‘That might be it.’
‘So, if you found him would you feel as if you had come to the end of your journey?’
There was a hint of mischief playing around the prior’s lips as he returned, with a pile of toast, jam jars balancing on top of it.
‘No,’ Sam said.
The prior waved a finger at Sam. ‘No you wouldn’t. Because your quest is spiritual. You seek to fill the void, don’t you?’
‘That void will always exist though.’ Sam spooned jam onto a slice, and took a bite. ‘Until I succeed at something.’
‘I see.’ He looked through the window. ‘Now, I must show you the grounds. Here, bring your coffee.’
The sunlight was just starting to break over the hills behind them, lighting up the rectangular allotment on which men bustled. Sam sipped the cooling coffee as he followed the prior. ‘With a spiritual retreat comes the opportunity to learn new skills,’ he said. ‘To put something back into the earth.’
Sam eyed the rows of marrows and radishes.
‘You can take these straight out of the ground and into the pan?’
‘There is only one way to address your scepticism.’
‘I’m not sure I can carry a bunch of marrows on the train,’ Sam said.
The prior laughed.
‘See what you think of this.’
They moved over to the small patch of turf near the back gate, where a man was bent double, concerning himself with something laid on the soil.
‘There’s nothing here,’ Sam said.
‘Not yet, but there will be soon, won’t there?’
The prior wasn’t addressing Sam, but the man at his feet. As Sam moved to ask him what he was growing he found himself looking straight into the face of Robert Wardner.
The singer was visibly aged, the faint lines that Sam had seen in so many photographs now deep crevices. Despite his position in the bright sunlight Wardner looked ravaged, a sinewy man in a camouflage jacket, his hair hacked short. His shaking fingers quivering through the dirt. He was indistinguishable from it, a whisper through the looming pines. He was part of something invigorating, and yet he looked as if he was barely of this realm.
The prior stooped to address him.
‘I’m afraid our visitor isn’t convinced about what we are trying to do out here.’
Wardner looked slowly up at Sam.
‘Perhaps we should tell our visitor,’ Wardner said, ‘that these days people don’t understand work.’
His voice was gruffer than Sam had expected, barely recognisable from the songs and interviews.
The prior stepped back, placed his hands on his hips. ‘Be my guest,’ he said.
Sam decided to speak first. ‘I’m not saying it won’t grow. I’m just thinking it’s a lot of effort for a few vegetables. Isn’t it?’
Wardner’s eyes passed over Sam, with a chemical blankness that Sam had never seen before. Slowly, he opened his mouth.
‘Where you come from, my friend, people only work at things if they can leave their mark on it. They don’t care about vegetables, because they don’t come with a credit. But down here,’ his trembling hands pointed into the earth, ‘work is about making something that sustains. That doesn’t have a stamp.’
The prior nodded.
Sam’s eyes traced over Wardner’s tattoos, unable to believe who he was talking to. Yet the evidence was all there. That line from Hamlet, still in faint black ink on his left arm.
The prior could pull me away at any moment, Sam thought. I’ve got to seize this chance.
‘But what about art?’ Sam said. ‘Art can help others, and move your career forward too can’t it?’
Wardner’s lips began to move again, with a curl of bitterness edging into them. ‘So you know who I am.’
‘I think you can help him, Robert,’ the prior said.
Wardner nodded deferentially, his glazed eyes slowly moving back to Sam.
‘Art will collapse, son, because the internet screwed your generation over. Everyone can have a go at making something and putting it on the web.’
Wardner stood up, and straightened. ‘But it’s not art,’ he continued. ‘It’s just noise, made by people trying to shout loudest. There’ll be so much of it one day it’ll all collapse.’
His hands moved, slender as autumn leaves, as he spoke. Sam could only equate the feeling it provoked with the one he experienced walking along the beach, when it all got too much in his youth.
‘So all that work will be lost?’
Wardner looked to the hills, as if addressing the sprawl that lay beyond it. ‘Someone will own it. But it won’t be you.’
Sam felt the wind around him, the heat of it energising him. He pulled his coat tighter around himself. ‘So you’re saying I shouldn’t believe in art?’
‘If you’ve got no loved ones, it’s not a bad place to look for answers. Artists are better visionaries than celebrities, who they’re often confused with. But if you can find people who care about you, don’t neglect them for art. Look to sustaining others, rather than yourself.’
‘No one ever advises us to do that.’
‘Culture always tells you to look to illusions for answers. ‘Look at me’, it says, ‘I’ve worked it all out’. Celebrities grow too powerful because people mistake their colour for content. They allow them to create a hole at the heart of our culture, in which they then flourish.’
‘Is that why you’re out here then? You’ve had enough of that culture?’
There seemed a change in the wind.
‘I have to be here. Unlike you, I don’t have a choice.’
Wardner’s eyes, flecked with grey, flickered.
‘I’m a journalist who wrote about your music, Mr Wardner. I know that the rumours about you killing that young fan aren’t true. Nataly told me what is true.’
Wardner widened his eyes. At that moment, a small sparrow alighted on the fence behind him. Wardner watched it preen itself.
‘Nataly,’ he said. ‘So Nataly gave me away.’
