‘So do yer know anyone who might fit the bill?’ asks Dean.
‘Someone with the right psycho-acoustics,’ says Levon. ‘Someone who can play organ licks and piano riffs.’
‘I feel like I’m being invited to run away with the circus,’ says Elf. ‘To be clear, you’re not a folk group?’
‘Correct,’ says Levon. ‘You’d be bringing the folk spirit to the picnic. Dean’s got a bluesy sensibility, Griff’s from jazz, and Jasper’s …’ They look at him.
‘A bloody handy guitarist,’ says Dean. ‘I’m saying that despite the fact he’s my landlord, not ’cause of it.’
‘Isn’t a landlord someone you pay money to,’ Griff ribs Dean, ‘and not just borrow money off?’
‘Elf,’ says Levon. ‘I can hear how good you’d all sound. All I’m asking is that you jam with the boys. We have a rehearsal space at a bar in Ham Yard. Let’s just … see.’
‘If yer don’t like the circus,’ says Dean, ‘yer can leg it back and be home by tea-time.’
Elf drags on her cigarette. ‘Do you have a name?’
‘We’re thinking about “The Way Out”,’ says Levon.
‘But it’s not final,’ Dean assures her.
Good. ‘So if you’re not a folk band, what kind are you?’
‘Pavonine,’ says Jasper. ‘Magpie-minded. Subterranean.’
‘He ate a dictionary when he was little,’ explains Dean.
Elf tries again. ‘Okay – who do you want to sound like?’
The three musicians reply in unison, ‘Us.’
Darkroom
The UFO Club vibrates as Pink Floyd sets the ship’s controls for the heart of the pulsing sun. Mecca’s dancing, watching him. Her eyes are Berlin blue. Jellyfish of coloured light breed and smear the dancers and Jasper’s mind is set adrift. Abracadabra, it’s a boy, why not name him Jasper? Why this name and not another? A friend? The stone? A long-lost lover? Only Jasper’s mother knows, and she’s asleep in a box on the seabed, off the coast of Egypt. We come, we see, we hang around till Death snuffs out our candles … Plenty more where we came from. A million per droplet of the stuff of life. Keeping track of each of us would drive God quite insane. Onstage Syd Barrett drags a comb along his Fender’s slack-keyed strings. A pterodactyl vents her grief. Syd’s no virtuoso, true, but stagecraft and Byronic looks make good the shortfall, amply. Meanwhile in the lighting rig, Hoppy throws a switch and Kurosawa’s samurai circumambulate the walls. UFO’s famous light-show. Jasper’s hand is drawing ‘8’ and has been for a while: ‘8’ is infinity, sat up. Words reach him, cracked and scratchy, like radio waves at dusk … ‘If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thru narrow chinks of his cavern.’ Who said that? I know it wasn’t me. Knock Knock? Or an ancestor? An azure jellyfish of light passes over Rick. Rick Wright plays keyboards – a Farfisa – in purple tie and yellow shirt. Pink Floyd signed with EMI last month. They spent this week at Abbey Road. Rick told Jasper earlier: ‘The engineer from Studio B wandered in and said, “The boys are on a break next door – fancy saying hi?” So in we went. John took the piss, George had toothache, Ringo told a dirty joke.’ They listened to a song of Paul’s called ‘Lovely Rita, Meter Maid’. Mecca circles closer. Her syllables excite his ear: ‘Ich bin bereit abzuheben.’ Jasper’s German’s rusty, though Mecca’s rubbing off the rust with every precious hour. ‘You feel you’re lifting?’ True enough, the Mandrax fuse is lit. The bouncers in the lobby here vend Londinium’s purest gear, and here it comes and here it comes and dot-dot-dot dash-dash-dash dot-dot-dot …
… and Jasper’s body’s where it was, dancing in the UFO Club on Tottenham Court Road, but Jasper’s mind is sling-shooting, first around irrigated Mars, then on and on and on and on to offspring-eating Saturn; then faster, Father, farther out, gaining on the speed of light where time and space solidify and here’s that scratchy voice again: ‘The glory of the Lord shone round about: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: buckle up, enjoy the trip.’ Bible black and starless, now. A comet’s tail, a silver thread, unravelling and unspooling. Knock Knock. Who’s there? No, don’t reply. Let’s think instead of saner things. Nick Mason’s playing drums. Drums were here before we are. The rhythms of our mothers’ hearts. Mecca leaves on Monday night. America will swallow her, like Jonah in the whale. We’re pulsing now to Roger’s bass, a Rickenbacker Fireglo. Roger Waters has a smile that is both cloak and dagger. Mecca’s face becomes concave. It elongates, encircling him. ‘My vegetable love should grow, vaster than empires and more slow.’ Her face reflects his and his hers, and what reflection ever guessed that it is a reflection? Jasper asks, ‘Do you think reality is just a mirror for something else?’
Mecca’s answer lags behind her waxy boyish lips: ‘Ja, bestimmt. This is why a photograph of something is more true than the thing.’ He puts her hand against his heart. Her face returns to normal. ‘Congratulations, I feel him kick. What day are you due?’
‘Did I pass the interview?’
‘Let’s find a taxi.’
A black cab is waiting outside the club. Mecca tells the driver, ‘Blacklands Terrace in Chelsea. Opposite John Sandoes Bookshop.’ Dark streets fly by. Amsterdam wraps itself around itself: London unfolds, unfolds, unfolds. She holds his hand, chastely. Only a few high windows are lit. Jasper still hears drumming. A little Pink Floyd goes a long, long way. The taxi stops. ‘Keep the change,’ says Mecca. A windy night, a pavement, a Yale lock, stairs, a kitchen, a low lamp. ‘I’ll take a shower,’ says Mecca. Jasper sits at the table. She reappears, wearing a lot less than before. ‘That was an invitation.’ They shower together. Later, they’re in a bed. Later, all is quiet. Later, a truck rumbles by, a street or two away. Chelsea High Street? Could be. Mecca’s asleep. She has a big protruding birthmark on her back. Jasper thinks of Ayers Rock. The past and future seep into one another. He’s on a lookout platform, with a view of a bay over roofs, gables and warehouses. Cannon-fire. This one must be a film. Staccato thunder bludgeons his senses. The sky swings sideways. All the dogs are barking and the crows are crazed. A stout man, dressed for the Napoleonic era, leans on the railing, looking out to sea through a telescope. Jasper asks him if this is a dream or if the pill he took at the UFO wasn’t just amphetamines.
The telescope man clicks his fingers. Scrit-scrit. Jasper’s walking along a street. He comes to his aunt’s boarding house in Lyme Regis. His wheelchair-bound uncle tells him, ‘You left us for a better life, remember? Piss off!’
Click. Scrit-scrit. Jasper passes Swaffham House at Bishop’s Ely school. The principal stands in the doorway like a bouncer. ‘Move on, move on, nothing for you here.’
Click. Scrit-scrit. The Duke of Argyll on Great Windmill Street. Jasper peers in through the engraved glass. Elf, Dean, Griff, himself and Mecca are sitting at a table. ‘Half of my friends say “The Way Out” sounds like a suicide textbook,’ explains Elf. ‘The other half say, it’s like a hippie going, “Hey, way out, man!” If we were dreaming up a name now, from scratch, what would we choose?’ They all look at Jasper’s eye, including the other Jasper inside.