How I Left the National Grid (18 page)

‘I keep wondering…why did you do so much for him?’

‘Times when I was teetering, he pulled me back. I had to give him refuge.’

‘So why have you kept this quiet? Fear of your relationship being misinterpreted?’

‘No. People could not have understood it anyway. We didn’t have a traditional boyfriend-girlfriend relationship, but it was close. He had been teaching me to mine my own inner world, and to be disciplined about it. To create bizarre rituals that allow it to make sense to me.’

She leant back, a triangle of dark hair falling over one eye. She left it there, pursing her pale lips.

‘You said there were things that urgently needed to be said?’

‘Yes. It was Bonny who first put me in touch with him. When Robert revealed to her that he was alive, after so many years, he must have mentioned that I had taken him in, as he needed some space from his wife. Bonny was apparently angry with me. Furious that I had harboured him after all she had done to put him on the map. But it wasn’t only him that had become well-known. I was starting to become known as an artist myself; but after Robert went, I had to drop all that. Seeing how unhinged he was, how far he had come undone, left a mark. I left my job, my home, and ran away to the coast. People had seen the two of us getting closer and closer and so they assumed I’d vanished too.’

‘So with you and Robert going missing at the same time, people wondered if…’

She nodded. ‘Word started to spread that he had been taken in by an over-zealous fan who asked too much of him. Rumours built that he had eventually driven her down to the sea and…’

‘Murdered her.’

‘It was Bonny who distorted the truth. Robert was always scared of how brilliantly manipulative she could be. I think in her mind Bonny thought, ‘Robert has abandoned me. But if people think he is guilty of even more than that, I will be getting my own back’.’

‘I see.’

‘And by casting me as the obsessive fan, she also gave me a neat little kick in the teeth too.’

‘How do you know she did that?’

‘At the gallery, in London. At the end of the night, she couldn’t resist taking me to one side and boasting about what she’d done. Said it would make the band’s comeback the biggest in history. Kept going on about how it would secure her fame, as an artist, and finally be payback for all the investment Robert took from her.’

‘Jesus.’

‘There’s more. Let me show you something, Sam. It’s the correspondence I’ve received from Robert since he disappeared. I’ve never shown it to anyone.’

She went out, and returned with a sheaf of postcards.

‘I believe these shed light on where he is now. They offer answers on where he has been, for all these years.’

Sam took them reverently.

‘But the puzzle only fits together for me, as I sent him the postcards which provoked these responses. So only I hold all the pieces.’

‘Why do you want to help me?’

‘I know a lot of the fans are saying that if he wants to stay missing, you should respect that. I have heard about them giving you a hard time.’

‘You don’t know the half of it.’

‘Exactly. If the mystery isn’t solved soon, these rumours will continue to build and someone is going to get badly hurt.’

‘So you say Robert started sending these after he disappeared?’

She nodded. ‘The first came through at the end of 1981, when no one had any idea where he was.’

He looked up at her. ‘And you didn’t want to share it with his family? Or his wife?’

Her expression tightened. The colour fell from her face. ‘Certainly not. Robert and I had a relationship deeper than anyone could understand. Because I was there for him when things went wrong.’ She lifted her chin defiantly. ‘Francesca wasn’t.’

Sam began to flick through them.

‘They came once every few years,’

The first was a postcard of what appeared to be a field. On the back, in Robert’s distinct scrawl, were the words ‘I hope you are still writing. Take care, R.’

The ‘g’, Sam noted, was looped. Just like on the postcards online.

‘This field could be anywhere,’ Sam said.

‘I know. But it’s the next one that got me thinking.’

‘But how do you know these are from Robert?’

‘These postcards are the reason I haven’t moved from here in twenty-five years. He set me a mission he wanted me to see through. I can’t leave until he’s found.’

‘You could have had the post redirected?’

‘What if he needed me again?’

‘It is one hell of a sacrifice.’

‘You don’t understand, Sam. Robert saved my life. I was going mad until he came along.’

‘But you said yourself, he took you to the brink.’

‘Perhaps loyalty can sometimes be misplaced.’

