How I Left the National Grid (12 page)

I told Nataly that one day I’d pay her back for everything, that it was all a loan. But she just said she needed me to stay with her. Said she needed me around for when her life grew dark, for next time she crashed. The rituals changed. Instead of playing records together, she’d lug her gramophone out onto the thin exile of her balcony, and close it behind her. Singing to herself as she smoked a Malboro Light, with her mum’s brown fur coat wrapped around her shoulders. She’d gaze at a fixed point in the distance, blowing smoke carefully out at the blue
horizon. Sometimes I wondered if she chose that spot because she knew it faced Canada.

Not long after that I started to want to move on. She was beginning to sculpt me into the boyfriend she no longer had. Got me wearing his coats. I felt myself getting sucked in. I had to get out.

I went to the nearest passport office. Introduced myself as ‘Mike’. Told them I’d lost my passport, and they issued me with a temporary one.

7

The view of the city from the window was very different to the one Elsa was accustomed to. The houses outside reflected a gentler light than the sodium glare of the quayside. Elsa took a deep breath and made an effort to absorb the opulent feeling that emanated from the cool surfaces, shimmering off the piano, and the carefully mounted pictures.

‘These are all the paintings I have felt unable to sell,’ Malcolm said, moving over to the fridge. Elsa placed her coat around a black wicker chair.

‘I remember us getting a few large offers for that one,’ Elsa remarked, looking up at the glacial block of blue that commanded the central wall. ‘You’ve kept that one to yourself.’

She took a sip of the offered wine, and felt a secret rhythm inside herself adjust. She was used to adopting a dismissive, flighty rhythm with Sam. But the distant city lights in the window, and the strong scent of the wine made her internally slow, to a more measured pace. She felt something bloom inside herself, and she hoped Malcolm would be sensitive enough to handle it.

Malcolm seemed concerned by a thought, but he then set his glass down and moved over to her. That scent grew stronger. ‘Art like that will soon be a part of your life too,’ he said, his voice lower. ‘I have no doubt of it.’

Almost mocking the situation that was unfolding, Elsa raised her chin to him. With a small swallow, Malcolm took the tip of it between his thumb and forefinger and leant in. Elsa felt a sharp pang of guilt as he kissed her, both of their mouths remaining closed. Then, with an almost theatrical step, he moved even closer. His hand nested in her hair, and the kiss gradually gained intensity.

‘It is far too late for you to get a taxi home,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Elsa replied, feeling suddenly very weak.

I remember sitting in a café at the ferry terminal in Dover. Having a scalding cup of coffee and a limp sausage roll. The stain it made on the napkin as I watched the cars come off my ferry. Asking myself if I was really going to do this. Leave England. Taking in the weird lullabies of this land, that throbbed out of the fruit machines. Gulls circling outside the window, swooping on abandoned chips in the car park.

Sleepwalking onto the ferry.

Sitting on the upper deck in the stinging wind and thinking, it starts here. The realization hit me like a truck.

After that, Europe is almost a blank.

From what I can piece together I hitchhiked south from Calais. Must have got a lift from a lorry driver who took me as far as Lyon. I’ve got this distant memory of waking up soaking wet, on a patch of grass behind an office block. Unable to find a way off the industrial estate, that seemed to go on forever. Trying to find a shop to buy food. Trying to push through even when the wheels had come off.

I can remember eventually finding a hotel from a phonebook at a kiosk. Convincing the owner to accept English money. Soaking wet, starving, and deprived of sleep. Crashing out in that tiny, dim room, then waking up in a panic. Running out into the night.

From then on I struggle to piece it together. I ended up in Amsterdam and a British fan, on holiday with her boyfriend, recognised me. I must have been a state by then. From what was later said, that fan wanted to help me but the boyfriend had no interest in being a footnote in some minor rock biography. She set me up in a hostel for a few days where I did nothing but sleep. She got in touch with people back home. With Bonny, who called Frankie.

I can’t remember the woman’s name. Only her dark, moist curls hanging over her face, and her voice as she kept asking me to remember a phone number. Any phone number.

Fever set in, and I couldn’t give her what she wanted.

