Nobody was in the corridor outside.
Jasper guessed it was a prank and shut the door.
Immediately there was a knock-knock at the door.
Jasper flung open the door.
Nobody was in the corridor. Nobody.
Jasper’s eardrums popped. He shivered.
Knock Knock? thought-spoke Jasper. Is that you?
Nobody replied. Jasper closed the door.
There was a knock-knock at the door.
The knocking could only be in Jasper’s head.
The first bullets of rain smashed on the window.
Like knuckles on wood came a knock-knock.
Jasper felt Knock Knock watching him with the intensity of a marksman, or a psychologist, or a bird of prey. Rain smattered Ely’s old stones, old slates, the river, its tarmac and the roofs of cars. A cacophony broke over Jasper—knockknockknock-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-knocketty-knock. He stumbled back to bed and pulled the blanket over his head. Jasper recited, “I’m not insane, I’m not insane, I’m not insane…” guessing this was exactly what the insane do as they vanish down the helter-skelter.
Abruptly, the knocking stopped.
Jasper waited for it to begin again.
He emerged from his blanket.
The rain had stopped. Water dripped.
There was a knock-knock at the door.
Jasper’s only recourse was to refuse to answer.
After another knock-knock, the door opened, and a nervous first-year in a uniform two sizes too big stepped in. “Hello. Is Matron here? Mr. Kingsley says I look like death warmed up.”
* * *
—
THAT NIGHT, JASPER had a dream of cinematic clarity. Snow was falling onto a mountain temple of high walls, curved roofs, and pine trees. The dream was set in Japan. Women swept wooden walkways with rustic brooms. Several were pregnant. A curving tunnel lit by dream-light led into a domed chamber. It housed an erect-backed, kneeling goddess, three or four times the size of a human woman, sculpted from a block of night sky. Her cupped hands made a hollow the size of a cradle. Her eyes gazed into the hollow. Her predatory mouth opened wide. If the shrine of Shiranui is a question, spoke a thought, here is the answer. Swaying flames were moonflower blue and silent. Realizing he had been lured to that place to be sacrificed, Jasper fled back down the curving tunnel to the temple. Wooden screens slid shut behind him. Knock, knock, knock, knock. He reached his room at Swaffham House in this world, bolted the door, and hid in his bed. But still he heard it. Knock-knock, knock-knock…Knock Knock was knocking a hole in the wall between the snowy temple in Japan and his room in Ely, and this mustn’t, mustn’t happen…but it already had…
* * *
—
“SHIT,” SAYS BRIAN Jones. “Sounds like a bad trip.” The smoke in the Scotch of St. James turns the lights brown. Jasper keeps drinking his whisky but his glass never empties. The Stone asks, “Were you all acid-heads at this school of yours?”
“The only acid we knew were acid drops, the boiled sweets; hydrochloric acid; and battery acid. This was still 1962.”
“Was ‘Heinz Formaggio’ a real name?” asks Brian Jones. “ ‘Heinz’ as in Baked Beans? ‘Formaggio’ as in ‘cheese’ in Italian?”
“Yes. He’s German-Italian-Swiss. Outside a bad trip, have you ever experienced anything like Knock Knock?”
Brian Jones squints. “My messages are nasty sometimes, but your Knock Knock sounds—”
* * *
—
“IT’S A NIGHTMARE, de Zoet!” A familiar voice reached him across a vast divide. “You’re having a nightmare. Jasper! Wake up.”
Jasper sat bolt upright, staring at a face he knew, but not yet sure if it was Now, Then, or Will Be.
It was Formaggio. Confusingly, they were in their dorm. Jasper had thought he was in Matron’s room. The knocking had ceased.
“You were talking in a foreign language,” said Formaggio. “Not Dutch. This was really foreign. Chinese or something.”
The alarm clock said a quarter past one.
“What happened?” asked Formaggio.
There was a knock-knock at the door.
Jasper looked at Formaggio, hoping he had heard it.
There was a knock-knock at the door.
“Did you hear that?” Jasper was trembling.
“Hear what? You’ve got me worried.”
* * *
—
FORMAGGIO WAS GRIM. “So it’s worse now than it’s ever been before?”
“Like my skull’s a wall and this is a hammer.”
“Have you kept data?”
“Formaggio, keeping my sanity’s the best I can manage.”
“And there’s been no dialogue?”
“None. He just knocks. Without letup.”
“Is he knocking now?”
“Yes.”
“That must be terrifying.”
“Now I know what that word means.”
“Can I try something?”
“Anything.”
Formaggio looked into Jasper’s eyes as if peering into a cave entrance. “Knock Knock. We want to ask some questions. Knock once for no and twice for yes. Please. Understand?”
The knocking stopped. The silence of Swaffham House was blissful. “He’s gone quiet,” said Jasper. “I think he—”
Knock-knock, came the answer, loud and clear.
Jasper was astonished. “Two knocks. Did you hear it?”
“No, but…” Formaggio thought. “If he hears me, he’s wired into your auditory nervous system. Knock Knock? Can we call you that?”
