Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

21. Roger

Terry nods, looking genuinely knackered. He's usually an even-keeled bloke who isn't fazed by anything; however, he signed up for a regular tour full of regular problems, not this fucking tour teeming with riots and police constables and infectious diseases.

"Yeah, he should be okay. The doctor said he'll be stuck in bed for a few months--"

"A few months?" Freddie asks incredulously. We look at each other alarmed; Brian is going to lose his fucking mind if he's bed-bound for that long.

"Look, lads, the good news is that Brian will be okay. It'll be a long recovery, but he'll be alright. The bad news is that they're pulling you from the tour. That is, unless..." Terry pauses and looks down at the ground for a moment before blurting out the next bit as quickly as possible. "Unlessyouwanttofindadifferentguitarplayer."

"Shut your fucking mouth, Terry." Freddie narrow his eyes, affronted at the suggestion.

"Why would you even say that out loud?" I ask indignantly.

"Hey, hey," Terry holds up his hands in supplication. "I'm just repeating the options that the bigwigs gave me. I've already told them there's no way in hell it'll happen."

"Does he have to stay here in New York?" Deaky finally jumps in the conversation, and it occurs to me that perhaps Bri is stuck in America for the foreseeable future. What rotten luck: first, Jenny dumps him on the eve of our big tour, and then he gets a freak illness. Before Terry can answer, a weak voice from a few rooms down drifts down the corridor.

"A month?"

Apparently, Brian is finally awake. We look at each other for an instant before we spring into action, running into his room. He's sitting up in bed, looking pale and overwhelmed. The doctor is speaking calmly but, as we enter, Brian turns his defeated eyes to us.

"Guys?"

His voice is more like a croak, and it breaks my heart. He looks so dejected as if he's really let us down. The doctor murmurs something else before he writes a note on his pad and walks out. We stand in silence for a few minutes, each of us unsure of what to say. Finally, I break the silence in the only way I know how.

"Well, I for one don't fancy America at all," I say defiantly. "This country has no soul. None at all. The less time spent here, the better."

"Fuck the Yanks," Freddie declares with a devilish grin.

"Yeah, I miss Veronica," Deaky adds. Our heads swivel in unison to look at him, and I raise one eyebrow. His cheeks color slightly, and he rolls his eyes.

"What? I do. Fine, fuck the USA, whatever. Let's go home."

A small frown plays on Brian's lips as he looks down at the IV in his arm, and then back at us.

"You could always find a replace--"

"Shut your mouth, Bri," Freddie says gently. "We're going home."

**

Over the next 24 hours, plane tickets are procured, a new opening band is hired, and we're all hastily inoculated. Brian is given clearance to return to the UK, provided that he goes to the hospital immediately upon landing.

The flight home is interminable. Brian is passed out between me and Fred, his skin still vaguely yellow. The other three of us sit in silence, wondering what this will mean for Queen. We're finally getting real traction, and the new album is climbing in both the UK and US charts. How do we just disappear for a few months? And how do we record a new album without a guitar player?