How I Left the National Grid

by Guy Mankowski

  At any moment I could destroy what they really cared about.

  I had never felt blood pump harder through me. I followed the rhythm of the loudening and quietening engine. Have you ever felt that sensation in moments of fear? It’s life blood. With every circuit of the car I was saying to them, this is all you are doing. Driving faster and faster in circles, round and round and round until your bodies give out, and you crash.

  And then, at the very moment that thought fired through me, my body gave out.

  I felt my brain shut down, my eyes force themselves to close. I had just swerved off the back wall of the car park and begun roaring back to the figures in the doorway.

  I was going to crash. And if I couldn’t make it to Cunningham I was going to take all of their cars with me. Those neatly arranged, gleaming objects. I eased the bumper of my car into Cunningham’s Jaguar. Felt the whole chassis shake as I knifed into his solicitor’s BMW, then felt the back of my car kick out.

  The force surprised me. I threw the wheel around, into the rest of them.

  Span out of control.

  Towards the mezzanine. They spread like doves.

  Seconds before hitting it, I blacked out.

  4

  I’ll find their manager, Sam thought.

  But the ‘Bonny Crawford’ that showed up online was not identified as a manager, but an ‘artist’. She was mentioned in an article for an upcoming exhibition in London, the title of which instantly ensnared him. Leaning in, Sam began to read.

  The Lost Robert Wardner

  A timely new exhibition of paintings about mysterious National Grid frontman Robert Wardner opens this month in London.

  By Cassie Baker

  4th April

  The story of Robert Wardner, who almost completed a masterpiece album before vanishing under a dark cloud, is one of the most intriguing in popular music.

  Owen Hopkins, in his documentary Dark Ages Manchester, portrayed him as an influential figure on the eighties scene, who personified the punk ethos of ‘not selling out.’ Wardner’s voracious consumption of literature never dampened his onstage persona, which was sometimes violent. Wardner vanished 25 years ago for reasons that have still not been explained. Although the length of his absence rendered him dead in the eyes of the law, his family always maintained that he would not kill himself. The fans have more elaborate theories, including that a botched suicide attempt left the singer permanently disfigured, and therefore reluctant to return. Rumours have persisted that Wardner murdered a young fan, before fleeing to escape justice, even though no solid evidence has been found to back up the claim. Wardner was recently confirmed as alive by his former band mates. There are even whispers he is preparing to record again.

  Bonny Crawford seems to manage the band’s ‘estate’, and given what she might know about the fate of that young fan she’s remained tight-lipped. She steered the band out of the Manchester wilderness and onto a major label, where they gained the devotion of a recession-hit generation. In the process Crawford almost became a celebrity herself. Her ever-present fake fur coat and glossy heavy fringe was a look much imitated by female fans of the pop group.

  Next month Crawford is unveiling an exhibition of paintings about Wardner. According to the press release, the pictures offer a loose chronology. Later pictures offer cryptic clues as to how he vanished, and promise to answer the unsolved mystery of why he did. At the time of going to press only a couple of previews of her pictures have been released. They suggest Crawford may have been hiding the light of her true talent under a bushel. Crawford has been evasive about how much she knows regarding Wardner’s years ‘off-grid’ and what these pictures might reveal. She’s clearly lost none of her ability to court publicity ahead of the exhibition. But whether or not there is a whiff of immorality about this remains to be seen.

  Regardless, for too long Wardner has been remembered for his more bizarre behaviour and his disappearing act. This exhibition should put the focus back on his life and the brilliance of his music.

  Sam phoned the gallery where her pictures were being exhibited. To his surprise, they passed on Bonny’s telephone number. He rang it instantly, and after seven or eight rings a distant voice answered the phone. ‘Bonny Crawford,’ she said.

  ‘Hello Miss Crawford, my name’s Sam Forbes. I’m writing a book about Robert Wardner.’

  ‘What sort of a book?’

  ‘I was a huge fan of the band. I wrote some of the early articles about them.’

