How I Left the National Grid

by Guy Mankowski

  The screen above the stage flickered to life, a huge roar greeting the first sight of Wardner. Sam couldn’t take his eyes off him, he seemed to move like an alien. It was as if he hadn’t learn to walk, move, or express himself by watching others at all. Every movement was his own, incomparable. It was footage from a live performance of theirs from 1981, of ‘World Of Neon’.

  Sam and Camille pushed onto their tiptoes, unable to resist the excitement. Theo strapped on his bass, and motioned to a keyboardist. Soon the room filled with the sound of National Grid synths. ‘He’s off the tablets, then,’ Camille said, watching him press the keys.

  ‘Archive footage now filling the role of the absent,’ a photographer said, trying to get a shot of the stage.

  Wardner, his anger now dissolved in pixels, raged above their heads. Simon’s jagged guitar lines were sorely missed, leaving an aching chasm in the arrangements.

  Where is he, Sam wondered? Refusing this charade out of loyalty to Wardner?

  Yet despite these absences, Sam felt his heart soar as Theo wheeled about the stage, his bass guitar scything invisible shapes in the air. They seemed to stay carved in it even when the song faded. The final notes were greeted with a slavish roar.

  ‘No Wardner, then,’ said a fan at his side, pouting through black lipstick.

  She glared at Sam. ‘Wonder whose fault that is?’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ a female voice replied.

  Sam saw that just behind him was a woman with long dark hair and olive skin. Her flowing white dress a soft contrast against the leather terrain of the crowd.

  ‘Wardner would be thrilled to hear he’s worthy of a book,’ she said, with a smile. She had a sophistication that Sam found soothing.

  Sam smiled. ‘It’s kind of you to say that.’

  ‘He has devoted fans,’ she continued, in a calm, low voice. ‘But they are like flies at a window. No more intelligent, either. Despite what they think.’

  ‘Thank you, very much, er…’

  ‘Nataly,’ she said.

  ROBERT WARDNER

  I’m in Manchester, waiting for Simon. Looking down The Northern Quarter.

  It’s all murals and fake bistros in 2007. Like you can have an authentic Italian experience sat next to the latest building site. We’ve raised a generation of professional liars.

  February 1971 did it. Built a new layer that some knob heads fell for.

  There’s a real Manchester under all this, bulging to get out. The Manchester that I know, waiting for buses, once they call time at the Night And Day. A hard rain’s going to fall, and then we’ll find out what it’s made of.

  When I squint upwards, I see Simon coming from the London Road.

  Wait for him to come to me.

  ‘You alright, kid?’

  ‘I’m about to get drenched. I don’t want to hang about here all day.’

  ‘Jesus, Rob, you look like you’ve been to hell.’

  ‘Worse. London.’

  ‘Good to see you, fella. Brian said he was going to wait out here at eleven sharp. But as usual, the wanker’s late.’

  I kick at the floor.

  ‘Here he is.’

  Simon takes me to the glass door of the studio. It could be a wine bar for all I know. One big espresso machine, built into the wall.

  We walk into this Perspex reception area. With what looks like a rabbit warren coming off it. Manchester’s ripped sky in the dirty windows. ‘So glad you’ve chosen our studio to kick things off again, Mr Wardner,’ Brian says.

  I need a smoke before anything’s going to get done.

  A kid with a Mohawk grabs my elbow. ‘It’s Robert Wardner!’ he says. Grabs his brother, some milk sop in a cagoule. ‘Ere, come and look at this. Him from The National Grid. It is you, isn’t it?’

  Simon comes between. ‘Come on, not now. He’s only just got inside.’

  This Brian makes his presence known. He’s a modern entrepreneur, you know.

  ‘Here,’ he begins, getting the kid’s ear. ‘This studio is a sanctuary. You respect this man’s privacy, understand? You tell any of your daft mates he’s about and you’re barred from recording here an’ all. That goes for all of you.’

  ‘He gets it,’ the milk sop says. I saw him play keyboards once, he was like Mozart. Probably had private lessons from the age of two.

  ‘We heard you were recording here, Mr Wardner, but we didn’t quite believe it. Did we? That’s a tenner you owe me, Stew,’ he says, turning to his side.

