"Cancelled?" Freddie's voice echoes through the nearly deserted waiting room.
It's 4am, and we're in a dingy A&E in lower Manhattan. I'm slouched miserably in a hard plastic chair, one that was designed to discourage people from lingering too long. Sunglasses hide my bloodshot eyes, and I really wish that I could have showered after the gig.
"What do you mean, cancelled?" Freddie is in deep conversation with our tour manager, who looks as if he may quit at any moment. If you ask me, Freddie is speaking a little too loudly, considering we're at a hospital.
Taking a deep breath, I nudge John, who is slumped against my shoulder fast asleep.
"Deaky," I hiss. "Wake up."
"Hmm?" he mumbles, turning so that his back is facing me. I genuinely admire his ability to sleep anywhere, no matter how uncomfortable the location or how dire the circumstances. It's a skill that I hope to master one day soon.
"Wake up," I repeat.
"Is there an update on Brian?" he mumbles, curling even further into a little ball.
"They're canceling the rest of the tour." I don't mince words as I watch Freddie gesture wildly as if indignant that there's a situation that even he can't control.
"What?" John sits up straight, his eyes pried wide open as he visibly attempts to clear his sleep-addled brain. "Cancelling? The tour?"
"Deaks," I say in a low voice. "I really do think that we're cursed."
**
Our tour of America didn't start out this way. We'd been living large since arriving here, and we fucking adore this country. The motorways are endless, the skyscrapers are colossal, and the concert-goers are in love with us. Don't even get me started on the size of the hamburgers.
And New York, man, what a place. I fancy myself an urbane sort of fellow, but this city takes everything to a different level. There's a restlessness in the air as if its inhabitants are continuously on the hunt for something bigger and better. Just walking down the street is exhilarating.
In fact, the whole tour was going along swimmingly until Brian collapsed. One moment, we were in the middle of our usual postmortem of the gig. The next moment, our guitarist was out cold on the dressing room floor.
He'd been complaining of feeling unwell ever since the show in Louisiana, and, in retrospect, he had indeed been steadily turning a shade of light yellow. John had even made a joke about jaundice the day before, wondering if Brian should eat some meat or something. But, fuck. I've never been so scared in my life as when I watched him collapse onto the ground, unresponsive to any of us.
"Rog?"
Deaky nods towards Freddie and Terry, who are speaking with a solemn-looking doctor. We hurriedly jump up to join them. Freddie sees us coming and gives us an exasperated eye-roll. From the outside, it may look like he's pissed off about whatever is happening with the tour, but I know that he's devastated about Brian.
"Hey," Terry says as we approach. The doctor nods at us and strides down the corridor purposefully.
"What did the doctor say?"
"Brian has a nasty case of hepatitis," Terry says. "The doctor thinks it's because of the inoculation he got before we left for Australia, the one that fucked up his arm."
That bloody trip to Australia, I rage to myself. Will the fallout ever end? Apparently not.
"Hepatitis? Will he be okay?" John speaks up, running a hand through his hair worriedly.
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?
As we walk off the airplane and towards immigration, it suddenly occurs to me that Brian is a sweaty, weak, yellow mess. There's no way they'll let him through. No one will be waving the Union Jack shouting "Welcome to the United Kingdom, mate! Come on in!"
Apparently, Terry has already thought of this, and there's a plan. An official meets us halfway to immigration and hustles us through, taking charge of getting Brian into a taxi. Terry jumps in with him, leaving Freddie, John, and me standing on the pavement outside of the terminal.
"Well..." I say looking around. It's cold and rainy; in other words, a typical London day. "This wasn't exactly what I was expecting our return to look like."
There's general grumbling about how the next tour will be even bigger and better, how this will give us more time for our album. But it's clear that we're all massively disappointed.
"Well, I'm off to see Ronnie," John says as he adjusts the heavy bag on his shoulder. "Anyone want to share a taxi?"
Before the sentence is out of Deaky's mouth, Freddie is already eagerly flagging down a cab. He refuses to take public transportation, even if it's all he can afford.