  Bonny exhaled. Clearly, someone had been hounding her who wasn’t interested in the music.

  Once in London, Sam took the tube west. He bounded up the escalator, his head spinning with what Bonny might disclose. He resolved that his first question would regard whether Robert owned a white transit van.

  Sam found himself amongst louche, expansive streets with high windows. Notting Hill had a refined, aspirational air. The market was in full swing, and the snatches of Indian fragrances wafting through the air enchanted Sam as he looked for Cavendish Street. Bonny was waiting at the end of it.

  Her once severe bob had now loosened, falling in waves as she sleeked it over her head. She picked Sam out through the crowd with a theatrical wave of her hand. As Sam approached she looked to him more like a sophisticated French actress than a manager of a post-punk band.

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me.’

  ‘It didn’t sound like the usual hack piece.’

  ‘I’m guessing not all of the people that call you want to talk about his music?’

  She smiled.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You have no idea what you’re getting into. I’m the edge of the rabbit hole, Sam.’

  Bonny led Sam through the streets. The two of them weaved in and out of stalls selling caramelized peanuts and paella. ‘Up here,’ she said, throwing the sash around her neck and leading him up a steel staircase, attached to the side of a townhouse. The staircase connected to a low-ceilinged attic room, its large windows projecting over the bustling street fare.

  ‘Let me show you my work,’ she said.

  Bonny’s heels rang out across the wooden floor as she moved to the window, where a series of pictures were propped up on a semi-circle of easels. He could imagine her spending days in here, he thought. Lost in the past.

  Sam could see various depictions of Wardner. Just as he was beginning to inspect them, Bonny pulled a high stool in front of Sam and propped herself up on it. She gestured for Sam to sit on a stool opposite.

  ‘I’m keen to have a good look at those paintings,’ he began.

  ‘In a minute,’ she answered. ‘First I’d like to hear what you’re doing with this book.’

  ‘I think it’s time someone told Robert’s real story. I want to find him is because I want to hear why he vanished, straight from the horse’s mouth.’

  ‘So I’m guessing you don’t believe the rumours?’

  ‘I didn’t. But yesterday a man tried to drive me in front of a ten tonne truck. It might have been my imagination, but…’

  ‘You thought it was Wardner?’

  Sam nodded. Bonny curled a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘He has a tendency to appear in places that you least expect him. I don’t mean literally. But a man can’t vanish like that and not…haunt you somehow.’ She turned to look at her pictures.

  ‘I agree. But I find it very difficult to think he could have killed anyone. His songs had a lot of empathy.’

  ‘Yes, but he wasn’t all good, Sam. He certainly left a mark on my life, and not for the better.’

  ‘Is that why you made these pictures?’

  ‘See for yourself.’

  Sam stood up and moved over to Bonny’s pictures. At first he mistook the paintings for photographs, given the very skilful rendering.

  One picture showed Wardner tugging on a cigarette, stood in front of what appeared to be a harbour.

  ‘So is this about how he vanished?’

&
nbsp; ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Oh my god.’

  As Sam stepped closer he saw that the paint used to depict the sea was in fact subtly composed of words. Shaped to reflect the contours of the ocean.

  Inspecting, he gradually picked out phrases from National Grid songs. Wardner’s body was framed with the phrase ‘I can only find disorder,’ which Sam recognised from ‘We Strive For Symmetry’. Amongst the ocean, he picked out the phrase ‘Anything to escape the artificial light’ from ‘A World Of Neon’.

  ‘Know much about art, Sam?’

  ‘Not really. That’s more my girlfriend’s forte.’

  ‘She paints?’

  ‘No, she curates at a gallery near us. They’re having that Gavin Holding up soon and she won’t stop going on about it. So what should this picture be telling me?’

  ‘Well, this is my portrayal of the moment he vanished. Before he caught a ferry to Europe.’

  ‘I thought that was only a rumour?’

  Bonny’s reaction was non-committal.

  Sam stepped back, his mind racing. ‘I can’t help but wonder if you know where he is, but are saving that for the exhibition?’

