How I Left the National Grid

by Guy Mankowski

  To the final, dying notes, I took a run up and threw myself into the crowd. I was just surfacing, to the sweat-drenched hair and ecstatic faces, when I heard smashing glass.

  The crowd hoisted me up on their hands. Onstage I could see Theo. Smashing every one of the lights at the front of the stage.

  One by one.

  I closed my eyes.

  Let them carry me.

  5

  Pouring her coffee, Elsa was startled by the snap of the letterbox.

  Amongst the sheaf of paper-based noise was a brown envelope. It was addressed to Sam. She couldn’t resist tearing it open.

  Inside was a small white postcard. On it, in sloping, letters:

  Call off your hunt right now, Sam. No one wants to be run into the ground. Not Wardner, not you. And certainly not your loved ones.

  The final sentence made her eyes widen. She looked up the stairs, for evidence of movement, but there was none. The note was unsigned. She re-read it a few times, before looking for the postage stamp.

  The letter had been posted in London.

  Sam was struck by how drawn Elsa looked when he lolloped into the kitchen. The note was propped on the table against a vase. ‘You didn’t wake me,’ he said.

  She looked at the note. ‘For you.’

  ‘You opened my post?’

  Sam scratched at his thin glaze of stubble and inspected it. ‘Jesus.’ He said. ‘That’s got my day off to a lovely start.’

  Elsa closed her eyes, and Sam got the sense that she had carefully prepared her next comment. The pace, the tone, the smoothness. ‘You promised, on the way home from our meal, that if Wardner started to go after you then you would call this off.’

  ‘Call it off? I’ve got the commission. This is probably just some nutter fan. How could Wardner possibly know already about the book?’

  The image of the man in the white transit van flashed across his mind. Sam decided to supress it. Bonny was right, he thought. It could have been anyone. Elsa nodded, slowly.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Sam said. ‘Don’t be like that.’

  ‘No.’ she snapped. ‘You’re not doing this today. I only have a few hours left to get everything right for the exhibition. I’m not going to blow my one chance to prove myself to Malcolm because of your pig-headedness.’

  ‘Pig-headedness? Well, a good morning to you, Sam,’ he answered, closing his eyes.

  Elsa grabbed her purse. ‘It mentioned your loved ones,’ she hissed. ‘You know what that means? That means me.’

  Elsa slammed the door, leaving in her wake a cold atmosphere for his guilt to fester in. Sam ran up to the bedroom, pushing his slim, silver laptop onto the bed.

  He kept thinking how easily the explanation of a ‘nutter fan’ had come to him. It was almost as if he had been ready for this threat. What was it about the band’s followers that made him think this wouldn’t be beyond them? With the move, Sam hadn’t been able to visit the fans’ forum for a while. Had word of the book spread to them yet?

  Having logged in on the sparsely designed, white and blue site he saw a number of new threads. The titles ‘ROBERT WARDNER, ALIVE AND WELL’ and ‘ROBERT EXHIBITION’ jumped out. But the top one, with 165 messages, was titled ‘NEW ROBERT BOOK DUE’. It stretched to five pages.

  Sam clicked to open it, found the start of the thread. He did not recognize the profile name of ‘Shrinkingviolet’. It came with a picture of a dark-eyed girl in a leopard print scarf, an image small enough to resist proper scrutiny of her persona. She had written:

  There’s a new Robert book coming out next year. Apparently it intends to ‘finally tell Robert’s story’ by interviewing those closest to him, and ‘the man itself’. It’s written by Sam Forbes, who covered the band’s early years.

  It then linked to a page on Mason House’s website where, under ‘Forthcoming Titles’, there was a blurb of the book with an out of date photo of Sam, his hair long and almost matted. He clicked quickly back to see the replies.

  Not sure how it can hear from ‘the man himself’ when we only found out he was even alive a few weeks ago. Unless this Forbes is going to be shoving a microphone in a sick man’s face while he tries to recover.

  The next commenter had a profile picture of The Joker from Batman. He had written:

  Doesn’t say Robert’s consented to be interviewed. I’m guessing the author will be less bothered about making sure Robert returns fit and well, and more bothered about $. Scum.

