Chapter 47
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Orcus thread can never sundered be. Oh, it may be cut for bonds and such, but the ends do forever talk
and touch, though miles may separate thou and me.
—Cython Catechism, Eighth Year
I met Lynn, Chase, Chris, and Wood halfway to the drum riser. We stood a few moments together on the biggest stage in London, just looking at one another. I did steal a few glances into their shadows and, other than a fair number of occlusions, caught the shape of a coda in Lynn’s.
“Hey, listen,” Lynn finally said, “we heard about Henry. Guy gave us our start. Hell, the number of people he helped could practically fill this place. Everybody loved him.”
“No truer words,” I said.
“They didn’t tell us they’d called you to fill in,” he told me. “But, man, that’s the best I’ve ever heard you sing. I mean—” He rubbed his beard for a second. “I’ve never heard that third verse, Jack. Might be the best thing you ever wrote.”
“Took a while,” I said.
The whole band laughed kind of low.
“I guess I’m not really surprised they called you,” Lynn said. “Their replacement singer was a junkie, and we all started to panic about finding someone who could learn the material.”
“And do it justice,” Chris added.
I laughed and looked back at the management team. They were conferring with one another.
“I won’t lie,” I said, turning back. “I was pissed about getting kicked out. But I also didn’t want to be the reason you guys don’t make it.
We’ve been through too much. I couldn’t let it go down that way.
So, I told them I’d do the show if that’s what it took.
But I didn’t know they hadn’t asked you guys first.”
An uncomfortable silence fell between us then. We just didn’t know what else to say.
Then Lynn laughed and said, “Kind of chickenshit for us to fire you by email, I guess.” He looked away a second. “It’s just that you were always putting something else ahead of the band, man. We felt like you—”
He was right about that. “I know.”
“But then you come here when you don’t need to, save our show, save our chance in front of the labels.”
Wood slapped my chest with the back of his hand. “And you finished the tune, man. Not just a little, even.”
Lynn looked me in the eyes. “Come back. Permanently. We’ll tell Sixth Angel that we won’t play without you. What are they gonna do, tell Sabbath we won’t open their festival?”
The other guys laughed, then nodded.
After all the hours spent writing songs, all the nights playing venues, carrying gear, hoping, waiting, encouraging others along .
. . my shot was right here. My songs had helped the Hounds get the right kind of attention.
And those songs might now get a chance to help others the way I’d always hoped they would.
This was what I’d come to London for. What I’d been working on since Mama left.
But . . .
As much as I’d sunk myself into this dream, and as much as I loved these guys, I now had the Iron Horse and Henry to do right by.
The future of so many lives, of the city itself, might depend on it.
And if I let this dream pull me away from people who needed me .
. . isn’t that what Mama had done? “It means a lot that you’d ask,” I said, “but I can’t.
I’ll sing the show if you still want me to.
And I’ll help you find a permanent singer when it’s done.
Hell, I’ll even work with him on the songs. ”
Lynn stared a moment, then smiled. “Well, I wish you’d think it over, but doing the festival is more than we deserve.”
We shook on it, and I told them I had to get going. Lynn gave me a shoulder hug. The other guys did the same. I thanked them, waved goodbye, and stepped back to the front of the stage.
For a moment, I just stared out at the vastness of Wembley Stadium. I’d get to play here in a few days, but it still felt like I was saying goodbye before I’d even been here, like Henry had got it wrong and my band days were really done, even if I got past the Shiguan and my trial.
Then Cassius was at my shoulder. “It is the philosopher’s paradox, Jack: Doing what is right stirs the deepest pain, and the deepest pain promises the most lasting joy.
” He rested a hand on my shoulder. Something about his big old mitt made me a little steadier.
“And I believe I now understand what metal is, Jack.”
“Yeah?” I said. “What’s that?”
“It is much like my war cry. It comes not from the mouth or lungs, but from the soul.”
He’d nailed it. I was giving the stadium a last look when my phone buzzed. “Hello.”
“Mr. Solomon, this is Dr. Giles Cage, Coroner’s Office.” I’d almost forgotten about the guy. “Yeah.”
“Well, it’s the most peculiar thing. Initially, I’d thought the freezing waters of the Thames had preserved Mr. Wilkinson’s body. But even amongst others of your kind who’ve crossed my tables . . . Mr. Wilkinson’s body never did exhibit any lividity or rigor mortis.”
