What if Harry Moffat dies while I’m in prison?
Alcoholics aren’t known for long lives.
Dean tells his cell, ‘Harry Moffat’s dead to me already.’
If that’s true, why do you think ’bout him so much?
Once upon a time in Gravesend, a gang of kids threw Dean’s schoolbag down the railway embankment and Dean came home in tears. His dad put him in his car and they drove around Gravesend until Dean identified the bullies. ‘Wait here, son.’ Harry Moffat got out and went over. Dean couldn’t hear what his dad said, but he watched the kids’ faces. They went from cockiness to ashen dread. Harry Moffat returned to the car and said, ‘I doubt they’ll be bothering you again, son.’
It was simpler when Harry Moffat was a monster.
The moonlight’s gone. The cell is darker.
Maybe the night sky has clouded over.
Maybe the moon has shifted its position.
The sound of rain. Day Four. Tuesday. No. Wednesday. Wednesday? Something has to happen today. Why?
Why must something happen today?
The toilet smells worse. Dean folds his prison blanket and scrubs his teeth with the prison toothbrush. Now what?
What wouldn’t I give for one cigarette?
Or a notebook and pen. He’d like to work on a song, but if he thinks of brilliant lyrics and forgets them, it’ll torment him.
Then I’ll just have to remember them. Dean starts off with the old blues trope: Woke up in the Hotel Shit-hole. That’s no good. The BBC will ban it and kill the single. What about—
There’s a jangle of keys in the lock of the door.
Here is Big Cop, making a bored come-with-me gesture.
Levon stands up as Dean enters the interview room. He’s freshly shaved in a clean shirt. A good sign. Big Cop locks them in. ‘Bloody hell,’ says Dean, ‘I could hug yer.’
Levon opens his arms. ‘I promise not to lose control.’
Dean hasn’t smiled in three days. ‘I am one stinky bastard. Yer might pass out if I come closer. What’s happening? Where’re the others? Are yer in the clear?’
‘I am. Jasper and Griff are well – just worried about you.’
‘Elf?’
‘She’s been in touch with Bethany. It’s awful, of course. One thing at a time. Are you holding up okay?’
‘Depends on what happens next. That guy Symonds was talking ’bout a three-year sentence.’
‘Bullshit. Günther’s lawyers have taken to the air. Even prior to the fake drugs bust, your arrest was riddled with errors. Time’s short, Dean, so let me get to the point. Very soon Mr Symonds and El Capitano will walk in with a confession-cum-apology. “Sorry for punching the nice policeman. I didn’t know cannabis was illegal. Let me go and I’ll mend my ways.” Sign it and you’ll be free to go …’
Relief floods through Dean. I’m going home.
‘And yet I’m asking you to refuse to sign it.’
‘Yer kidding.’ Oh no he isn’t. ‘Why?’
‘On Sunday I placed a call to the Canadian consul and had him place a few calls to London. On Monday, Bethany got busy and contacted a few allies, including a certain Miss Amy Boxer.’
Dean winced. ‘Amy? “Ally”?’
‘When she stopped laughing, she wrote a three-hundred-word piece about Utopia Avenue’s mistreatment by the dastardly dagos – and sent it to a pal at the Evening Standard who ran it in Monday’s edition.’
Dean’s confused. ‘Amy did that for me?’
‘Amy did it for Amy, but she did it, and that’s the main thing. After the Standard hit the stands, the Mirror came calling.’
‘The Record Mirror?’
‘The Daily Mirror. National circulation, five million. By mid-morning tea break yesterday, all five million readers knew that Dean Moss, working-class hero of British pop, was facing thirty years in a foreign jail for a crime he did not commit.’
‘Thirty? Symonds told me to expect three.’
Levon shrugs. ‘Is it my fault if they don’t check their facts? Better yet: a two-page exclusive in the Standard with Dean Moss’s fianceé, pop journo Amy Boxer: “Star’s Sweetheart says ‘God Help My Dean in Third-world Hell-Hole’.” It’s a publicist’s wet-dream.’
‘Her last words to me were, “I’m dialling nine-nine-nine.”’
‘Only in reality: not in print, where it matters. Amy had the shoot done at that Catholic church off Soho Square while she was praying for you.’
‘Amy’s as religious as Chairman Mao.’
‘I know she’s talented, but that was genius. Bat Segundo dedicated his show to you and played “Purple Flames”, “Mona Lisa” and “Darkroom” back to back. The Financial Times cited your case in a piece on British citizens in corrupt foreign jurisprudences. Then – I’ve saved the best until last – we have the vigil.’
‘What vigil?’ says Dean. ‘In fact, what is a vigil?’
