yard, Mayfair, yesterday in protest at the detention of the band’s guitarist Dean Moss and manager Levon Frankland in Rome. Italian authorities accuse the pair of possessing drugs and fiscal impropriety, but ‘Not so!’ say band and fans alike, who presented a petition demanding Dean and Levon’s release to an Italian consular official. Songs by the detained musician were sung, with more enthusiasm than technique. Rolling Stone Brian Jones joined the vigil and told Your Humble Finch, ‘I’ve been at the receiving end of some pretty rough justice myself, and I’m in no doubt that the Italians are playing the same dirty game. If they have real evidence that Dean and Levon have committed crimes, let them press charges. If they don’t, they should let Dean and Levon go – with an apology for wasting everyone’s time.’

Mr Jones’s sentiments were echoed by Rod Dempsey, a close friend of Dean Moss, who sported a Union Jack jacket. ‘It’s a scandal that toffs at the Foreign Office won’t pull their fingers out to clear the name of a British artist of Dean’s calibre. Would they be so blasé if he had gone to Eton?’ When I asked Mr Dempsey if he intended to return tomorrow, he avowed that he would return for as long as it took.

Whether or not Utopia Avenue’s music is one’s cup of tea, Your Humble Finch feels a grudging respect for the gathering in Three Kings Yard. They prove that British youth can make its opinion known without resorting to the disgraceful scenes erupting all over Europe. If the vigil stays within the four-square posts of the law, I concur with the placard waved by one demonstrator with a shock of pink hair: PAWS OFF DEAN MOSS!

‘A Rolling Stone is not my idea of a knight in shining armour,’ says Elf’s dad. ‘Felix Finch, however, could make a big difference.’

‘It’s a miracle the fuzz haven’t put the boot in,’ says Bea.

‘“Fuzz”?’ Their dad acts the horrified father. ‘The “boot”?’

‘I’m surprised the friendly bobbies’ – Bea acts coy – ‘haven’t dispersed the protesters. Have you met this Rod Dempsey, Elf?’