I followed her to the door, handed her her jacket, then grabbed the old drumstick bag Henry kept hanging from the coatrack. The bag was exactly the kind of urn he would have wanted, and I’d promised Church I’d get that done. We could swing by Golders Green Crematorium and drop it off on our way back from Wembley.
I pulled the door shut, gathered Cassius, and together we got moving up Flitcroft Street toward soundcheck with the Hounds.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Nothing so scars the soul as an unrealized dream.
—From “Seeing Beyond the Shadow,”
a wraith-rehabilitation tract disseminated by the Cythons
Cassiusand I approached the Wembley stage-access table, where I gave a woman my name. A few moments later, a guy with a clipboard came to collect us but asked Cassius to remain backstage, out of sight. I texted Chuey that I was about to sing at Wembley, to which he wrote back, “Your voice sucks.” It was our routine—every time I was about to take the stage. Always loosened me up a little. Then, I followed the clipboard guy to the side of the main stage under a bright morning sun.
As I waited for my cue, a bald man with a scruff of beard stepped up beside me. “You know, it’s not too late, Mr. Solomon.”
It was Leinad Ke, the founder of Banner, by far London’s largest music streaming service, the ones trying tograb songwriter copyrights and take possession of the Horse. Everyone knew Leinad, if only by reputation, and Banner was sponsoring the festival. I’d met him at a music-industry mixer, and I’d seen his body in Bazalgette’s watery graveyard. I glanced into Ke’s shadow—Shiguan threads.
“Imagine the possibilities for a man of your talents,” he said.
Before I could tell him to piss off, a sound engineer approached us.
Grateful for the interruption, I followed him center stage. Chris, Wood, and Lynn all stood near the drum riser, holding their guitars. Chase sat behind his kit. None of them would meet my eye. I’d have to talk to them after the soundcheck. Right now, I just needed to show them that I could forgive them.
Turning toward the stadium, I found three suits from Sixth Angel seated in the tenth row, eyeing me like reality-show judges. But the rest of Wembley was empty. The sheer grandeur of the stadium overwhelmed me. I’d been hustling my whole life to stand right here, and suddenly felt far too small for it. But I was thrilled, too, like the moment in Chuey’s basement when I’d first heard the music I would make my life.
Looking out at the stadium also gave me a deeper sense of what it must mean to the Hounds to have this show go well. I could see it now from their side—a little bit, anyway—even their firing of me. So, while this door may have closed on me, I was going to do everything I could to be sure they got their shot.
“Okay, mate,” said the sound man, “do it like you’re live in front of ninety thousand screaming fans, eh? Which track will you have, then?” I glanced down at the Sixth Angel team and said, “They Always Go
Away.”
“Nice choice.” He handed me a pair of top-notch Shure in-ear monitors. “Just the reference monitors will be okay,” I told him.
“Old-school,” he said. “Love it. Just to warn you, though, mate, it’s going to get righteously loud in here.”
I took the ear monitors, but only popped in the left side as the sound tech disappeared back to his mix board.
A windswept silence filled the stadium. Sixth Angel looked on in silent judgment. I glanced at Chris and Wood as they got ready. Suddenly, my head felt like flood-swollen levies, ready to break. I squeezed the elastic bands on my wrists.
Maybe this whole thing was a stupid idea. Maybe I could just talk to the guys backstage and tell them no hard feelings and all that. But I knew it wasn’t enough to just say the words. My actions had put the
Hounds in this spot. So, with these abandoners, I needed toshowthem I was sorry, then let the rest go. Instinctively, I understood it was the only real path to making my spirit right.
Still, I didn’t want to have to sing about loving the woman who had broken my heart. I wasn’t ready for that.
I glanced at the sutures in my shadow. The wound throbbed around the memory of seeing Mama through the Ardells’ window as if there was more waiting to bust through.
The PA thumped as the mic went live.
To hell with it. My soul was either going to be right or not. And I’d bleed it all out here and now to know.
The G minor acoustic intro burst from the speakers, and man it was loud. I’d written that the night I got my first guitar. Four measures in, the acoustic tones gave way to the first strike of electric power chords, and I lost myself in the music.
Starting low and soft, I began to scream in a slow crescendo of anger and loss. I hadn’t sung a live show in days, but my voice never misfired, never slacked on power, and got so high and raw it was hard to hear the band behind me.
In my ear monitor the sound guy muttered, “Holy hell.”
I dropped into the first verse, played in seven-eight time to reflect the confusion of a boy trying to understand why the people he loves are dying or leaving him. Or pushing him away. I roughed my voice to land difficult notes on harsh phrases about love and lying and responsibility. About loving a child without expectations. About Dad.