  The first reply to that entry had come from a user called ‘darkcloud’. His temperament and fascinating outlook concisely illustrated by the chosen icon of a balled fist, blood curling between the knuckles:

  This arsehole is going to try and prove Wardner was a killer. We all know he wasn’t, but Forbes will probably hassle the guy ‘til he cracks, then write a book about what a psycho he is. These hacks are fucked up! He won’t care if Wardner ends up dead, or behind bars. When Exit Discs were giving Simon a hard time Wardner smashed up the car of the head exec, while he was in it. Why don’t we scare this sicko off for good too?

  Sam stopped himself from reading the rest of the comments. Not until my home life is under control, he thought. He closed the page.

  ROBERT WARDNER

  Bonny pushed me into Cunningham’s cramped office. Letters and press reports spilling off every surface. Bank statements.

  ‘So you’re not going to try and kill me today?’ Cunningham asked, slouched in his chair.

  He never looked at you. Not when he was talking to you, not when he was talking about you.

  ‘Robert wants us to get this sorted,’ Bonny said.

  Cunningham looked at the grocer, who scribbled. They’re always writing, lawyers, but you never get to see any of it.

  ‘You’ve not brought your mate along this time then?’ Cunningham said, brushing his shoe with a hand.

  ‘He doesn’t want this to get legal,’ Bonny said.

  ‘Is your baby too spoilt to speak for himself? Old enough to drive his car into mine, but not to deal with the consequences?’

  ‘He’s not a baby, and I’m not his babysitter. If anyone should be keeping a protective eye on him it’s you. He entrusted his work to you. You’re exploiting it.’

  Cunningham shrugged. Looked at me.

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Believe me, it’s better that I speak for him. He’s taken down bigger men than you.’ She looked to the generous bulge at his waistline. ‘Believe it or not.’

  He narrowed his eyes.

  ‘You’re just starting in this business, Bonny. Do you really want to go down with this ship? There’ll be an unpleasant smell around you that won’t go away if you do. If you fight me, I’ll make sure you never manage another band again. There won’t be a spotty four-piece in the world that’ll go near you. I’ll make you that toxic.’

  ‘This isn’t about me, Andrew. It’s about them. You were pretty unreasonable during the meeting. You were forcing them to promote an album that they say isn’t ready, reneging on all the reasons the band signed with you. Not exactly the front you presented when you courted them, is it?’

  ‘I had no idea they were going to churn through producers like they’re sweets in a hotel lobby.’

  ‘You signed up for the journey. This is their livelihood. Robert will pay for the damage to your car…’

  ‘Bon?’

  She waved a hand at me, ‘And allow the album to come out too, if you don’t sue him.’

  Cunningham smiled.

  Had me where he wanted me.

  ‘If he wants to battle…’ I started.

  ‘What?’ Cunningham said, leaning forward. ‘You really want to battle? Your album will recoup the money we laid out for you, and our lawsuit will make sure you’re too busy gripping the oak to ever record again. You’re finished either way.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ Bonny said. ‘You got into a business working with artists, but at the first sign of trouble you screw them over.’

&nb
sp; ‘Don’t buy into it, Bon,’ I said. ‘He wants me to lose it. Then they can add that to their list of grievances and use that as well. They’re vultures.’

  Bonny’s hand went on my shoulder. ‘What do you want to do then, Rob?’ She started whispering. ‘You have little option.’

  Cunningham leaned forward. ‘She’s right, sport. You have no choices. The record comes out next month. And as well as fixing the car with your money, I want it valeted and cleaned too. By you, personally.’

  ‘And then you won’t sue?’ I had to admire how Bonny kept fighting.

  The grocer laid down his pen. Cunningham looked straight at Bonny. ‘Oh, he said. ‘Let’s not make promises we can’t keep.’

  I lunged for him then. A thin arm, wrapped in fur, holding me back. He chuckled.

  ‘You don’t scare me,’ he said.