  ‘They’re pieces of art, Sam.’

  ‘What’s this one about then?’ he asked.

  Taking pride of place in the window was a large painting of the band’s album cover. Set against a corporate shade of rich green was a triangle split into six parts. Inside each segment, as on the album cover, was a word from the record’s title, ‘How I Left The National Grid’. Except, where the album had used a glossy style of graphic design, Bonny had used thick brush strokes to achieve that effect. In her new guise she had clearly tapped into some nascent skill. On closer inspection, Sam could see more phrases subtly etched into the colour around the triangle.

  ‘Is the choice of lyrics particularly meaningful?’ he asked. At the bottom of the painting, he pointed at the phrase ‘The wrong kind of divorce is murder’.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, following his eyes. ‘Ah, you noticed that one.’

  ‘So does that tell us something about you and Wardner?’

  He struggled to meet the intensity of her gaze.

  ‘It tells you something about what he did to me,’ she said.

  Sam’s mouth hung open. He couldn’t think what to say.

  ‘He’s already rumoured to have murdered one woman. I can’t help wondering…if you know something, aren’t you morally obliged to say?’

  ‘It’s not for me to tell the world what Robert did,’ she said. There was a strain on her face that suddenly shocked Sam. Even as Bonny’s eyes moistened, something told him to be careful not to be taken in by any crocodile tears.

  Yet, looking at Bonny as she walked into the bright light, Sam had a sense that something had happened which had left Bonny truly traumatised. Despite himself, he couldn’t help feeling a little relieved when she turned and said. ‘I’m sorry, Sam, but I think that is enough for today.’

  ROBERT WARDNER

  ‘This song is off our album,’ I said, feedback piercing through the crowd. A twitching mass of misfits and freaks, straining to see through dry ice and lights. Every waif and stray you’d ever ignored, waiting for the revolution cry. I could just see them out there, jostling each other for a view of the stage. Black eyes and bruised ribs.

  ‘It’s out next week. But don’t buy it.’

  The crowd roared. Bonny, somewhere in the audience, pushed two small fists in the air. I could see her diamond ring glisten off the stage lights.

  ‘The record company rushed it out because all they care about is M.O.N.E.Y.’

  Theo grabbed his mike. ‘But buy our record instead of anyone else’s. Because no one else is capable of writing songs like this.’

  Some cheered. As if encouraging an illegal boxing match between us. Wanting blood.

  Theo turned to Jack and nodded for him to start playing ‘Whitewashed’.

  Jack looked at me, apologetic, counted us in. Began drumming. As Theo bent over to push his bass pedal I stuck two fingers up behind his back.

  The crowd went mental.

  There was a bed of snakes beneath us, coiling round each other and the music. Theo stood up, guessing what I’d done. Makeup running down his face.

  I watched his lips move, cursing me.

  I looked straight back at him. ‘Do your fucking job,’ I shouted.

  The crowd were trying to push through the barrier.

  The music was so loud we were been getting nosebleeds between each song. The minute an instrument was left alone it would scream out, like it was being neglected. We’d try and stem the blood with towels roadies left on the amps. Still crisp from the night before.

  Theo looked down, trying to find his way into the song.

  It’s a song you have to throw yourself into. Jack’s drums struggle to stay on top of this serrated guitar line Simon makes, by pulling the jack out of his guitar. Using the static tip of it to hammer discordant noise.

  The riff went with this beat you use your body for. Theo’s bassline sitting high on the song. Driving it to the chorus.

  Except now he couldn’t do that. The throb we had come to expect throughout the song wasn’t there. He’d replaced it with a hard, three-note riff he was hammering out. Off-time. Throwing us all.

  Deliberately.

  In this song I had to shout lyrics in time to him. By nodding us in, and changing his part he knew I’d be lost.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I shouted.

  Jack, looking between us. Trying to hold it down.

  The audience wondering what the hell we were doing to the song.