‘I don’t think she gave you away. I think she’s perhaps offered you your freedom, to be honest. You see, she told me that Bonny created that rumour. But I know there’s nothing in it. The police aren’t after you, and you can return home. I know why she told me you had killed a man too. To scare me off finding you.’
Wardner stood up straight, the effort seemingly paining him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s not true. Nataly would never play games like that. The truth is, I did kill a man.’
‘Robert?’ The prior’s voice had dropped to a whisper, as he placed his hand on Wardner’s shoulder.
‘It was an accident,’ he answered. ‘His name was Andrew Cunningham, and he was the head of our record label. We were having a bitter fight about our album. I had been devoted to recording it for years. Cunningham wanted to rush it out before we were ready. I was a younger man then, prior, with a short fuse. We both said a few vicious things, and our manager had to hold me back. I threatened…’ He stopped, and coughed for a moment.
‘It’s alright,’ the prior said.
‘I threatened to strangle him. It was only once Bonny had calmed me down that I saw him, collapsed on the floor. The heart attack killed him instantly.’
‘That’s not murder,’ the prior said.
‘He’s right,’ echoed Sam. ‘And I have seen the coroner’s report. It didn’t implicate you in any way.’
Wardner coughed. A hacking, unhinged cough that built until it threatened to send him into spasms.
The prior lowered his voice, drawing Sam away. ‘Let’s discuss this another time. It isn’t fair to put all this on Robert.’
Wardner shook his head. ‘I knew that Cunningham had a weak heart. At various points I encouraged Simon, my guitarist, to give him ecstasy. I joked that it would send his ticker into overdrive. I didn’t want him to die, much as I hated him. I was just showing off. But I know it is only a matter of time until someone asks Simon about it under oath and I�
��ll be done for. Subconsciously, I think I provoked Cunningham knowing that it would kill him.’
‘That’s still not murder,’ Sam said.
‘That’s enough,’ the prior said. ‘We should leave Robert alone now.’
Sam felt guilty at having taken so much out of the singer with his questions. It was as if each of Wardner’s expressions had cost Wardner another chunk of his flesh. Until now he was a husk, assimilated by wind and earth, which crept from the hills and seeped through the soil, pulling him prematurely into their fortified cycles. Sam and the prior drew away.
‘When he arrived here,’ the prior said, ‘he was close to death. We are in the early stages of trying to claw him back. We give him only light duties.’
He placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder. ‘Sam, just as I have respected your journey in bringing it to a close, you must also respect his and not give away his place of rest.’
Sam nodded slowly. ‘I just can’t believe it.’
‘Your train,’ the prior said. ‘You will miss your train.’
Sam pressed a palm to his head. ‘I don’t know how I can thank you. Even if I can’t use this, it means the world to me…’
‘Thank me by honouring what I asked of you. I am putting my faith in you.’
19
Camille eased into her chair on the terrace, the straps of her black summer dress falling around her shoulders. She peered through the hanging baskets, down to the bustling city below. As Sam opened the door to come onto the terrace the sound of a piano from inside filtered out to Camille. As he moved into her vision she pulled off her sunglasses and smiled up at him.
Around them young couples whispered, paused to sip cocktails and drew from cigarettes. They then tilted their heads back, blowing jets of smoke up at the shimmering blue sky.
He moved to greet her. Sam noticed that her bare shoulders had begun to tan, ringlets from her pinned-up hair playing on her neck as he sat opposite.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ she said, her lips pursing around a straw.
A tightness seemed to have gone from underneath her eyes. He imagined her in a basement room in Paris, singing along to an old vinyl as rain teased the window. In her own private world.
‘How are you?’
‘I’m good, Sam. In fact, I have some news.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I’ve left Mason House.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Sam! Because of your book!’
‘I didn’t cause you to lose your job?’
‘No, you didn’t ‘cause me to lose my job’. You caused me to get offered a new one!’
Sam waved over a waiter, and ordered a San Miguel. Camille kept smiling. The buttery scent from her exposed skin enticed him.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
‘Martin canned the book, Sam. He thought it was damaging his reputation. There’s nothing he cares about more, except perhaps the welfare of Siberian snow leopards.’
‘I guessed that already. He gave me a day to find Wardner, and we’ve not spoken since.’
‘Sam, I’m sorry.’ She reached for her sunglasses but decided to leave them. ‘The controversy was too much for him. But there’s more.’ She placed her hand on his arm. ‘I’ve been offered a job at Harder and Wells. A bigger publisher, where I have much more influence. Working for someone who actually appreciates my rare gift for…’
‘Appreciating overlooked bands from the eighties?’
‘Exactly.’
‘So how does this affect me?’
‘Very greatly, Sam. Because my first order of business is to take on your new book.’
‘No.’
‘And pay you the advance you are well overdue.’
Behind him a couple laughed. He wanted to join them, toast the news. The sky seemed to bloom with exuberance. The waiter returned, Camille leaning in to ensure she didn’t miss any of Sam’s reaction as his beer was placed. Sam smiled, looking down at the golden bubbles. Watching them mingle and dance. She seemed to be following his reaction so carefully.
