Finding Abbey Road (13 page)

“Hello, everyone,” Susan says into Caleb's mic. “The Poor Skeletons are held up on the Tube, but they should be here in time. Meanwhile, we've had a stroke of luck. A band from the States just so happened to be visiting our shop today, and are willing to help me do a proper soundcheck. So please give a warm Berwick Street welcome to Dangerheart, from Los Angeles!”

The crowd applauds politely, and eyes us curiously. My immediate urge is to read this look as skepticism, like they're waiting for us to fail. But I know that's just my nerves. I have to remember that when I've been in crowds for unexpected moments like this, I'm actually hopeful. For all our snarkiness and cynicism, we want to be impressed, want to discover something new, want to say we were there when
that thing
happened. And to be the ones who saw it first.

“Hey,” Caleb says in the mic. “We're really glad to be here. This is . . . unexpected. At the risk of breaking unspoken rules, we're going to play the only song that we've really worked on as an acoustic trio. It's one of yours. So . . . be gentle with us.”

This gets a laugh.

Caleb checks with Val, checks with me. We nod . . . and he starts the guitar riff.

It only takes a few notes before there is a murmur of recognition in the crowd. Most people's faces break into controlled smiles. There are also a few who cross their arms in “we'll see” formation.

Val lays into the strumming part. She nods to me and I gulp and start to pound the bass drum, my foot flexing on the pedal, stomping steadily and trying not to show how desperately I am counting along, trying to make sure that I stay in time. I watch Val's and Caleb's heads bob, their feet tap.

“Is this okay?” Caleb asks the crowd with a smile. It's the perfect endearing move, because here we are playing a song by the Beatles, in a London record store.

As Caleb and Val start to sing, the pulse of the bass drum becomes my everything. I am living beat to beat. I can barely hear Caleb and Val singing, partially because there is no monitor back here for me, but also because I am rooted to my part, to staying on top of it. I can barely look out at the crowd or I'll lose my focus, barely wonder all the normal things I'd be wondering about, how we sound and how we look and how the crowd is responding because any rival thought threatens the tenuous connection between my brain and my foot.

By now, many in the crowd are singing along. This is the kind of song that if you're going to play it, you have to nail it, and luckily, Caleb and Val have those complementary voices.

We're on our way home

We're going home . . .

They glance at each other as they sing, cracking into smiles. In my quick looks out into the crowd, I see their smiles returned, people nodding and bouncing along. A few in the arms-crossed set have already turned to their friends, saying something that elicits an affirming head nod.

A couple of them are still frowning.

But whatever! I can hear the gentle pitch of those singing along, feel the feet in the audience that are tapping along to my pulse.

It seems as if the song is over in seconds. The crowd applauds huge. We've won most of them over. I catch Susan's eye off to the side of the stage, and she nods, tears in her eyes.

“Play one of yours!” someone in the crowd calls. A guy near the front in a scarf and short-brimmed felt hat.

Caleb and Val share a glance. I move around from behind the drum. “You guys should do another one.”

“You nailed the bass drum,” says Val. “Don't you want to keep going?”

“Nah,” I say, “I'm good.” Actually that's such a lie. I want to be back here lost in the music forever. I have never known what it felt like to have a part in the music, to be on this side of the stage, behind the main speakers, just you and the thump from the amps beneath your feet.

But still . . . “That's enough rock stardom for this girl,” I say.

I drop down to the side, standing with Susan by the little soundboard.

“Okay, we'll do a quick one,” says Caleb. “This is called ‘Starlight.'”

They play and I take photos from the side. An angle where Caleb and Val are in profile, and expectant faces look up at them, all with a halo of light through the store window, where more silhouettes watch. With each beat, each measure, I see the crowd nodding as they get to know the song, smiles breaking out here and there as it permeates their thoughts and sinks into their skin. It kills me that we don't have postcards or buttons or anything to give them, but then I tell myself,
Stop thinking! Just be here
. This moment feels meant to be, even better for its lack of planning.