  ‘Come on,’ Simon says.

  ‘You his guitarist? We been trying to rip off that sound you had, on ‘State Of Exile’. How did you do it?’

  ‘You think I’ll give that away for free, son?’

  ‘Come on, tell us. You could produce our record.’

  ‘You hear that Simon?’ I say. ‘You’re the next George Martin.’

  ‘Robert, will you sign something for me? My drum sticks? Anything? It’s Robert Wardner!’

  ‘Yeah, not John Lennon.’

  ‘It’s okay, Si. Yeah, alright kid,’ I say.

  They always want more, normally. But these kids seem alright. Probably more discarded Joy Division basslines under some rent-a-gob frontman.

  ‘He doesn’t want to hang around here forever,’ Brian said.

  ‘He doesn’t want his collar felt,’ some kid joked. Simon pretended not to hear it.

  It was good to get in the studio. Locked away. Nothing had changed. Just the words on the kit. It’s still attention seekers, surrounded by expensive toys.

  I get a flashback of sitting at a piano. Simon takes the master recordings out of his bag. ‘Bonny dropped these off to me this morning.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’s an artist now.’

  ‘Course she is.’

  I sit myself at the Korg behind the mixing desk. Simon hasn’t filled the space on the other side of the screen with musos this time. Easing me in, I reckon.

  I fire it up.

  My fingers crackle. Find my way into this line of notes I was playing last time. Soon, it flows.

  ‘Jesus. You got a name for that?’

  I turn up the reverb a bit. ‘You remember that time we saw the Arndale Centre getting replaced? You remember how the sound was inside there?’

  ‘Yeah. So?’

  ‘There was this kid’s arcade ride they put outside the Woolworths. When you walked past the centre, you could hear it in the distance. Still can’t forget it.’

  ‘Hang on. I’ll get my guitar.’

  He runs to his case in the corner.

  We play.

  He always looks like he was born cradling a guitar. I think about being onstage in Hamburg, flat on my back, when my voice gave out. Him doing this solo that tore the sky open. Thinking, when did he learn that?

  He finds me. Whatever quirks I take him on, he accommodates. E minor, F# minor, G# minor, A minor, B. He makes this musical shudder round it. Soon, a melody begins to crackle through me. Something awakens in me.

  Simon turns around, smiling. ‘Could be something,’ he says.

  Through the shaded glass panel on the door I can see youths, steaming it up. Clamouring.

  ‘Ignore them.’

  ‘How do they know I’m here?’

  ‘I haven’t told anyone.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Course not. We don’t want the wrong people sniffing about.’

  Simon kneels over the control panel, flicks some switches. After a pause he says, ‘I told Theo. Let’s start with ‘World Of Neon’. It’s a decent way in.’

  I move over to inspect the speakers.

  ‘You told Theo? Why didn’t you just call Manchester Evening News?’

  ‘I thought he’d keep it to himself.’

  ‘And the rest.’

  The speakers are thick with dust. I run a finger along them.

  ‘What is it, Rob?’

  ‘These speakers. They’ve had it.’

  ‘They’ll do the tri
ck.’

  ‘The album’s too big. We can’t finish it now.’

  ‘They’re fine. Don’t start. ‘Ere, Rob. ‘World Of Neon’. Let’s familiarize ourselves, eh?’

  I flick a switch on one of the smaller synths.

  It isn’t plugged in.

  ‘We don’t have to re-record it,’ he says. ‘Just treat it.’

  ‘What?’ I shake my head. ‘I’m not trying to get on Pop Idol. I’ve not got the teeth.’

  ‘Or we could start with the drums?’

  Over the PA a kick-drum batters my ears. Soon the walls are shaking with the nagging, crushingly familiar drum sound.

  Still sounds like the future.

  ‘Just bringing the rest up,’ he says.

  This is like that bloody exposure therapy.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asks.

  ‘To meet my fanbase, where do you think?’

  ‘Seriously Rob, what’s up?’

  ‘You think I can work with a fuckin’ scout troupe trying to get in the door?’

  ‘I’ll have a word with Theo. He just got over-excited, told a few journalists. You saying you didn’t tell anyone you were going to work with us again?’