Knock-knock, came the reply. “Yes,” said Jasper. “Two knocks. Does this make me more crazy or less crazy?”
“Knock Knock: Do you know what Morse code is?”
A pause was followed by a single knock. “No,” said Jasper.
“Pity.” Formaggio leaned forward on his bed. “Knock Knock, do you exist independently of de Zoet?”
Knock-knock. “Yes,” confirmed Jasper.
“Knock Knock. Do you think of yourself as a demon?”
A pause. Knock. “No,” said Jasper.
“Did you once have a body, like me and de Zoet?”
Knock-knock. “A strong yes,” said Jasper.
“Knock Knock. Do you know the name of the country we’re in?”
Knock-knock. “Yes,” said Jasper.
“Is it France?”
Knock. “No,” said Jasper.
“Is it England?”
Knock-knock. “Yes,” reported Jasper.
“So you know the year is 1962, Knock Knock?”
Knock-knock. “Another yes.”
“Knock Knock, how many years have you been resident in de Zoet? Can you knock once for each year?”
Slowly, as if to ensure Jasper wouldn’t lose count, Knock Knock knocked sixteen times. “Sixteen.”
“Sixteen? All of de Zoet’s life, then?”
Knock-knock. “Yes.”
“Are you older than de Zoet?”
A firm knock-knock. “Yes.”
“How old are you?” asked Formaggio.
Ten knocks were followed by a pause. Jasper said, “Ten,” and the knocks continued to twenty. “Twenty.” The knocks went up to thirty. “Thirty.” Jasper continued in this way, up to a hundred. Two hundred. A couple of minutes passed before the knocks finally stopped and Jasper reported, “Six hundred and ninety-three.”
Swaffham House was utterly silent.
“Let’s try this.” Formaggio went to his desk and drew a grid with letters on a sheet of writing paper. He brought it to Jasper’s bed and laid it on the blanket:
1
2
3
4
5
&nbs
p; 1 –
a
b
c
d
e
2 –
f
g
h
i
j
3 –
k
l
m
n
o
4 –
p
q
r
s
t
5 –
u
v
w
x
y
6 –
z
“These numbers are x-y coordinates,” Formaggio explained in his Knock Knock voice. “You spell out words, letter by letter. Columns first, then rows. So if you want to spell the word ‘sun,’ you’d knock four times”—Formaggio indicated the fourth column across—“pause, then four times again”—he counted down the rows—“to get the s, once across and five times to get the u, four then three times for the n. Understand?”
A crisp knock-knock. “He understands,” said Jasper.
“Great. So, Knock Knock: What do you want?”
Knock Knock knocked twice and waited for Jasper to say, “Two”; then three times. L. Formaggio wrote the letter on a jotter. Next came four and two knocks for i; and after two minutes,
l–i–f–e–a–n–d–l–i–b–e–r–t–y
had appeared. Jasper hadn’t considered that the squatter in his skull might also be a prisoner. Formaggio asked, “How can we give you life and liberty?”
Knock Knock got to work again.
d–e–z–o–e–t–m–u–s–t
Knock Knock stopped there, or appeared to.
Old pipes in the walls juddered and groaned.
“ ‘De Zoet must’ what?” asked Formaggio.
The knocks began again, and spelled:
d–i–e
Formaggio and Jasper looked at each other.
Every hair on Jasper’s arms was standing up.
“Why?” asked Formaggio. “What’s de Zoet done to you?”
Knock Knock’s reply came rapidly and sharply:
t–r–e–s–p–a–s–s
“But you’re the one in his head,” said Formaggio.
Blow by blow, the answering knocks spelled out:
i–n–t–h–e–b–l–o–o–d
Jasper stared at the letters.
“It’s like a cryptic crossword,” said Formaggio.
A crossword for you, thought Jasper, but a death warrant for me. “Formaggio, I can’t do this anymore.”
“But this is the most incredible thing I’ve ever—”
“Stop. Please. Stop this. Now.”
THE HOOK
“Pick a nice fat bastard.” Dean’s dad took a maggot from the jar and held it up to the hook. “Squeeze him very gentle-like. Below the head. Yer don’t want to kill him, yer just want his mouth to open…Open wide, that’s it…See? Feed him onto the hook…Like feeding a thread through a needle.” Dean watched up close, fascinated and disgusted. “Twist the hook out of his arse, just so the point shows. See? That way he can’t slide off, but he’ll still twitch a bit and the fish won’t rumble he’s a maggot on a hook. He’ll just think, Oh, dinner, yum, bite ’n’ swallow…and then the hook’s lodged in him good ’n’ proper-like. Then guess who’s dinner after all?” His dad smiled. It was a rare sight. Dean smiled too. “Check yer weight ’n’ float’re tied proper one last time—they cost a few bob—and then yer ready to cast.” His dad stood up, reaching halfway to the sky. “Stand back, we don’t want you getting snagged on the hook and flying into the river. Yer mum’d never let me hear the end of it.” Dean trotted back down the jetty, almost to the shore. His dad held the rod back over his shoulder and cast. Weight, float, maggot on a hook flew over the glossy Thames, and landed with a plop and a splash many yards out.