  6

  Perhaps it was the sheer number of people within it, but the gallery in which Elsa worked seemed larger than Sam remembered. Walls that were bare only a few hours ago were now resplendent with Gavin Holding’s lavish cityscapes.

  Sam took a glass of champagne from a side table and made his way over to a piece. Elsa was nowhere to be seen. A man with a monocle told Sam to fetch him an orange juice, which only exacerbated his feeling that he should be serving the champagne, not drinking it.

  Each picture portrayed a different modern landscape. ‘Mezzanine’ depicted a clean white cube of a home. The surrounding grass had started to reclaim it.

  Sam pretended to deeply consider the pictures on the wall as he sensed Elsa’s eyes at the back end of the room. But her gaze eluded him. He learnt that her eye movements were in fact intended for her boss Malcolm, stood just a few feet away behind him. Embarrassed by his efforts he recoiled, wondering if he had ever seen her in that tight, revealing red dress before. It accentuated curves of her body, ones that her outfits rarely flaunted. A man with half-moon glasses was looking down at a cheque book and her cleavage at the same time. Elsa was motioning to Malcolm.

  Sam had never seen Elsa so invigorated, her skin rosy and her muscles clenched.

  As he finished his glass he realized how dense the air was, clouded by all the gassy exchanges. He needed to take a breath.

  He had his head down as he approached the door. It was only as the breeze from the outside pushed onto him that he realized Bonny was standing in the doorway.

  The fur on her coat bristled in the wind and the glittered shadow around her eyes was darker, giving her a glamorous, gothic air.

  ‘Well, I didn’t expect to see you here,’ she said.

  Somehow, he didn’t believe her.

  Her manner had changed, from the bruised brusqueness of her farewell into something more provocative.

  Sam faltered for a moment. ‘My girlfriend organised the exhibition. Didn’t I mention it?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘And what a fine job she’s done.’

  Bonny turned to the older man who she’d entered with, one with the arched eyebrow and air of long-endured suffering one might expect from a restaurant critic. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ she said, ‘Sam is just going to give me a tour of the gallery.’

  ‘What brings you this far north then?’ he asked, easing his way through the bodies.

  ‘Well, trips like this are all part of my new career, Sam,’ she said. ‘Holding has been quite an inspiration to me. I had to see his work in person.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You don’t like his pictures? Don’t you think they are similar to mine at all?’

  They both contain messages, Sam thought. But his are for everyone, and yours are just to Wardner.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered.

  He felt conscious of eyes upon him. He looked up to see Elsa, the icy expression that he had long associated with her now very apparent.

  ‘I’m glad we bumped into one another, Sam. I’ve been feeling guilty. I think I must have freaked you out the other day.’

  ‘I can handle it,’ Sam said, meeting Elsa’s eye.

  ‘She doesn’t look very happy with you,’ Bonny said.

  It occurred to him that in her coat Bonny tonight resembled a caricature of the persona that had almost made her famous.

  ‘Excuse me a moment.’

  He moved towards Elsa.

  ‘You’ve done a great job. I can’t believe how many people are here,’ he began.

  ‘So you thought you’d invite your childhood crush to the opening night?’ she hissed, her voice low enough to be submerged in the surrounding babble. Her shop front smile remained intact.

  ‘Not at all. She’s an artist now. She’s come to check out your show. She’s a huge fan of Holding’s.’

  Elsa’s raking gaze took in the fur coat in one sweep. ‘She’s aged badly,’ she whispered, passing a flute of champagne to a passing guest.

  ‘That’s a bit harsh.’

  ‘That’s what that line of work will do to you.’

  ‘What line of work?’

  ‘Chasing after madmen.’

  At that moment Malcolm arched backwards, gesturing wildly with his hands for the benefit of two buyers. He knocked over two glasses of champagne in the process, throwing foam over the walls.

  ‘Which you never do,’ Sam answered, nodding at her boss.

  ‘I have to get on, Sam. Here, take your lady friend a glass of bubbly. She’ll love that.’

  Turning back he was surprised to see Bonny was already at his side.

  ‘Something has just occurred to me, Sam. Would you be interested in meeting Theo?’

  She received the flute with her fingertips.