‘A dawn-to-dusk gathering of two hundred fans outside the Italian Embassy. “Free Dean Moss” placards. A fan in a flat opposite is playing Paradise non-stop through the window. Harold Pinter’s said he’ll pitch up tomorrow. Brian Jones, if he can get out of bed. Elf’s going to make a speech, despite the awfulness at Imogen’s. Even the weather’s on our side. It’s embarrassing the shit out of the Italians.’
Dean tries to grasp all this. ‘Why don’t the fuzz move in?’
‘A municipal peculiarity. The Mayfair cul-de-sac through which the embassy is accessed isn’t a public thoroughfare, so the landlord has to serve an eviction notice. It’ll take weeks. So the police can guard the building, but they can’t disperse the vigil.’
Dean begins to grasp it. ‘And in the meantime, we’re getting coverage, glorious coverage.’
‘Bethany’s been fielding press calls every hour. Including American stringers. Orders are flying in. Vinyl is flying out. Günther called. He says Hi. Ilex is printing thirty thousand Paradises. And’ – Levon places his fingertips together –‘if you’re still behind bars tonight, the London Post is flying Felix Finch out first thing tomorrow. He’ll interview us, then join us on your grand homecoming. You should be out on Friday.’
‘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 i
t.’ 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’.
Lawrence, his parents, Bea and their parents greet her in the living room. Everyone is whispering. Imogen is upstairs, ‘resting’. Her husband is miserable, broken and looks five years older than he did a fortnight ago, when Elf was last here. She tells him she’s sorry, appalled by the inadequacy of the phrase. Lawrence nods. Elf’s father and Mr Sinclair exude uncertainty about what to exude. Her mum, Mrs Sinclair and Bea are red-eyed and weepy. Bea takes Elf to the kitchen. ‘Mark had started sleeping through the night. Immy gave him his last feed at midnight on Friday and put him down for the night. She and Lawrence fell asleep. Immy woke at six thirty. She thought, Great, Mark’s slept through, and went to see him.’ Bea shuts her eyes and tears well up. She breathes in, breathes out, breathes in, breathes out. Elf holds her. ‘So, yeah. Mark was where she left him. But … not alive.’
The electric kettle boils and clicks off.
‘Lawrence called the ambulance, but … Mark was gone. They sedated Immy. Lawrence called his mum and dad first, who called ours. They got here yesterday. I came up this morning. Dad called the hospital where Mark –’ Bea swallows noisily ‘– was taken. The coroner said he may have had a cardiac defect but until the autopsy – tomorrow or Tuesday, depending on … uh …’ Bea’s focus lapses ‘… how many people died in Birmingham over the weekend. Sorry. I couldn’t think of a nicer way to say it. I didn’t sleep.’
‘Me neither. Don’t worry.’
Bea grabs a tissue. ‘We’re getting through boxes and boxes. I shouldn’t bother with makeup for a while.’
Elf asks, ‘Have you seen Immy?’
‘Only for a few minutes this morning. She’s an awful mess. She was asleep for much of yesterday. Being awake is torture. She’s taking Valium. She saw Mum for a few minutes. Lawrence is in and out of her room. Just keeping an eye on her. I called Moonwhale yesterday at, uh … I don’t know, tw
o-ish. Bethany put a call through to your Italian promoter’s office, and called me back to say she’d left the message with his secretary in Rome … What is it, Elf?’
Elf realises that Enzo Endrizzi knew about Mark before they performed at the Mercurio Theatre but had said nothing. So the show would go ahead. ‘I didn’t know until … midnight.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t have made any difference. I’ll make that cuppa. There’s ginger nuts somewhere …’
Footsteps come down the stairs. It’s Lawrence. ‘Elf? She’d like to see you. Just you, for now.’
Elf feels trepidation and guilt that she and not Bea or the two mothers-on-tenterhooks are being summoned. ‘Now?’
Lawrence nods. ‘Yes, if that’s, uh …’
‘Of course,’ says Elf. ‘Of course. Of course.’
‘I’ll put a cup of tea on a tray for her, too,’ says Bea.
‘It’ll be a comfort to speak to her sister,’ says Mrs Sinclair.
Elf climbs the carpeted stairs to the landing. The letters M, A, R and K are on the nursery door. The only pain worse than seeing the letters, Elf guesses, would be taking them down. She takes a quick look inside. The same two blue and two pink walls. The mobile of little ducks, the simple cross on the wall, the pile of nappies on the changing table. Talcum powder still scents the air. The teddy Elf had bought and named John Wesley Harding still sits on the chest of drawers.
Mark is dead. Him, and all Mark’s future selves – a toddler mastering verticality, a boy bunking off school, a youth fixing his hair for his first date, a man leaving his hometown, a husband, a father, some old bloke watching the TV and declaring, ‘The entire world has lost its mind!’ None would now exist.
She puts down the tray. She composes herself.
Utopia Avenue : A Novel Page 37