8

It was two in the morning when Sam got back from the cocktail with Bonny. The complex seemed deserted, the young family that had moved in next door silent for the first time. Bonny had insisted on Bloody Mary after Bloody Mary, but they hadn’t encouraged her to open up. The drunker she got the more obtuse and wilfully enigmatic she became. Her one useful contribution was the invite she handed him for her exhibition, as she said goodbye. It was described as ‘a unique performance of The National Grid’s music’, and was to take place tomorrow. Her National Grid pictures featured heavily on the embossed piece of card, which didn’t specify what form the performance would take. The wording suggested that the band members would be involved.

There was a pile of post for Sam, and with a sinking heart he saw that two of the letters were addressed to him.

Why had Elsa not opened her post when she got back from the exhibition, he wondered? Where was she? The pink suitcase she had kept in the hallway was gone, along with her long overcoat. A navy blue Karen Millen number he had felt unconvinced she could afford.

He tore open the small brown envelope, and pulled out a single white postcard.

If you encroach upon someone else’s life, expect them to encroach upon yours. Starting from now.

Sam had a faint memory of seeing online postcards Robert had also sent his fans, not so long ago. Could Robert have sent this?

He wished Elsa was around.

It was a struggle to push himself up to the bedroom. Elsa had now emptied some of the boxes, and hung one or two pictures up. She couldn’t be much longer, he thought, reaching for his
laptop. He was sure he wouldn’t sleep until she’d returned.

Sam was only able to find online one or two images of postcards Robert sent to his fans. One had been reasonably well photographed. It contained the words, ‘Looking forward to seeing you all in Hamburg. Best, Robert.’

Sam pulled out the latest threatening postcard. The sloping handwriting was similar to that of the image on the internet. Maybe they were from Robert. But on the image Robert had looped the tail of the ‘g’ in an ornate way. On the word ‘warning’ from the new postcard the ‘g’ was not looped at all. But how did Sam know for sure that the postcards online were genuine? He wished he had remembered where he’d put the first letter. That, at least, would allow for a more reliable comparison.

He closed the screen and was about to pull the sheets around him when a great crashing sound filled his right ear.

Sam threw himself onto the floor. For a moment he lay hunched there, expecting a further onslaught of noise. But there was nothing.

Nothing but a powerful silence.

He felt as if his heart might tear free from his moorings.

Sam stayed hidden, trying not to make a sound or move until the heave in his chest began to subside. But every breath seemed deafening, every movement enormous and clumsy.

Tentatively, he approached the window.

It had been torn open by half a brick, now lying on the carpet. The jagged hole was lit for a moment by the headlights of a passing car. The two spotlights blinded him, sawed over the wall, and faded.

Sam approached the window gradually, searching for a retreating figure. But there was none. Only the blue leaves of the trees opposite the house.

He only realized he had fallen asleep when the phone by the bed blazed to life. The sheets next to him were untouched, and the
early morning sun darted aggressively through the jagged gash in the window. He tore off the handset.

‘Elsa?’

‘It’s Camille,’ the voice said.

He breathed out. ‘Camille? Oh. Right.’ He consciously softened his voice. ‘How are you?’

‘It’s a bit early for me to call, I know.’

Her accent sounded slightly exaggerated.

‘It’s okay. Just getting my head together.’

‘Not a great night’s sleep?’

‘You could say that. Just moved into a new place.’

‘How lovely.’

‘Not really. We got the biggest mortgage it’s possible to get. From a company who’re yet to play their part in the intimate relationship they promised we’d have with them.’

‘Oh right. So you’re in debt to them?’

‘Unless Comrade Brown offers me some free social housing.’

He picked up the invitation to Bonny’s exhibition, and fingered it.

‘Plus I’ve had some threatening letters, and last night a brick was thrown through my window.’

‘Oh. Who would do this?’

‘Fans, I think. Not of me, of the band.’

‘Why?’

‘Trying to persuade me to leave Robert alone.’

‘Oh my. Well, it’s not been great here either.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well… Martin is just the least supportive boss ever. He doesn’t seem to understand what it’s like to be new to England. It’s not like in the movies at all.’