The second postcard was of what looked like a white stone, French or perhaps Belgian hotel. It was simply signed, ‘Love, R.’ In the third postcard, a whitewashed building with pillars was set back from a courtyard and in faint pencil Sam could see one window of it had been circled. Sam looked on the back of them.
The postmarks on the first few were too blurred to read, but the last ones were clearly marked ‘Antwerp.’

‘1987, that one. They show where he was staying at the time.’

‘It doesn’t mention anything about you keeping them to yourself though,’ Sam said.

‘At that point they were too vague to warrant a journey. I spoke to people who know Antwerp, and both said this hotel looked more seaside than city. Ostend was mentioned at one point, particularly with regards to the next few.’

Sam flicked through a few postcards of European street scenes.

‘My guess was that he had sent me the postcards so I knew he was okay, as he was passing through. By the time I’d worked out where he was, he’d have moved. I’d always be behind. The press were dying to know where he was, but for the wrong reasons. If he was moving I figured he obviously didn’t want to be found yet. But he wanted the people he was closest to to know he was alive.’

But not his wife? Sam didn’t feel bold enough to ask the question.

The next one, though cut to be the same shape as a postcard, was a photo. It depicted a country scene, with wet grass and trees, but this time somewhere very English-looking. In the background of the photo, slightly out of focus, Sam could just about make out a range of hills.

‘This one was sent very recently. Look at the note on the back,’ Nataly implored.

“Everyone must come out of exile in their own way,’ Martin Buber,’
Sam read.

‘One of his favourite philosophers. I remember he once talked about him. You see, in that note Robert is telling me that he’s deciding to come out of hiding. And look at the last one,’ Nataly continued, leaning further in. Her neck bones threatened to burst through her shirt.

Sam looked at the picture of the last postcard. It was a shot of what seemed the base of a series of hills, and in one corner of it was a small, white building. ‘And the quote,’ Nataly said.

Sam read the words out loud.
‘NATALY. I COULD NEVER BE FAR FROM MANCHESTER, NOT FOR LONG.’
Then, in a clumsy attempt at italics, was written,
‘Come live with me and be my love / And we will all the pleasures prove / That valleys, groves, hills, and fields / Woods or steepy mountain yields.’

‘Marlowe was one of his favourite playwrights,’ she said. ‘You see? The last postcard is the final clue. He’s asking me to find him. The last two are clearly somewhere in Northern England, out in the country. He talks of mountains, and opens with the statement that he could never be far from Manchester. And what mountain range starts in Greater Manchester?’

‘I don’t know. The Pennines?’ Sam said.

‘The Pennines,’ Nataly echoed, with a smile. ‘That’s the second to last time I’ve heard from him.’

‘And the last?’

‘A phone call. Late at night, not long ago at all. I was in such a deep sleep I almost thought it was a dream.’

‘You’re sure it was him?’

‘Yes. I asked where he was. He said ‘I’ve finally found my home. I’m staying in a monastery’.’

‘Somewhere in the Pennine region.’

‘If one exists.’

And if you’re not a fantasist, Sam thought. He was unable to take his eyes off the postcards. So many answers, tied up on those tattered pieces of paper. Answers he had given so much to hear. Yet the links between them seemed too disparate to be credible.

‘If he wants you to find him,’ Sam asked ‘why doesn’t he just tell you that directly?’

‘He isn’t that straightforward a person. I sometimes wonder if he is even aware of the direction he pulls people in. He seems to need to test people. Get them to prove their devotion to him, for
some reason.’

‘I have got a sense of that.’

‘I hope you don’t find this too strange but…I would rather keep hold of these cards,’ she said.

‘No, of course. I understand.’

Suddenly, she clutched the side of her stomach.

‘Are you okay?’ Sam asked.

‘It’s fine, it’s only cramp. It’s since that damn operation.’

‘Can I get you anything?’

‘I just need to take something,’ she said, wincing. ‘I won’t be a moment.’

As soon as she had left the room Sam pulled his phone out of his bag and, listening carefully for the sound of her movements, shakily started to take pictures of the other cards.

He cursed himself for his unsteady hand and was trying to position the camera for more focused shots of the final postcards when he heard Nataly returning.

She came in, still wincing.

