I hooked a finger around the elastics on my wrist, anticipating their bite against my skin . . . then remembered Henry’s warm hand covering my own in the greenroom a few nights ago.
We all come around to where we’re supposed to be.
I let go of my elastic bands. “You want me to sign something, then?” Church rifled through his briefcase for some papers. “God love you,
Jack, always leading with your heart.”
It was why the Hounds had let me go. Like the time I’d promised to have Church help us incorporate, but then Henry’s dishwasher quit, and I wound up spending the next few months helping Henry in the kitchen. Like all the times I’d missed band rehearsals helping Iron Horse friends move or whatever. Like never finishing my song.
And before that, coming to London in the first place.
After my brother Dan’s funeral, I knew I had to leave the city. Get away for real. The night of my flight to Heathrow, I went to tell Dad I was leaving. I’d expected a dressing down. Instead, he drove me to the airport. We didn’t talk the whole way. But at the LAX departure curb, we sat a moment more in silence before he patted my leg and said, “You go, son. Chase this thing. Try and be happy. Happier than me, anyway.” It was the best memory I had of the man.
Part of me wondered if when I signed these papers, despite what Henry had said, I’d be putting away my music for good—the one thing I’d left everything behind to chase. But that thought was too painful just now.
“Will any of this help us protect the ward against Brach?” I finally asked. “Before we get to that, may I ask one favor?”
“Shoot.”
“Sometime tomorrow, if there’s time, I would very much appreciate your visiting Golders Green Crematorium. In his will, Henry asked that, once we’re sure he won’t return from the Meadows, his body be cremated—so that it won’t be used to any nefarious purpose—and some of his ashes spread in the same spot at Golders as Mr. Keith Moon’s.”
Henry had taken me there often to see Moon’s marker and talk about the man, his music . . . and pretty much everything else.
“Would you be so kind as to select the urn?” Church asked.
I’d pay for it myself, even if I had to sell an amp. “You can count on it.” Church rolled his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other.
“Now, to the rest. Given the forceful maneuverings against the Iron Horse, we cannot allow a lapse in proprietorship.” He laid the clipboard on my lap and handed me a black fountain pen. I signed and handed the pen and papers back. “The will also deeds you his rooms at St. Giles, which Henry owned outright.”
It’d be a while before I could live where Henry had lived. “I doubt titles and deeds are going to stop Brach.”
“You’ve satisfied the legal requirements. The continuity of the ward, however, requires something more.” He pointed his cane toward the left-stage hatch that led to the Abyssal Steps. “That’ll take us into the grotto beneath the Horse where we can begin the renewal of the ward. But not today. Today we eat lasagna and remember Henry.”
Lasagna.
We went back into the pub and spent the balance of the day sharing stories about Henry and eating until we couldn’t hold a fork. When everyone had gone, I locked up and crept back to the greenroom. I was again tired but not sleepy. Probably because I’d be going down the Steps tomorrow.
So, I sat on the old green couch and dug back into Henry’s books, hum-reading until almost three in the morning before nodding off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The span of a ward is derived from the number of souls in its bond, but can be extended by the light of souls that reside within the environs of its care.
—William Murdoch, chief Cython luxographer,
The Effects of Cumulative Light
At ten o’clock sharp,Church met me at the left side of the Horse stage, where he opened the lock to the Abyssal Steps and lifted the hatch. He’d said these steps went all the way down to the bottom of London history—its oldest secrets and silences. Things far down in the dark that might want to be left alone. Yet I felt pulled toward them. “The renewal of the ward comes in two parts,” he said, breaking me from my trance. “I can help you with the first part and hope it buys us the time we need to deduce the second part.”
He then led me down the earthen steps to a stone door with no handle. In the dimness, he traced a series of figures againstit with his finger. The door groaned back, and the scent of earth and dry roots whooshed over us.
“Tell no one,” he whispered, “but the door opens by simply tracing the words ‘Please talk to me again I need you.’ ”
It was the chorus from the Who song “I Need You.” Of course it would be the Who. Reminders of my friend were going to be everywhere.
We entered an undercroft formed entirely of cold, chiseled dirt, save for an arched tunnel of stones. Church pulled out a pen flashlight and led me through it. At the far end, we passed into a circular grotto that must have run a hundred feet across and thirty feet high. It smelled of fresh loam and old rock. He led me around the perimeter to the far side, where another set of stairs went down. “The Abyssal Steps,” he said. “There’s a door like the one we just passed on every level of the Strata. Same trace-lock.” He then walked to the middle of the grotto and turned his light on me. “Over here.”
I followed, the hairs on the back of my neck beginning to rise.
