How I Left the National Grid (7 page)

Before I lost it we’d been debating the release of our debut album. It had been recorded five times, in various studios with brilliant reputations and useless producers. I’d wanted our tracks to capture on record a futuristic world. A world that seemed enticing at first, but that was chaotic when you scratched the surface. I wanted us to make a debut album that woke people up to the realities of modern life. I wanted to be like the lunatic in Times Square, wearing a placard, shouting ‘The end of the world is nigh.’

My ambitions were pretty straightforward. On side one of the album I wanted to dismantle the modern world. On side two I wanted to rebuild it again.

But not one of the five college dropout producers Exit Discs had given us had been able to help us do it. They all seemed to be called Todd, and they all seemed to be unable to stay away from their birds for long enough to turn in a decent shift. Even Vicente didn’t cut it.

After four recordings of the album we were no closer to getting the sounds in my head and were way over budget. This was when Cunningham called and told us they were going to release an album out of the recorded sessions whether we liked it or not. Unless we consented to an album release they would sue us for the recording costs. They appointed their lawyers, and I had to start convincing the bank to give us a loan so we could have one. Theirs had read so many books that he’d started to believe some of them. Mine was a mate of my Dad’s.

It was then that the late-night wrangling started.

We had been cooped up in that long, dimly-lit conference room for six bloody hours before I went for him. It had got the point where Cunningham’s solicitor was trying to wear me down, again and again making exaggerated statements and then saying ‘Can you refute that?’

I looked over at Bonny, wanting our lioness of a manager to spring. But her eyes were like pissholes in the snow.

I kept clenching my fists.

The grocer motioned at me, with hands like hams. Cunningham looked up and in a low voice said ‘He’s too stupid to refute anything.’

Until that point I had, in a perverse way, been enjoying the tension. As a kid, when a situation turned nasty, I used to train myself to think that I wanted it to be that way. I’d try and believe that the more negative it got the more exciting I found it. But this was too much. Cunningham’s insult prompted me to act.

I hadn’t thought it was possible for the atmosphere to get any worse. Cunningham nursing his neck like a kicked cat, his solicitor now having a whole new set of numbers to work with. Neither Bonny nor Simon even able to look at me. Our lawyer had gone mute. Always did, when it got tough.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ their solicitor said, standing up. ‘Neither side will back down.’

Simon sighed.

‘Well. Won’t any of you even say anything?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’ll say something. People like you,’ I jabbed my finger at Cunningham, and stood up, ‘are the reason this album needed to be written in the first place. When you’ve got your salary, and your cosy little ivory tower, you’re dead happy to spout off about artistic integrity and us getting there together. But the minute you’re asked to back your promises up with some strength of character, you come apart. You say you love good music, but you can’t listen to it that carefully if you treat people like this. We signed with you because you said you’d stick with us and help us make the album we know we have in us. Rush this thing out and it’ll all be over in weeks. Out of anyone in this room,
a label head should be the one who knows what it takes to make a masterpiece.’

He smirked.

‘But that’s all you do, innit? Look away and smirk. Everything’s a joke to you. There’s no commitment. It’s just all about what you can do to speed up getting your pay cheque so you can get even fatter on your golf course, dressing like a shit cowboy.’

‘Robert,’ Bonny said, wearily.

‘It’s the decadent south, innit, Bon? They want to give up at forty-five. It’s people like you giving in, when they have the clout to make the world better, that are responsible for this mess. You’re laughing, but you’re Thatcher’s wet dream.’

‘Robert,’ Bonny said.

‘No Bonny, it winds me up. Bollocks to it, I’m not having my music put out by them.’

‘This is all we get,’ Cunningham said to his lawyer. ‘Speeches about the dying of the light, and the occasional burst of violence.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Simon said. ‘He can’t bring himself to agree to put this record out as it stands. No matter how much work he’s done. And believe me, you’ll never know how much blood and guts he’s put into this record. Put this LP out before he’s finished with it and you’ll be destroying ten years of his life.’

‘Then we’re in a stalemate,’ Cunningham said. ‘We’re going to have to release it without consent.’

I stood up. It was like I was sleepwalking as I moved over to the door. As I passed Simon I quickly nudged him on the shoulder. Bonny moved over to him, her eyes flashing up at me.

Cunningham looked up at me, bemused.

I wanted him to know I wasn’t messing about. That he’d gone too far.

His car keys were in front of him, next to a glass of water. I grabbed them.

