Read Online How I Left the National Grid by Guy Mankowski - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Guy Mankowski
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Miss Crawford, my name’s Sam Forbes. I’m writing abook 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. Thestaircase 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?’
‘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
‘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. Thestaircase 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?’
‘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
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