‘It’s as simple as that? I can’t believe it.’
‘It’s never completely simple, Sam.’
‘Go on.’
‘They don’t want a straight quest book, like a journalist would tell. They want something more creative.’
‘Which would require an interview with Wardner?’
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘Don’t worry about that. They have agreed to commission a book about your journey to track him down, regardless of if you found him. The controversy you’ve courted is enough to guarantee book sales. But to put a fresh twist on the biography format they suggested having part of it written as if from Wardner’s perspective.’
‘What, like his journal?’
‘Will that be too difficult?’
‘Well, there was something I never told Elsa during our whole relationship. I knew it was weird, and I thought it would freak her out.’
‘What?’
‘When I was younger….when I was a bit too obsessed… I tried to do just that. Write Wardner’s account of his own disappearance. An autobiography in his absence.’
‘Shut up.’
‘It’s true.’
She sipped. ‘You could finish it then. I’m sure that we can find a way to make it work. Isn’t it great news?’
He took it all in. The sound of the piano keys through the open door, the seductive margin of sun around rustling plants.
‘I can’t believe you quit over my book.’
‘I’d have been fired soon anyway. Martin’s been threatening to employ only vegans for ages. And the book wasn’t his idea.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I found out when I quit that it was Theo who got in touch with Mason House. Suggested getting someone to track down Wardner. Perhaps it was he who leaked your address to the fans?’
‘No wonder he wouldn’t tell me where Wardner was. He wanted me to show him.’
‘I think Theo was hoping to drum up some excitement about the band. Push Wardner to reform it, given all the speculation that would create.’
‘I wonder if Bonny was in cahoots with him. It looked that way at his gig. I think perhaps she wanted to get me even more immersed in the mythology around Robert. She wouldn’t have minded me raising her profile and helping her sell her art, either.’
‘Would she go to such effort just to do that?’
‘You didn’t get to talk to her like I did. It was pretty clear that she felt Robert took her career off her. Made her start afresh. I think, one way or another, she was pretty keen to finally make good on her investment in him.’
Sam tilted his head back. ‘So the fans know Theo was responsible for the effort to find Wardner. Not me?’
‘They do now. So they’ll blame Theo for pushing him back into hiding, not you.’
‘That could explain why whoever was threatening me has stopped. I think it was Wardner’s cousin. I can see how he might have got hold of my address now, too.’
‘Did the police take any finger prints?’
‘Yes, but since the grief has stopped I haven’t followed it up.’
‘He must have been genuinely scared that you’d find Robert.’
Sam took a deep draught.
‘Camille, I have something to tell you.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve been wondering during this whole conversation if I should tell you. But I did find Wardner.’
She dropped the straw, and grasped his hand. It was slender, and cool, and Sam had to focus on not reacting to it.
‘What?’
He nodded. ‘I’m telling you, I met Wardner. Living in seclusion, somewhere in the hills. But I was sworn to secrecy about exactly where…’
‘Oh my God.’
‘And I’m not going to break that promise.’
‘You met Wardner? My goodness. What was he like? What happened?’
Sam held the beer, and in a reckless moment decide
d to act on impulse.
‘How about we discuss it over dinner?’
Camille leant back and laughed. Looked over the teeming city. Then back at Sam.
‘Only way you’ll find out, Camille.’
‘Okay, you’ve twisted my arm, Sam. But bear in mind, any man could have offered that and I’d have said yes.’
‘I’ll take what I’m given.’
Her eyes widened with disbelief.
‘You sure you don’t want to use it for the book?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘There are so many ways round it though,’ she said, flapping her hands in excitement. ‘You could change the names and destinations. Obscure the details. Persuade a ghost-writer to tell your story as if it is fiction.’
‘Yes, boss.’
She laughed.
Sam followed the sound of it as it faded, into the warmth that emanated from the terrace. This evening now seemed greater than the sum of its parts, an expansive atmosphere that was open for Sam to explore. He closed his eyes. Thought of Elsa, of the threats, of the deserted house and the draining silences. All behind him. All part of a story he could now contain on the page.
When he looked up Camille was smiling to herself.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘The band will be about to start.’
He was glad the band didn’t embarrass him, having persuaded Camille to cross the road to the Star And Garter. It was a young group who wore shirts spray-painted with slogans like ‘Destroy Culture’ and ‘Disconnect Yourself’. They threw themselves recklessly around the tiny stage, expressing themselves through a barrage of sound. Although Sam didn’t know their songs he knew their shapes, their anger, well in advance.
During their final song Camille decided to dance and she pulled Sam to the front of the packed basement. They were almost close enough to the band to be hit by flailing fret boards. The younger punters greeted his enthusiasm with a smile, and for once Sam didn’t feel self-conscious. Every time the main riff of the song came around Camille piled her now loosened thick, dark hair on top of her head and let it fall in time to the song. The act transfixed Sam. She seemed to know it.
After the band had left a DJ began to play some records and everyone rushed onto the makeshift dance floor. It was Sam who pulled Camille onto it, when the catchy opening to ‘Commuter Belt’ prised everyone from tattered seats and into the throng.
How I Left the National Grid Page 17