Dean trotted back. “It went miles!”
His father sat down with his feet dangling over the edge. “Hold it. Good steady grip. Both hands.” Dean obeyed while his dad swigged from the bottle in a brown paper bag. The river slid by. The river slid by. The river slid by. Dean wished it could be like this all the time. Father and son did not speak for a while.
“The mystery o’ fishing’s this,” said Dean’s dad, “what’s the hook, who’s got the rod, what’s the maggot, what’s the fish?”
“Why’s that a mystery, Dad?”
“Yer’ll understand when yer older.”
“But ain’t it obvious what’s what?”
“It changes, son. In a heartbeat.”
* * *
—
THE TIP OF Amy Boxer’s fang indents her lip. “When I chat with John or Paul, or the lads in the Hollies, I’m speaking with guys who met at school. They’re as close as brothers. They plodded around the talent shows, they survived the variety circuits, they slaved in dives like the Cavern. Compared to them, don’t you feel…a little”—the Melody Maker reporter has to raise her voice over the noise of hammering—“manufactured?”
Levon’s office in Moonwhale is not, today, an oasis of calm. A toilet cistern burst in the Duke-Stoker office downstairs. Tradesmen are repairing the damage noisily.
“Does our music sound manufactured?” asks Jasper.
“Are you saying we’re the fookin’ Monkees?” asks Griff.
“Not the Monkees’ biggest fans, then?” asks Amy Boxer.
Levon intervenes. “We wish Davy, Michael, Peter, and, uh…”
“Scrotum-chops,” grunts Griff, from his hangover-recovery position on the sofa, with a black cowboy hat over his face.
“Micky Dolenz,” says Elf. “Don’t be mean.”
“We wish the Monkees all the very best,” says Levon.
Amy Boxer’s fishnet tights make a nylon scratching noise when she crosses her legs. Dean tries to focus on her hands. Ruby fingernails and three or four rings on both hands. Her biro leaves a trail of longhand. Her tendons flex in her forearm. Her accent is Essex. “The—very—best…Got it. So that night at Les Cousins, Elf, when a suave Canadian, a corblimey Cockney, a starving Viking, and a wildman drummer invited you to join their merry band, what passed through your mind?”
“Hang on,” interrupts Dean: “ ‘A corblimey Cockney’?”
Levon’s hand gesture says, Let this one pass, let it pass.
“Readers love a good creation myth. We formed after getting locked in a barn or We were adrift in a lifeboat and nearly had to eat each other is so much meatier than Our manager assembled us like an Airfix kit. Our female readers are also curious, Elf, about being the only girl in a band of guys.”
In Bethany’s office, three typewriters clatter and ping; space has been made for two sister-secretaries from Duke-Stoker.
Elf biffs the question back. “How is it for you at Melody Maker? Pop journalism isn’t known for respecting women.”
“God, Elf, don’t get me started. Sweary, preening, horny boys who rewrite the rulebook as it suits them. Sound familiar?”
Elf nods wearily. “If a man makes a mistake, it’s a mistake. If a woman makes one, it’s ‘Told you so!’ Does that sound familiar?”
Levon looks neutral. Jasper’s staring into space. Griff stays under his hat. “Who here treats yer like that?” asks Dean.
&n
bsp; “In the studio, anyone with testicles treats me like that.”
“I bloody don’t.”
“Watch. Watch how everyone reacts to one of my ideas, compared to an idea from a guy. Watch and learn.”
Dean lights a Dunhill. Either someone’s on her period or Bruce is putting ideas into her head.
“Let’s focus on the forming of the band,” suggests Levon.
“So why did you join this band of brothers?” Amy Boxer’s pen is busy. She’s looking pleased with herself.
Elf sips her coffee. “The morning after we met at Les Cousins, we went to Club Zed up on Ham Yard, just to jam for a while. The musical chemistry was good, for four strangers.” She gestures at the sleeve of Paradise Is the Road to Paradise, propped up on the glass table. “It’s only improved since.”
“Nice…” Amy Boxer’s pen scratches. The sound of sawing starts up. “You and your boyfriend, Bruce Fletcher, put out an EP last year. Shepherd’s Crook. Which I enjoyed, by the way. I’m curious, is Bruce jealous of your success in Utopia Avenue?”
“You’re allowed to say, ‘No comment,’ ” says Levon.
“Bruce is happy for me and the band…” replies Elf.
Only ’cause there’s more cash to sponge, thinks Dean.
“…and he’s put together a demo of his own songs. Our success has got his creative juices flowing.”
Bruce Fletcher doesn’t “flow,” thinks Dean. He dribbles.
Amy Boxer looks a little dubious. “Any luck so far?”
“There’s some early interest. Duke-Stoker have been plugging it in the States, and Dean Martin’s people have been in touch. Gladys Knight too. Shandy Fontayne.”
“Shandy Fontayne?” The reporter looks at Levon, reluctantly impressed. “When Bruce’s first song goes gold, maybe I’ll interview him. But Elf, don’t you miss your artistic independence, now you have to haggle over musical decisions with these three?”
Utopia Avenue Page 23