Also, from this angle, I am reminded of what Susan said, because I can see the similar angle of Caleb's and Val's cheekbones. See the way their noses are alike.

When the song is over, the applause is even bigger.

“Thanks, you guys,” says Caleb. “Stick around for the Poor Skeletons.” He and Val unplug and step down as the crowd mills and murmurs. A few people shake their hands, compliment them as they make their way over to Susan and me. They are all smiles, breathless. I am, too, until my gaze wanders over their shoulders, and I spy a face at the back of the crowd.

It takes all my strength to keep my cool when I see Kellen standing by the door. His eyes meet mine and he nods, as if to say,
Yup, here I am.
I just stare, expressionless, and then look away slowly, and try not to seem rattled. Maybe it looks like I don't even recognize him.

I doubt it.

I turn toward the stage, and then Caleb arrives beside me, and we kiss, and when I check across the crowd again . . .

Kellen is already gone.

“Great job,” Caleb is saying.

“Thanks,” I barely get out, but I'm saved from having to speak further when the guy in the short-brimmed hat joins us.

“Guys, that was smashing.” I see now that he has a guitar case in his hand. “I'm Dale from the Poor Skeletons. Really excellent stuff!”

“Thanks,” says Caleb as they shake.

“How long are you in town for?” Dale asks.

“Just until Friday,” says Caleb.

“Well, perfect. You guys should come to our show tonight at Bush Hall. We'll put you on the list. It should be a great night.”

Caleb looks at me. I'm thinking we shouldn't be out late with our meeting tomorrow, but also that we are here and this is now and we should do all the things. I nod.

“Sounds really great,” says Caleb.

“Definitely,” Val agrees.

The crowd packs in around us, and we meet Jandy and Colin, the other members of the Poor Skeletons. They take the stage to huge, fervent applause. Their set is warm and nuanced, with the kind of easy songs that you find yourself singing along to by the end of each one.

I like them, but even so, my eyes keep drifting toward the door.

“What is it?” Caleb asks me at one point, when a song has ended and I'm virtually the only one who hasn't started clapping.

“Kellen,” I say in his ear. “I saw him, watching us.” Caleb looks around. “He left,” I say. “But he definitely knows we're here and is watching every move we make. We're going to have to be twice as careful.”

6:55 p.m.

We linger at Renegade after the Poor Skeletons' set, afraid to head back out on the streets, where Kellen might be lurking. Eventually, we can't avoid it, and we have business to get done: tea (I have to resist saying
Earl Grey, hot
), fish and chips, and then the computers back at the hostel, where we can do some much needed research.

I want to chat more with Susan before we go, but she's swamped with sales, with keeping the crowd orderly as the Poor Skeletons sign records. Just before we leave, I have
a thought and scribble it down on one of the Post-its she's using for signees' names.

“For later,” I say.

Susan glances at the Post-it, then at me. And nods. “Sounds like a plan.”

Actually getting out of there takes an extra minute because Val has targeted the Poor Skeletons' kick-drum-playing, tambourine-shaking percussionist who has an adorable mustache and impressive green eyes.

“Come on, killer,” I say in her ear, tugging her away.

“No, please do stay?” she whispers in my ear. “He's Scottish. I'm done for.”

“You'll just be cooler if you can leave now, then show up at his show later.”

Val sees this wisdom in this.

We find tea and a chip shop, and then head for the hostel, where we wait until both computers are free.

“Okay, where to meet Eli,” I say. “Let's start with the Copenhagen show.”

“You don't think he really wants us to go to Denmark to find him by one o'clock tomorrow,” says Val.

“He is running for his life, or his death, or whatever,” says Caleb. “But no, it can't be that.”

We read stories about the Pink Floyd show in question, but they don't lead to much.

“I'm looking at a discography,” says Caleb. “‘One in a Million' is sometimes called ‘Rush in a Million.' Either way,
it doesn't even appear on any of their major albums. It looks like they only ever played that song live.”

“And we still don't think he means Buckingham Palace?” says Val. “Or maybe it's, like, where Princess Diana died?”