Sam laughed, wiping his eyes. ‘Well, yeah. He should be sympathetic. Help you to settle in. I can’t imagine what’s it’s like to start again in a new country. It’s hard enough trying to start a career again.’

‘Sure. When he employed me it was all about how he liked my love of music. But now he mocks that. You know, ‘You thought you’d be having tea with Sting every Wednesday, didn’t you, Camille?’’

‘The twat.’

‘I know, I don’t even like Sting.’

‘Who does? I always preferred The Police.’

‘Sam, he wants me to give you a push about finding Wardner. Mason House have had some hate mail off fans and he’s worried that if they turn, the company will lose all its credibility. He takes that very seriously, you know.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, he has no talent. This fictional idea of his street cred is very important to him. London’s like Paris. You lose this quality and you’re…’

‘Toast?’

She laughed, as he sat up.

‘He’s ridiculous,’ she said, dropping her voice. ‘He shouted at a cleaner today for using bleach in the building, said it was terrible for our environment. But I see him driving through central London in a Land Rover all the time.’

‘A Chelsea Tractor, we call it.’

‘His wife’s a counsellor. Her main ambition is to start a commune to ‘protect us all from the psychological enslavement of living in a society’, apparently.’

‘You are joking.’

‘No. Straight up. As Londoners say. So are you getting any closer to finding Wardner, then?’

‘I got to interview Bonny yesterday and…’

‘No way! I used to try and copy her fringe with blunt scissors.’

‘Why didn’t you use sharp ones?’

‘I don’t know.’

He crouched down on the floor. ‘It was crazy.’

‘I have to hear it. Say you taped it.’

‘Of course. It was one of the strangest experiences of my life. She certainly knows more about Wardner than she’s letting on.’

‘God. I envy you, Sam, meeting people like that.’

‘Have you heard about this exhibition of Bonny’s paintings?’

‘I read an article about it just now. Is her work any good?’

‘Yes. I think she’s actually very talented.’ He sat up. ‘But the pictures were strange. A lot of them depicted Robert, and seemed to have hidden messages in them.’

‘That is so weird.’

‘It looks like the event will double as a performance of some kind. We should go. I could ask Bonny if you can join me?’

‘Go together?’

‘Yes. Why not?’

‘Okay. Only thing is, what if Wardner does show up? With his fans there, might they turn on you?’

Afterwards, Sam tore a panel from one of Elsa’s cardboard boxes and taped it over the shattered panel. Standing by the window, he turned his phone on. Almost immediately a message from her flashed up:

Hey. Didn’t want to get in the way of your fun night out. Malcolm asked me to meet some buyers who want to invest in the gallery. So staying at this exhibition in a hotel in Northumbria for a day or two. Got a rubbish signal. Will see you when I get back x

The next memory is being back in England.

On a stiff bed, my body twisted into a weird position. A man in a woolly jumper asking me to sign a form.

I feel woozy and my bones ache. There’s this pain in my stomach that could get overpowering any second. An Indian nurse with a harelip standing just behind the man, saying ‘It doesn’t matter, we’ll have to do it without his consent.’ Closing my eyes and trying to sleep.

They eventually leave.

I open my eyes and try to focus on my surroundings.

I’m in a small room with many pipes on the wall, painted this queasy shade of green. I stand up. Though I’ve got no idea where I am, the muggy warmth of the place seems familiar. Familiar in my gut and bones.

I go outside, into an empty hallway. It’s like I’m sleepwalking. The hallway is lined with windows and I see that I’m one floor up. Outside, bare trees resist the hard London rain. I press myself up against the glass. Beyond that it’s more streets, winding on and on. I’m trapped on the edge of one of them.

I struggle to follow a train of thought. When I snatch at a thought it’s gone. People always seem to want something from me that’s overdue, but when I work out how to give it to them, they’re gone.

At first people don’t disturb me much, except to occasionally make me eat chicken soup. It always comes with a soft white roll and a smudged portion of Flora. I tell them I’m a vegetarian. But when one night I’m brought steak and chips, I devour it.