‘Do you feel any better?’ he asked.

She nodded, and reached out for the pictures.

‘Well, what do you think?’ she smiled weakly.

‘I think you’re right. He is leading you to him.’

‘I know. There’s no way I can go to him, not in this state. You don’t need to, but at least you can use your book to put these rumours to bed. Answer the questions about where he is and where he’s been. It would be enough to settle all this agitation.’

‘Sure. But if I’m honest, I don’t think that would be enough for me,’ Sam said.

‘Sam,’ she answered. ‘Just because he didn’t kill me, doesn’t mean he doesn’t have something to hide.’

‘What do you mean?’

She shifted, fingering the corner of a photo.

‘When I spoke to him I didn’t know that Bonny was behind those rumours. I asked him, ‘Why don’t you come back? Why
don’t you resume your life?’ He told me he couldn’t. He has a lot of guilt. He thinks he’s a murderer.’

‘Are you sure he was being literal?’

‘Yes. It’s a big part of why he’s stayed hidden.’

Sam had the same feeling as when someone had broken into his house. That same low, chilling buzz. ‘Who did he kill?’

‘He wouldn’t tell me. He said he didn’t want to drag me into his darkness any more.’

Sam wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘I suppose that would be the real answer to the mystery,’ he said.

‘But it also means that he isn’t safe to go after, Sam. Leave him where he is. There is a reason he has gone to the monastery. He seeks absolution, from whatever he did. He clearly does not want anyone but me going after him.’

‘My commission was to find him, to get the story from him. Anything less feels like a failure.’

She shook her head, her mouth twisting for a second as if she was holding back tears. ‘It’s not worth the risk.’

Tottenham Court Road is the start of the apocalypse. I’m on the escalator on the way up, hugging myself. Last night gargoyles came out of the woodwork and they cackled and spat. They swirled in my room. You look at them and they dissolve in the dark. I couldn’t work out where the mirror ended and the chair began and you think about it until they become a new person.

I need something to eat. I need to find a decent changing room to wash in. Remember how important your appearance used to be? Back then you’d have never shaved your head if your hair was getting at you. You’d only cut yourself in places that the camera wouldn’t find. You’d have never got up, pulled on a parka, prised yourself out into the world. If you’d had a night with the gargoyles you’d have slept it off. In the morning made a list of what to do, to fix yourself.

You know what happens when you just keep going, Robert. You run yourself into the ground. Your body breaks when it hits concrete. Flesh is not as hard as metal and stone.

I push through the gate of the tube station, for the street. What exit do I want?

A guard is tapping his fat fingers on the turnstile. He knows I’ve got no ticket. He’s going to throw me in prison. I’ll have to fight him.

Move over to the newsagent. If I buy something, maybe he’ll let me go. It’ll show I can contribute to society. I fish for dirty silver. When I turn around he’s gone. Gone to get another security guard. I run. Run run running.

On the street outside all hands are outstretched. Trying to take my money or give me papers. It’s like being shoved into a dirty, hissing wind tunnel. I want to know what his agenda is, and his and his and his and his. Everyone’s hurrying, it must be for somewhere. They’ve all been set an assignment I’m kept out of. Why else would they be this focused?

Capitalism throbs like a vein. About to burst. It nags everyone to
move, over each other, trample each other down. I don’t dare turn. The man in the grey coat is always at the bottom of every set of stairs. Run raw.

Where can I find out the plan? Can he tell me?

I remember. I did have a plan.

I push past the elbows and handbags. Towards Soho. There are stalls and strips all around, but they will soon fade back into the ether. Right now they’re stuck onto the shiny surfaces, but soon they’ll be prised off. In the cleansing flood.

Everything here is temporary, everything is dirty. Everywhere has been used, violated, covered in fluid.

I am. Missing. The. Part. Of. Me. That. Pretends. There. Is. Not. Too. Much. Dirt.

Before, I was like everyone else. I pushed through the filth. Now I can see it all around, making fingertips stick to every surface. People walk, with other people’s fluid in their mouths and stomachs and wombs, other people’s dirt on their fingers and lips. Playing round the corner of their mouth. The dank sweat of their hair and the dried, rank sweat of the past.