  ‘Well, yes,’ he said, torn between the question and the penetrating stare that Elsa had again kindly just made available.

  She sipped. ‘Because I have an exhibition of my work soon, and we thought it would be fun to combine it with a performance of National Grid songs.’

  ‘With Wardner singing?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see.’

  Sam drank. ‘So why are you doing this for me?’

  ‘I don’t want my anxiety about Wardner to be the only account on record.’

  ‘You don’t strike me as the anxious type.’

  ‘Well to be honest, I felt bad about the impression I gave you.’ There was mischief in her eyes. For a moment Sam could see the iconoclastic manager from days past.

  ‘It’s in London I presume.’

  ‘What’s in London?’ Elsa asked, handing Sam a fresh glass of champagne out of nowhere.

  Sam looked between his girlfriend and Bonny.

  ‘The future of art. And, an exhibition of my work about Wardner,’ Bonny said. ‘Which might warrant an appearance from the man himself.’

  Elsa looked penetratingly at Sam, who shrugged. Sam had the sense that the quiet exchange somehow satisfied Bonny.

  A few minutes later Sam was finishing the glass as the gallery began to quieten.

  ‘You’re not leaving the exhibition now?’ Elsa asked, moving up to him. ‘Before the after-party?’

  ‘Bonny offered to answer a few more questions about Wardner, if I took her for a drink.’

  ‘I need you here, Sam. I can’t get through this on my own.’

  ‘But I can’t miss this opportunity.’

  ‘You’re still doing this, despite what I think. If you go into her trap, you’re making a choice to completely ignore me, Sam,’ she said. ‘You don’t think she has ulterior motives?’

  ‘I doubt she’s trying to get me into bed!’

  Just at that moment Bonny laughed in the distance. It was the joyous sound of someone thoroughly in control.

  ‘You know she works for him. That he’ll have her wrapped around her finger.’

  ‘It’s just a chat.’

  She fixed her eyes on Sam for a moment, and Sam sipped. Sensing the impasse, she blew her hair off her face, and sighed. ‘I have to get on,’ she said, shaking her head as she moved away.

  The cut of her dress, and the way it
held her body transfixed him as she departed. I should have told her that, he thought.

  Elsa was engaged in an effusive conversation with Holding when Sam returned, a hurriedly filled rucksack lopped over his shoulder. Sam felt sure that when he did leave with Bonny, Elsa didn’t even notice.

  Elsa had been following his movements with the corners of her eyes, and her glassy smile dropped the moment she saw Sam slip out.

  ‘Is everything alright, my dear?’ Malcolm asked, placing his hand on her shoulder.

  The cold breeze from the outside world chilled her shoulders. Malcolm’s aftershave offered an unexpected balm.

  ‘It was a triumph,’ Malcolm said, his aloofness lessened by the exchange of money. His hands seemed keen to go anywhere.

  She was surprised by his proximity, but the combination of wine and relief left her open to it. Malcolm somehow appeared ten years younger.

  ‘You really thought so? I was worried that the Qatar set wouldn’t sell.’

  ‘Oh yes, that one requires a really dedicated lover of art.’

  Malcolm leaned in.

  ‘It was your powers of persuasion that sold it, Elsa.’

  To her surprise, she found herself able to absorb the remark. Despite her tight evening dress she no longer felt self-conscious, but empowered. Sam was gone. The evening had suddenly opened, like an orchid.

  ‘I’ll always be grateful for the shot you gave me tonight, Malcolm,’ she said.

  ‘All this,’ Malcolm said, gesturing around him, ‘can wait until tomorrow. I have a rather bracing bottle of Moët at my house, which I have been saving for an occasion just as this. Would you care to join me?’

  Elsa didn’t answer. But she felt surprised by the lack of revulsion within her as she allowed herself to be led towards his car.

  ROBERT WARDNER

  When I went missing, people thought I must have planned it all out. But it doesn’t work like that.

  It was a game I’d been playing with myself, as things got worse. Whenever Bonny gave me cash for something, I put it in a locked box under my bed. If I got hold of an item of clothing people had never seen me wear, I put it in there too.