I’d read something about it, hadn’t I? The thanatist’s body, as it awaits its soul’s return, remains uncorrupted. Then I remembered standing at Dr. Cage’s table and touching Henry’s arm—not cold or stiff.
“That’s great!” I screamed into the phone. Henry’s soul was still out there somewhere. And that meant we hadn’t lost him after all. We’d get him back, and he could lead us through this whole business with Brach and the Shiguan war threat.
“Is he still there?” I asked.
Cage hesitated a moment. “That’s why I’m calling, Mr. Solomon. His body was transferred this morning, by order, to Golders Green Crematorium.”
My chest went tight.
I hung up and dialed the crematorium. Eight rings and it went to voicemail. “Whoever gets this, please do not cremate Henry Wilkinson. Don’t do it. This is Jack Solomon, next of kin. I’m on my way.”
I took off at a dead sprint for Old Lada. Cassius raced behind me to keep up.
We rolled to a stop in a little courtyard outside Golders Green Crematorium—a long, redbrick building.
Old Lada was still coughing when I jumped out and headed for a door that read reception.
A sign in the adjacent window said out to lunch.
back at noon sharp. Beyond the window sat a moon-faced woman with mustard on her chin behind a counter, eating a sandwich.
I slammed through the door, rattling the glass window, and ran up to her.
“Henry Wilkinson,” I said, “his body was brought here this morning.” “Excuse me, but this is my lunch hour—”
“Please, you have to stop the cremation. We’ve changed our minds about it.”
The woman stared at me, her mouth open, chewed ham sandwich sitting on her tongue. “Oh, dear.”
“What, tell me, please.”
“Well, the technicians have been processing—”
A door at the back corner of the reception room read authorized personnel only. I rushed to it. Locked.
Cassius pulled me back and booted it open. I pushed through as the woman called after us to stop.
We swept down a short hall to a steel door.
It was unlocked. I pulled it open, and we rushed into a wide room with a high ceiling.
A couple of antiquated computer banks stood on the right next to three huge stainless steel furnaces framed with green panels.
Upper drawers looked like they’d house a body.
Lower drawers were small, like ash-collecting troughs.
Two men next to the computer banks whirled and stared at us. The larger of the two stepped forward. “You can’t be in here, gentlemen. Back the way you came, or I’ll call the police.”
I went straight up to him. “Henry Wilkinson. We don’t want him cremated.”
The man looked at the other guy, then back at me, his lips pursed. “Oh, mate.” He gestured toward the incinerator on the left side.
I staggered toward it. The second fellow stepped over to gently intercept me.
Staring at the large furnace felt like losing Henry all over again. But if he hadn’t returned, and hadn’t moved on yet, either, then wherever he was, he now had no body to return to.
“The instructions said to prioritize Mr. Wilkinson,” said the first man. “Who ordered that?” I asked, still staring at the furnace, listening to the low roar of fire inside.
The guy shrugged his shoulders. “Just on the sheet, mate.”
Cassius pulled me away. We walked back through the reception area and out to the car.
Around a mouthful of sandwich, the receptionist called out something about paying for the broken door.
I reached into the back seat of Old Lada and grabbed Henry’s drumstick bag, then marched back in to the woman at reception.
“Put his ashes in this. Hang it next to Keith Moon’s marker on your wall. I’ll send money for that and the door.”
When I got back outside, Cassius was waiting. “Henry’s soul persists, then.”
The idea helped me breathe a little easier.
But what did it mean? I needed to find him, help him, but where and how?
I was sitting in the driver’s seat, trying to make sense of it, when my phone buzzed again.
I thought twice about answering it—my luck was running low, and I didn’t think I could take one more bit of bad news.
I finally answered it. “Hello.”
“Jack.” It was Lakshmi. “Where are you?” “I’ll explain later, what’s up?”
“I need you to listen carefully.” She paused. “When you dismissed the wraith at Highgate Cemetery, did you see it dispossess its spirit?”
I remembered the funnel of wind and light. “I think so—like a whirlwind over the body, right?”
“Right. Now, take a moment and answer carefully: how many distinct lights did you see leave the corpse?”
I could see it as vividly as the moment it happened. “One.”
There was another long pause. “That’s what I thought. Jack, you need to get back to the Iron Horse now. There’s a second wraith.”