"You're a proper mooch, Fred," I say with a laugh as my two bandmates pile their luggage into the boot.
"You coming, Rog?"
"Nah, go on without me," I respond. Truthfully, I want to process this all on my own. The taxi doors shuts and, with a final wave, they zoom off into the grey distance.
With a defeated groan, I trudge over to the telephone box by the terminal exit. During the chaos of the past 24 hours, I'd neglected to ring Skylar to tell her that we were coming home. Rummaging through my pockets, I come up with a handful of American coins. Looking around, I spot a cute redhead waiting for a taxi. I saunter over and, within a few moments, manage to charm 10p out of her.
I carefully insert the coin into the slot and dial Skylar's number. A familiar voice answers.
"Jenny, hey. It's Roger... Taylor." Bloody hell, her roommate always manages to make me feel as if Skylar has a flock of other Rogers phoning her. "Is Skylar home?"
Even just saying her name, I feel a little less miserable. All I want is to see her. Unfortunately, I'll have to wait a few more hours for that to happen, as she's apparently at work until early evening. Well, perhaps it's for the best since I look like a vagrant at the moment. My hair is a ratty mess, and I can see huge bags under my eyes in the reflection in the telephone box.
Hanging up the phone, I make my way to the bus stop and sit dejectedly on the metal bench. This is bollocks. I'd imagined a triumphant arrival six weeks in the future. Not a medical evacuation and a tour cut in half. And poor Brian. He'd been beside himself, worried that we'd replace him once we were back. Obviously, we'd assured him that it wouldn't happen, but I know he'll stress about it.
I take a deep breath in, exhaling slowly. It's fine. Everything will be alright. We'll take a few weeks off, and head back to the studio. I've had some lyrics running through my head for weeks; now I'll have the opportunity to pick up a guitar and actually write the damn song.
But, first thing's first. I want to see my girl.
**
Six hours later, I'm seated inside a cafe across from the hospital staff entrance. I'm showered, shaven, and rejuvenated after four hours of sleep. I watch intently as doctors and nurses leave, but, so far, no Skylar.
Finally, 20 minutes past her usual end time, she slips out of the door. My eyes brighten as I watch her wave to a colleague, and I realize how much I've missed her. The tour was so chaotic and busy that it was easy to shove down those feelings, but now... now I can't believe that it's been a month since I've seen her.
She looks to the left before crossing the street. Shivering in the cool breeze, she hunches into her long sweater, pulling the sleeves down over her hands. I throw money down on the table and stand, running a hand through my hair. Making my way towards the door, I wonder what her reaction will be that I'm back. Maybe it'll be like a film where we run towards each other in slow motion, falling into each others' arms. Although, knowing us, it's more likely that we'll hurry back to her flat and fall into bed.
The bell on the door of the cafe dings cheerfully as I leave. I'm about to call out to her when she stops in her tracks and slowly turns around. My eyes swivel to see a tall blonde fellow, one of those toffs whom Fred and I regularly mocked when they came to our stall at the market.
Skylar walks over slowly and stands across from the man, her back to me. He's several centimeters taller than me, and I hate how she gazes up at him. Don't even get me started on the way that he's looking at her, his eyes tender, his mouth set in an aggressive pout. Who is this guy?
Skylar keeps her distance and, eventually, shakes her head no. He responds and takes a step closer. She immediately steps back, but he reaches a hand out to stop her retreat. My chest tightens, and I start to cross the street towards them.
"Skylar?" My voice rings out over the din of the busy street, and she looks over, surprised.
Before she can register what's going on, this fucking arsehole reaches out put his goddamn hands on her face, forcing her to look at him. She says something, angrily showing him off of her.
"Skylar!" I call out, but a passing truck muffles my attempts to get her attention. I'm moving as quickly as I can, the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Before I can get there, he moves even closer. This time, she doesn't move away but shouts something at him. His eyes narrow and he reaches out to shove both her shoulders, forcing her backwards. Her foot hits a crack in the pavement, and she tumbles down, her bag hitting the ground with a thud.
As I watch her head connect with the ground, all I can think is my God, I'm going to fucking kill this guy.