Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘Only in passing.’ Elf keeps to herself that Dempsey is Dean’s drug dealer, and that he once made an artful pass at her.

‘Will you be attending this “vigil”?’ asks Elf’s dad. ‘Because I’d be much happier if you stayed well away.’

‘Today I’m only thinking about Mark.’

Edgbaston Crematorium is a pebble-dash shoebox-shaped building, with a mock-Greek portico bolted onto the front and a tall chimney at the rear. Spruces fail to conceal an industrial estate, the motorway flyover and six identical tower blocks. To Elf, these Homes in the Sky look like vertical prisons. Waiting in the reception area is Imogen’s friend Bernie Dee, whom Elf remembers from her sister’s wedding. She enfolds Imogen in a hug. ‘Oh, my dear. My poor, poor dear.’ The silver cross around her neck could belong to a vampire hunter.

Two doorways are labelled ‘Memorial Room A’ and ‘Memorial Room B’. Slot-in letters on the A door read ‘KIBBERWHITE 3.30 p.m.’ B reads ‘SINCLAIR 4 p.m.’ A full-throated rendition of ‘When The Saints Go Marching In’ booms out of A. After it ends, the doors fly open and at least a hundred people spill out into the afternoon. Most look and sound Caribbean. Tropical colours are mixed with black. ‘Bessie always loved a damn good singalong,’ says a lady. Her friend replies, ‘She joined in at the end, I swear. I knew it was Bessie by how off-key it was …’

After the Kibberwhite party has gone, the waiting room feels bleaker than before. Bernie Dee, Elf’s mum and Mrs Sinclair make small talk. Imogen and Lawrence sit in silence.

A few minutes before four o’clock, the funeral director ushers the nine mourners into a room with space for thirty or forty. The lighting is harsh and the floor is scuffed wood. The walls are tobacco-stained white. A piano sits in the corner. Mark’s small coffin rests on a conveyor-belt. Like a parcel in a lost and found office. A nearly new blue rabbit sits on the coffin. Elf’s mum holds Imogen’s arm and guides her to the front. Elf wishes the sight didn’t make her think of Imogen’s wedding day. The roses are white.

Bernie Dee’s address is well crafted and well meant but is, ultimately, based on the ‘God works in mysterious ways’ message. Not that I know how to attach meaning to Mark’s death. ‘As we bid goodbye,’ concludes Bernie Dee, ‘to the body that housed Mark’s soul for so brief a time, we’ll listen to a favourite hymn of Imogen’s.’ She looks at the funeral director. He lowers a needle onto crackly vinyl and a choir begins, ‘O God Our Help In Ages Past’ .

Imogen’s voice is shaky but loud. ‘No.’

Everybody, funeral director included, looks at her.

‘No. Stop playing that. Please.’

The funeral director lifts the needle.

Bernie is worried. ‘Is there a mistake, Immy?’

‘I – I asked for it, but … it’s the wrong choice.’ Imogen swallows. ‘Mark should’ve had a lifetime of music. Nursery rhymes, pop songs, dances and all sorts of music. I don’t want him to, to leave us … to … a hymn you play at funerals.’

‘We didn’t bring any other records,’ says her mum.

‘Elf.’ Imogen turns to her sister. ‘Play something.’

Elf’s nervous. ‘I haven’t prepared anything, Ims.’

‘Please. Anything. Something for Mark.’ She’s fighting back tears. ‘Please.’

‘Of course, Ims. Of course I will.’ Elf walks over to the piano. The funeral director lifts the lid for her. She sits on the stool. But what? ‘A Raft And A River’? She could make a decent stab at the Moonlight Sonata from memory, but any mistakes would stand out a mile. Scarlatti’s too lively. Then Elf remembers the composition she wrote at the Cricketer’s Arms last night. She’s carrying it in her handbag, in case a set of lyrics occurs to her. Elf puts the exercise book on the music holder and plays the still untitled sixty-six bars from beginning to end. Playing it more slowly makes it change colour. It lasts perhaps five minutes. As Elf plays, Imogen recovers her composure. She goes over to Mark’s coffin and kisses the lid. Lawrence does the same. They hold each other and cry. The two bereaved grandmothers join them, with Bea.

Elf’s composition comes to an end.

Its ghost fills the silence that follows.

Imogen tells the funeral director, ‘It’s time.’

Elf walks over and takes the blue bunny.

Everyone’s fingertips rest on the white coffin.

The funeral manager presses a discreet switch.

The conveyor-belt clunks into life.

The smooth lid slides from under their fingers.

Mark’s coffin passes through a curtain.

Beyond, a mechanical screen is lowered.

Even the bluebells lasted longer .

