Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Human scripture submits that transgression begins in the heart. This truth illuminates opportunities for the willing thanatist.
—Shadow Theory Apocrypha: A Discussion of Umbralogical Potentialities
Church hadn’t gotten to the venue side of the Iron Horse yet. So, I stood in the middle of the empty floor, taking in the settled musk of sweat and smoke and spilled beer. Such a great smell.
Someone had forgotten to coil the amp cables and put away the mic stands from the last gig. I jumped onstage and set to doing so, winding the cables into manageable circles, straightening out the stands, and setting them all in their place.
When I was done, I stood center stage, staring out at the empty space where hundreds of music lovers crammed in to watch and listen to the best up-and-coming bands.
The latent thrill never got old. Being onstage felt like a miracle.
Like new life every time I stepped out to share my music, believing the songs mattered, that they might live on in the people after the show was over.
Church stepped through the curtains, his satchel under his arm and his stogie in his mouth. “You’ve always looked quite at home up there, Jack.
Reminds me of how I used to be with my wife and little ones after a good day in court.”
He drew two chairs to the center of the empty floor and waved at me to come sit.
I hopped down and took my seat. I loved Church, even though we were as different as tweed and leather. “Alastair Cooper? Barrister?”
Church chuffed a soft laugh. “I served as a barrister for a time before, well, before I died.”
“Sounds like there’s more to that story,” I said.
“How about we save the rest for another time? Suffice it to say the old name allows me to work the topside courts. If I’m honest, though, being Church is more fun.”
I had a feeling I’d be needing both sides of him. “So . . . what about Henry.”
“Well, Jack, not to put too fine a point on it, but the Iron Horse is now yours.” He reached into his satchel and pulled out a clipboard with some documents attached.
Seemed like Brach’s concern about me being Henry’s “next of kin” was justified. I told Church about Brach’s appearance at the morgue.
“He didn’t get anything, did he?”
“No, but what would he have been looking for?”
Church leaned over his cane. “Could have been hoping to find me—the executor of Henry’s will.
” He stroked his beard. “But I think Henry also kept a perishable copy of access codes in his billfold. Perhaps the ward lock to the Abyssal Steps was on it. In either case, he’s too late. Henry has bequeathed the Horse to you.”
Old Henry, I should have known. “That’s too generous. And I’m not sure I’d know how to run a pub and venue even if half the clientele weren’t already dead.”
“The Horse does have business operations, of course. Those are part of its proprietorship. But we have, as you know, senior staff members who can help make that transition seamless for you, present company included.”
“I think I could do something on the venue side,” I said. “Booking bands, sound and light engineers. Stuff like that.”
“Of course you can. But it wasn’t your music expertise or even Henry’s belief that you’d return as a thanatist that convinced him to give you the Iron Horse.”
I waited.
Church thumbed the papers. “He recognized a particular quality in you, Jack. He wanted someone to carry on here who would manage the place—its people and purpose—with authentic care and concern.”
I looked up at the stage behind Church. I loved Henry. I loved the Iron Horse. But I was just a songwriter. Everything I’d done in life, even working here, had been about my music. It was the only thing I knew or was any good at.
But this place was now all that stood between the London we knew and a war that would kill thousands in order to implement Brach’s vision for the city. And once installed, his revolution would bend all minds to his will, beginning . . . with music.
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.