  Simon knew it was about to fall apart. It’s the worst thing in the world, disintegrating in public like that. There was a TV crew too, cameras focusing every time I stood still.

  Simon stood at the tip of the stage, black t-shirt clinging to his body. Hands reaching out, almost touching him. By that point of the tour he was unravelling. He’d watched Taxi Driver one too many times the night before and shaved his hair into a Travis Bickle Mohican. He pulled out the jack for one scintillating riff, until the audience roared their recognition and then, shooting a look at Theo, he pulled close to me and stamped on his pedal.

  Started mimicking Theo’s original part.

  Pushing Theo out of the song.

  I had seconds to find my way in. Closing my eyes, trying to get on top of that rhythm. Any minute now, I had to dictate it.

  ‘They say it’s progress,’ I started, feeling my voice fill the room, ‘I call it rejection. They say it’s happiness. I call it dejection.’

  This beloved hymn. The crowd chanting the song up at us.

  ‘They say we can never go back, that the door is closed.’

  I opened my eyes. Theo crouched over his bass. Simon was so close to me I could now smell the blood under his nose.

  ‘But I don’t think they can close it now.’

  The song sped up, pushing to the chorus. Way ahead of time, Theo churning through the chorus riff.

  I lost the moment to come in. Balled my fists, screamed at the ceiling.

  Simon wheeled round to Theo. Nodding at him, coaxing him back into the song. Licking the blood that collected at the corner of his mouth. Specks of it, I saw, were on Theo’s cheek.

  Theo stood at the foot of the stage. Burning the bass riff for the outro.

  In his own world.

  Simon pushed a pedal and went closer to him, stood at his side. Until the fretboards of their guitars seemed like they could touch at any moment. Like a pilot guiding another down to the runway.

  We were improvising, in front of thousands of people.

  Off the map.

  Jack sped up, trying to smother the confusion with skill.

  The crowd baying. Us, moments from collapsing in full view.

  ‘Find the chorus,’ Simon was shouting, to us all. ‘Twice round and then into the chorus. Got it?’

  ‘You are fucking dead,’ I shouted at Theo.
r />   ‘Got it,’ he shouted back, Jack nodding.

  I grabbed the mike, shouting the words to the chorus. The crowd surged forward in one tidal wave, joining in. Simon and Theo threw their heads back.

  ‘Stick with the song, for Christ’s sake,’ Simon shouted.

  I was welded to the microphone. It was my turn to take charge. My fingers crackling down the stand, my lips braced to be stung by static off the mike.

  It was a living nightmare.

  It made me feel alive.

  I closed my eyes, guided us to the outro. Not daring to look at Theo, praying for his sake he would keep playing along. Feeling the slow blaze of the guitar line, waiting for the section I ended and the three of them turned to one another for the climax.

  When it came, Simon wheeled away from us all. A spinning, buzzing sound emanating from his guitar. His fingers shimmying up and down the fretboard, wrenching notes from it. Theo locking the groove down. Jack pummelling over the top.

  I felt like I could flex my muscles and burst the walls with anger. Then something went off in me. A light bulb bursting.

  I went over to the mike stand. A massive, black, metal thing. Nailed, with one loose bolt, to the stage.

  I tore it out.

  Theo watched me, stepping back, losing his grip on the bass. Simon let his notes fade early.

  I wheeled it over my head.

  Jack pummelled the cymbals.

  I got some strength behind it and carved it round, over to Theo.

  Let it go.

  Theo dropped his bass and jumped into the crowd.

  I watched it soar, like a strip of seaweed, the base of it dipping nobly into Theo’s amp.

  Tore right into it.

  Sat in it.

  Theo clambered back onstage, over to his bass. Raised it above his head and then, in time to Jack’s cymbal wreckage, smashed it into the stage.

  I hated the man but I had to give it to him.

  Simon stood over his pedal, squeezing the last drops of life out of his guitar. Then snapped it silent, and took his guitar off.

  Calm as you like. Professional.

  Went to the back of the stage and placed it in its rack.