Utopia Avenue : A Novel

by Mitchell, David

  ‘This is the Telegraph, Elf. These are the facts.’

  ‘What about “innocent until proven guilty”?’ asks Bea.

  Cutlery clinks. ‘The National Westminster Bank,’ their dad lowers his voice further, ‘can’t have managers whose families are mixed up with the wrong sort. Drugs? Fiscal evasion?’

  ‘Only idiots carry drugs through airports, Dad,’ replies Elf. ‘Especially if you’re a guy with a guitar and long hair.’

  ‘Then maybe Dean is an idiot.’ Her dad taps the paper.

  He is in some ways, but not this one. ‘The British police plant drugs on people. Why wouldn’t Italian police do the same?’

  ‘The British police force is the envy of the world.’

  Elf feels her temper heat up. ‘How do you know that? Have you been around the world, asking everyone?’

  ‘If it was Elf’s name in that article,’ says Bea, ‘as it would be, if she had gone to the airport with the others, whose word would you trust? Hers? Or what the Italian police say?’

  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 ov
er 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?’

  ‘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 meetin
g 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.’

  Elf breathes. ‘Okay.’

  Ted Silver escorts her through the crush to a crate under a lamppost. Victor French puts a mic in her hand. What if I forget my speech? Bethany clasps her shoulder: ‘You memorise entire folk songs word-perfectly, remember. You can do this.’ Elf nods and climbs onto the crate. The ‘Elf! Elf! ELF! Elf! Elf! ELF!’ becomes another cheer, louder and longer than the first. A needle is lifted off ‘Smithereens’. Hundreds of faces look back. Dozens of cameras click. People watch from the surrounding windows. She quietens the roar with a hand gesture.

  Breathe. ‘Morning, all.’ Elf’s voice issues from an amp lashed to the lamppost. Her words echo off the walls of Three Kings Yard. ‘I’m Elf Holloway from Utopia Avenue and I’m here—’