On Thursday morning, Elf meets Bethany in the spiral rush of Piccadilly Circus tube station. Londoners pour from the diagonal tunnels each minute, each with tragedies, histories, comedies and romances. Shoe-shiners work hard and quickly. Newspaper sellers work through their queues at high speed. Bethany is wearing a stylish blue hat, silk scarf and Jackie Onassis sunglasses.

‘I almost didn’t recognise you,’ says Elf.

‘That’s the idea. A reporter was lurking outside Moonwhale. He tried to shake down the bicycle courier for gossip. How’s Imogen?’

‘She’s at Richmond with my parents.’ Elf looks for words. ‘Grief is a boxer, my sister’s a punchbag, and all we can do is watch.’

‘Then watch,’ says Bethany, ‘stitch up her cuts and help her get to her feet again when she’s flat out.’

Elf nods. There’s nothing else to say. ‘So. What’s happening with Levon and Dean?’

‘They’re all over the press like a rash. This, from the Post … ’ Bethany had an article pasted into a notebook. Under a picture of Dean onstage at McGoo’s:

‘NOT WITHOUT MY HONOUR!’

The saga of heart-throb Dean Moss, arrested in Rome on Sunday on a dubious drugs charge, took an EXTRAORDINARY new twist yesterday when the Utopia Avenue guitarist refused to buy his repatriation by signing a confession of guilt. Mr Moss, who penned the Top 20 hits ‘Darkroom’ and ‘Prove It’, insists that the contraband was PLANTED by the arresting detective. Charges of fiscal impropriety against band manager Levon Frankland have already been DROPPED. In a statement issued via his lawyer, Mr Moss explained his courageous decision: ‘I’d do almost anything for this ordeal to be over and see my friends, my family and my country – but signing a false confession for a crime I didn’t commit is beyond the pale.’

‘I can hear “Land of Hope and Glory”,’ says Elf.

‘Levon and Freddy Duke can hear cash registers in record shops across the land. Oh, and Ted Silver told me to tell you BBC Radio have a reporter in Three Kings Yard. There’ll be others.’

‘Don’t tell me I’ll be on the lunchtime news.’

‘Lunchtime and dinnertime.’

Elf thinks of her father eating his sandwich in his office at work. What if I say the wrong thing?

‘I’m giving Amy Boxer the lead interview, if that’s okay.’

‘Fine by me.’ Elf thinks of Dean in his cell in Italy. His fate may depend on her getting this right. ‘I feel out of my depth, Bethany.’

‘You had two thousand Italians eating out of the palm of your hand last Saturday, I’ve been told.’

‘Yes, but that was a performance.’

‘So is this. That’s why we’re meeting early. Let’s find a quiet spot, sit down with a coffee and work out a few lines …’

Elf enters Three Kings Yard under its archway flanked by A&R man Victor French and Moonwhale’s lawyer Ted Silver. The courtyard is packed. A cheer goes up and stays up. Elf suppresses an urge to bolt. Dean needs this. Dozens of people call out her name. In seconds, it becomes a chant: ‘ Elf! Elf! ELF! Elf! Elf! ELF! Elf! Elf! ELF! ’ Young people. A few older faces. The sharply dressed. Unshaven hippies. ‘ Elf! Elf! ELF! Elf! Elf! ELF! ’ A smattering of mods. A trio of jugglers. A Westler’s hot-dog vendor. A hurdy-gurdy man. Harold Pinter ? ‘ Elf! Elf! Elf! ELF! Elf! ELF ! ’ ‘Smithereens’ is playing from an upstairs window. Reporters block Elf’s path: ‘Arthur Hotchkiss of the Guardian ,’ says a newshound in a houndstooth jacket. ‘What are your hopes and fears for the counter-culture?’ ‘ Elf! Elf! ELF! Elf! Elf! ELF ! ’ He’s jostled out of the picture by a hairless bulldog: ‘Frank Hirth, Morning Star – what is Utopia Avenue’s view on the struggle of the proletariat?’ ‘ Elf! Elf! ELF! Elf! Elf! ELF ! ’ A Jack-the-lad slips in: ‘Willy Davies, News of the World. What’s yer vital statistics, Elf, and who’s the hunkiest man in pop?’ ‘ Elf! Elf! ELF! Elf! Elf! ELF ! ’ Elf swerves away, and an American voice says: ‘Don’t forget to breathe.’ She’s young, Spanish-looking and beautiful. ‘ Elf! Elf! ELF! Elf! Elf! ELF ! ’ The woman cups her mouth to Elf’s ear. ‘I’m Luisa Rey, Spyglass magazine, but that doesn’t matter – good luck and don’t forget to breathe . ’