“Diana wasn't a queen, and she died in Paris,” I say. “I don't know. Her Majesty . . . Why does that phrase still seem familiar to me?”

“Because it's a Beatles song,” says Val, clicking.

“Ah, that's it,” I say, remembering the letter that Eli left for us in Denver.

Val points at her screen. “Last track on
Abbey Road
.”

“What does he mean by set free?” Caleb wonders. “Does she die in the song, or something?”

“Here are the lyrics . . . ,” I say, clicking. “No, there aren't any references to dying or setting free, or to any places at all.”

“It was cut, though, from the medley on side two of
Abbey Road
,” says Val. “It was actually the world's first hidden track. So it was technically set free on that album.”

“Are we supposed to find a copy of
Abbey Road
?” I wonder. “Makes sense with Eli's song title. Is there something in the two songs around it?”

“Maybe it has something to do with this ‘where she made her first million' line.”

“There's another song on this Pink Floyd list,” says Caleb, scrolling. “It's called ‘She's a Millionaire.' Also from
1967. It's also called ‘She Was a Millionaire.'”

I do my own search for that. “Wait. Guys . . .”

There it is.

“Where Her Majesty was set free,”
I say. “
Where She made her first Million . . .
he means as in . . . first recorded. Pink Floyd recorded ‘She's a Millionaire' in 1967 at Abbey Road Studios. Literally right down the hall from the Beatles.”

“That's it!” says Caleb.

“Here's more: Pink Floyd recorded ‘She's a Millionaire' while they were making their album called
The Piper at the Gates of Dawn
. Eli said
just like the Piper
. Okay. This has to be it.”

“Abbey Road Studios,” says Val. “So, what? Do we just show up there tomorrow at one?”

“I'm checking . . .” I load up the Abbey Road website. “It looks like the studio is still operating. I don't see anything here about tours . . . I guess we just go there and talk to the people at the entrance or whatever? Or maybe he'll just be waiting outside.”

Caleb nods. “Unless he wrote this message before he realized Kellen was in town.”

“This feels right,” says Val, rubbing his shoulder. “I think this is it.”

Caleb nods again. “It just better not be another dead end. Can we just fast-forward to tomorrow?”

“I wish,” I say. “At least we have the show to go to. Let's clear these search histories.”

7:18 p.m.

We retreat to a couch in the common area, rather than going up to the dorm rooms. We all feel the best we have in days, and maybe that's why we crash so hard. Even I can't resist slipping into a brief nap. I wake up regretting it, though, feeling more fuzzy than before.

“We should probably rally if we're going to get to Bush Hall,” says Caleb.

After another tea, I start to feel refreshed, and . . .

It's time to tell Caleb and Val that I have something else planned for the evening. Something small, but important.

“I wish you were coming,” Caleb says as he and Val head down the steps.

“I'll definitely be there by ten,” I say. “And if you're not there, I'll meet you back here.”

“Oh, we'll still be there. We have a night on the town in London!” Val nearly shouts, bouncing on her toes.

“Okay. I'll miss you,” Caleb says, blowing me a kiss.

“Yuck already,” says Val.

“Watch out for Kellen,” I say.

When they are gone, I sit on the front steps of the hostel, enjoying the fading evening light, the travelers arriving and departing around me.

Finally, my finger trembling, I slide off airplane mode.

I suppose I know why I'm finally checking. Given what I'm about to do, it makes sense.

My phone welcomes me “abroad!” with a message explaining about calling rates and such. And then texts begin to buzz in.

From late Monday:

Randy: Guys, are you all right? Everybody's worried sick. I know you want to find that third song but . . . well, I guess you've already gone so just be careful. Let me know what's going on.

Dad: Please let us know where you are and that you are safe.

From yesterday afternoon:

(424) 828-3710: You need to know that Kellen is on his way to London. I don't know how he found out about Eli. He doesn't know that I know. But he knows that you do. Watch out for him. And if he finds out about my connection, this will all be finished.