  ‘Wanted to keep a low profile.’

  ‘Well who else knows you’re around? Frankie?’

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘Nataly?’

  There’s a twitch on the back of my neck.

  ‘Don’t ever talk about Nataly.’

  He raises his chin. Views me from the corner of his eyes.

  ‘She is still around then?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No. It’s just. I hear some of the fans online pretend to be her. Why were you so angry with her?’

  ‘I wasn’t. Anyway, out of anyone, who are you to question me? You’re the one who told Theo I was back. That’s why we’re going to get hounded. Can’t believe you couldn’t keep it to yourself.’

  ‘Rob, come on.’

  ‘Nah, you do what you’ve got to do. But this is all too soon for me. I need to get out of the city.’

  ‘You’re not leaving.’

  ‘It’s too far gone, Simon.’

  I put my hand on the door knob.

  ‘It’s not. What about the label? It’s just a bunch of young lads. A cooperative. You’re not going to blow it for them are you?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m going to hang about for a record label, with all they’ve done for me. With any luck we can conduct a séance and resurrect Cunningham. Get him involved. It’s not worth putting our hands in now.’

  He reaches for the doorknob. With this force that surprises me he screws my hand off it.

  ‘Stay, Rob.’

  He holds my gaze.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t do it on my own.’

  ‘I’m sorry, mate. But all this is behind me now. Besides, you heard that kid outside. It’s you who made that sound, not me. You could teach a whole new generation. But I’m getting out. Right out of all this.’

  ‘You think I’m following you back up the river, Kurtz? You got another thing coming.’

  I open the door.

  ‘See you.’

  10

  The set was short, a few album tracks but no big hits. Theo was slow to leave the stage, but Bonny motioned to a technician, who cut the sound. She took the mike, as Theo reluctantly removed his bass.

  ‘We are delighted that so many of you still care about The National Grid,’ she said, feedback hissing from the monitor.

  ‘I’m not sure I do,’ a journalist said to an accomplice, by Sam’s shoulder. He was twirling his grey goatee. ‘I’m just curious about whether we’ve just been forced to watch a song performed by a murderer, or not.’

  ‘We love you, Bonny!’ came a shout.

  Bonny blushed, rather professionally, Sam thought. ‘We love you too,’ she said. ‘And of course, this is just a taster of what is to come. Over the next few months the band are finally finishing off the album that we all hold so dear to our hearts. Mr Robert Wardner will be involved, and I envisage that you will soon be hearing these songs performed by all of the members.’

  Sam noticed Theo laughing.

  ‘Bonny,’ a journalist shouted. ‘Can you say for certain that Wardner will be performing again, given these rumours of an impending arrest?’

  ‘What I can say for certain is that this is a performance and an art exhibition, not a press conference. But watch this space,’ she said, waving her glass before moving to depart the stage. She snapped back the microphone once more. ‘And buy my paintings!’ she shouted, to a slightly bloodless cheer.

  Sam noticed her expression instantly harden, as she motioned with a finger across her throat to the sound technician. Stagehands started to remove the equipment.

  In lieu of Wardner, the crowd expressed their excess excitement on the paintings. With mischievous eyes, Sam and Camille assumed a position against the end of the wall on which pictures were mounted.

  A black-lipsticked woman and her partner jostled for a view of them.

  ‘Everyone knows Wardner didn’t escape to Europe. That was the whole reason he left a copy of Passage To India on his bed,’ the man announced.

  ‘It wasn’t Passage to India, came the riposte. ‘It was Jean Genet’s Our Lady Of The Flowers. I think it was his way of telling us he was going to hide in Paris.’

  ‘He’d have been recognised in Paris, don’t you think? The LP went gold over there.’

  A woman with purple hair had been biding her time to speak. ‘Not if a suicide attempt had damaged his face.’

  Camille rolled her eyes.

  Sam was relieved to see he wasn’t alone in taking the band too seriously.

  ‘One thing’s for sure,’ the man said, craning in. ‘Bonny has a new future.’

  ‘Well if so, why are the band even involved?’ came a reply.

  They stood for a moment, facing the pictures in a reverent semi-circle. Sam considered the picture, the slight ache of the sombre colours, the way that the etched words blended into one another. A flowing sea of messages.

