Free How I Left the National Grid by Guy Mankowski

the ocean, he picked out the phrase
‘Anything to escape the artificial light’
from ‘A World Of Neon’.
    ‘Know much about art, Sam?’
    ‘Not really. That’s more my girlfriend’s forte.’
    ‘She paints?’
    ‘No, she curates at a gallery near us. They’re having that Gavin Holding up soon and she won’t stop going on about it. So what should this picture be telling me?’
    ‘Well, this is my portrayal of the moment he vanished. Before he caught a ferry to Europe.’
    ‘I thought that was only a rumour?’
    Bonny’s reaction was non-committal.
    Sam stepped back, his mind racing. ‘I can’t help but wonder if you know where he is, but are saving that for the exhibition?’
    ‘They’re pieces of art, Sam.’
    ‘What’s this one about then?’ he asked.
    Taking pride of place in the window was a large painting of the band’s album cover. Set against a corporate shade of rich green was a triangle split into six parts. Inside each segment, as on the album cover, was a word from the record’s title,
‘How I Left The National Grid’.
Except, where the album had used a glossy style of graphic design, Bonny had used thick brush strokes to achieve that effect. In her new guise she had clearly tapped intosome nascent skill. On closer inspection, Sam could see more phrases subtly etched into the colour around the triangle.
    ‘Is the choice of lyrics particularly meaningful?’ he asked. At the bottom of the painting, he pointed at the phrase
‘The wrong kind of divorce is murder’.
    ‘Of course,’ she said, following his eyes. ‘Ah, you noticed that one.’
    ‘So does that tell us something about you and Wardner?’
    He struggled to meet the intensity of her gaze.
    ‘It tells you something about what he did to me,’ she said.
    Sam’s mouth hung open. He couldn’t think what to say.
    ‘He’s already rumoured to have murdered one woman. I can’t help wondering…if you know something, aren’t you morally obliged to say?’
    ‘It’s not for me to tell the world what Robert did,’ she said. There was a strain on her face that suddenly shocked Sam. Even as Bonny’s eyes moistened, something told him to be careful not to be taken in by any crocodile tears.
    Yet, looking at Bonny as she walked into the bright light, Sam had a sense that something had happened which had left Bonny truly traumatised. Despite himself, he couldn’t help feeling a little relieved when she turned and said. ‘I’m sorry, Sam, but I think that is enough for today.’
     
ROBERT WARDNER
    ‘This song is off our album,’ I said, feedback piercing through the crowd. A twitching mass of misfits and freaks, straining to see through dry ice and lights. Every waif and stray you’d ever ignored, waiting for the revolution cry. I could just see them out there, jostling each other for a view of the stage. Black eyes and bruised ribs.
    ‘It’s out next week. But don’t buy it.’
    The crowd roared. Bonny, somewhere in the audience, pushed two small fists in the air. I could see her diamond ring glisten off the stage lights.
    ‘The record company rushed it out because all they care about is M.O.N.E.Y.’
    Theo grabbed his mike. ‘But buy our record instead of anyone else’s. Because no one else is capable of writing songs like this.’
    Some cheered. As if encouraging an illegal boxing match between us. Wanting blood.
    Theo turned to Jack and nodded for him to start playing ‘Whitewashed’.
    Jack looked at me, apologetic, counted us in. Began drumming. As Theo bent over to push his bass pedal I stuck two fingers up behind his back.
    The crowd went mental.
    There was a bed of snakes beneath us, coiling round each other and the music. Theo stood up, guessing what I’d done. Makeup running down his face.
    I watched his lips move, cursing me.
    I looked straight back at him. ‘Do your fucking job,’ I shouted.
    The crowd were trying to push through the barrier.
    The music was so loud we were been getting nosebleeds between