‘What are you doing?’ He started laughing again.

I walked out of the conference room, clenching them in my fist. I had
been staring out the windows at the basement car park when the arguments got boring, and now I walked down to it. I heard Cunningham following. The grocer grabbed his papers and joined him, along with the other suits.

As part of our record deal I was given the use of a long, silver Mercedes. Bonny had known that one way to convince me to sign with Exit Discs would be to get them to offer me a beautiful car, and it had worked. For all my idealism, I couldn’t resist. My Dad had never even touched one.

I could sense them all watching me in the doorway to the car park as I walked over to it. I slipped inside.

‘Give my keys back,’ he shouted.

I reversed out, turning the car to face them. Then I dangled his keys in the windscreen, before throwing them onto the front dashboard. I could see the sweat shining on his forehead as he stamped closer. I had his attention now.

I drove the car round so it faced the back wall of the car park. I activated the lights. They sprayed onto the far wall of the low-ceilinged car park. On each side, fading into the smear of the distance, were grey concrete pillars. There was no one else down here. Just the cars owned by everyone in the board-room, huddled, watching in the doorway.

Seeing how I would react. Curious about what I could actually do.

I decided to show them. Up there in the boardroom, they had power over me. Their contracts told them they were in charge. But down here, I held the reins. I was in charge of a great, glistening, saloon car.

When I was weak they trod me underfoot. Now I was going to respond in a language they might understand. Cunningham negotiated only in terms of money and possessions. I was going to hit him where it hurt.

I pumped the accelerator and it sighed to life. Felt the blood pulse through my body and down to my legs. I made the engine exhale in pleasure. Slid into second, tyres squealing in excitement as I coursed through the car park.

They clamoured around the entrance. Even Cunningham not daring
to walk further.

‘What is he doing?’ I heard him shout.

On my first circuit of the car park I went as close to the far wall as I could. Arced the car round with one sweep of the wheel. The engine didn’t miss a pulse as I levelled up, heading for the group of huddled suits in the doorway.

I’m going to kill him, I thought.

They spread out, Cunningham’s solicitor throwing papers into the air.

I roared nearer. Pushed the car until it was just a few feet from Cunningham, before something in me moved and I carved it sharply round. Like a knife drawing out of flesh. Pumped the accelerator and surged back towards the far wall.

What would Bonny and Simon be thinking?

The back wall drew closer again. I was getting addicted to that feeling I got at the last moment, avoiding the wall. I was driving round and round the car park in tight circles, round and round and round until that buzz was overwhelming. The thrill of freaking them out grew too strong to resist. I knew that I was too tired to play this risky game with steel and concrete much longer. I knew that soon steel and concrete would win. I would not stop but my body was ready to give out at any second. Collapse.

Reality was not a concern. All I cared about was this game, this knife-edge. As long as the game endured I had them. All the contracts were useless down here.

At any moment I could destroy what they really cared about.

I had never felt blood pump harder through me. I followed the rhythm of the loudening and quietening engine. Have you ever felt that sensation in moments of fear? It’s life blood. With every circuit of the car I was saying to them, this is all you are doing. Driving faster and faster in circles, round and round and round until your bodies give out, and you crash.

And then, at the very moment that thought fired through me, my
body gave out.

I felt my brain shut down, my eyes force themselves to close. I had just swerved off the back wall of the car park and begun roaring back to the figures in the doorway.

I was going to crash. And if I couldn’t make it to Cunningham I was going to take all of their cars with me. Those neatly arranged, gleaming objects. I eased the bumper of my car into Cunningham’s Jaguar. Felt the whole chassis shake as I knifed into his solicitor’s BMW, then felt the back of my car kick out.

The force surprised me. I threw the wheel around, into the rest of them.

Span out of control.

Towards the mezzanine. They spread like doves.

Seconds before hitting it, I blacked out.

4

I’ll find their manager, Sam thought.

But the ‘Bonny Crawford’ that showed up online was not identified as a manager, but an ‘artist’. She was mentioned in an article for an upcoming exhibition in London, the title of which instantly ensnared him. Leaning in, Sam began to read.

Sam phoned the gallery where her pictures were being exhibited. To his surprise, they passed on Bonny’s telephone number. He rang it instantly, and after seven or eight rings a distant voice answered the phone. ‘Bonny Crawford,’ she said.

‘Hello Miss Crawford, my name’s Sam Forbes. I’m writing a
book 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.