  ‘Theo might know where he is.’ Camille said.

  The bassist had now undone his jacket, a thin sheen of sweat visible on his brow. He clasped a glass of champagne tight in his fist. ‘But my dear, champagne is the true drink of the socialist,’ he was saying, to a young journalist. ‘Ask any of the New Labour cabinet, even now Blair’s abandoned ship.’

  The fans hadn’t dispersed: merely coagulated around the entrance. Waiting for something to happen. Bonny had clearly trained the staff to push them towards her paintings, as the usual crowd seemed reticent. The fans are waiting for me to leave so they can get me, Sam thought. Camille’s arm brushed his and he wondered if it was a sympathetic reflex, or something more.

  The crowd gathered round Theo, and Sam noticed a change in his manner. He could see the louche socialite he remembered gradually emerge from the past. Theo caught his eye.

  ‘Is there any chance you could sign this?’ a fan asked. ‘Could you put something wise on it?’

  Theo scribbled.

  ‘Autographs are pointless,’ the fan said, reading it out. ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘You were amazing,’ another fan fawned. ‘Are you touring any time soon?’

  ‘No. I have this dream of playing a gig at which there is no music, no audience, and no performance. If we can ensure we’re dead as well we’ll be as famous as God.’

  ‘Is it strange performing in front of a video of Robert?’ Camille asked him. Theo passed back a pen and considered her slowly.

  ‘Nothing is strange these days, darling. Everything is permitted. Now. What a gorgeous dress you are wearing.’

  Camille raised her hand to the leather above her cleavage. The dress shimmered, one long illumination that shook up a pleat in her skirt and dispersed around the fabric at her neck. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘A friend of yours?’ Bonny asked, looming over to Theo.

  ‘Bonny, thi
s is Camille, who also works for my publisher,’ Sam said.

  ‘Ah, Mason House. You’re the guy who’s writing the book on us, aren’t you?’ Theo asked.

  Sam felt several sets of eyes shift onto him.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I was hoping Wardner would be here, to give us his side of the story.’

  ‘You’ve scared him off,’ a voice behind them said.

  Theo’s eyes moved from Camille and bobbed onto Sam’s face for a moment. He leant in. He smelt of expensive aftershave and cheap chemicals, but Sam could still see him seducing a young fan. ‘We should have a drink, after my set,’ Theo said. ‘You can tell me how close you are to finding him.’

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me that. I have no idea.’

  ‘Sign our bodies first, Theo!’ shouted a girl wearing a miniature top hat.

  In the nightclub Sam could see a slender woman, in black tights and a corset, climbing a ribbon towards the ceiling. As he ascended the stairs and walked in, a blast of sound hit his ears. Camille followed behind him, the second meaning of her black leather unleashed by synthetic beats and close dancing. Sam marvelled at how easily people walked off the street and into these decadent dioramas. It was spooky how easily people’s inner landscapes were expressed in enclosed booths and glittering bars. Their private nightmares slid into the moulded furniture as if it had been designed for them. People discovered a new sense of stasis in these places, Sam thought. A moral as well as social stasis. He thought it fitting that the music was bloodless electro, as affectless as the cities in which it was created. Sam felt for the phone in his pocket, and set it to vibrate. Would he feel it if Elsa replied, he wondered? He was dreading the caustic reply he’d get when she read that he’d gone to London.

  Bodies half-turned towards him, sleeked in sweat. Camille’s hand snaked around his arm. Her leather stuck to his and all the activity around them seemed unable to separate it. As he turned to her she pointed up the stairs. ‘Bonny said he’d be up there,’ she said. ‘Recovering from the strain of having spun records for twenty minutes.’

  Sam pushed through the dance floor to the elevated seating. The proximity of Camille’s leather-clad body made him feel debauched. All around limbs parted, their mechanical movements embodied by something he couldn’t see. The white strobe shivered over each frame. Everyone’s flesh shone, the crowd one oscillating body that moved like a shoal of fish. On the crest of each wave the sparkle of jewellery, the shimmer of latex, the lustre of sprayed hair. Private agonies finding their only outlet through intense, idiosyncratic dancing.