Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

Prologue

London, December 1991

Over the past twenty years, there have been many, many interviews that I didn't fancy doing. But, out of all those interviews, this is the one that I dread the most. 

My head's pounding, my brain thick as sludge. The last thing that I want to do is go on national television and try to look as if my life hasn't been torn into pieces both personally and professionally.

"I don't want to do this," Brian mutters from the chair next to me. I haven't seen him since the funeral, but he looks as terrible as I do.

"I tried to ring you yesterday," he continues, waving off the hair stylist who approaches him with an enormous container of hair spray. "I think your phone's on the blink."

The woman approaches me and I similarly wave her off. "Thanks, love, but could you give us the room?"

She retreats and I turn to my bandmate.

"I couldn't bloody take it anymore. The phone's been ringing off the hook all week, and I just... well, I tore it out of the wall."

"Is that easy to do?" Brian asks, interested. I shake my head and show him my hand, which is still slightly red from where I wrapped the cord round it to get leverage over the offending item. 

"I don't recommend it, no."

Brian doesn't respond, doesn't rail against the paps, doesn't do anything because, like me, he's too fucked up to offer anything to anyone right now.

"They made him miserable for so long," I finally say, my voice rising in repressed anger. "They're fucking insufferable, and they turned into him a fucking prisoner in his own home, and I was ten minutes too late, and now--"

A producer pops his head into the tiny room. "Mr. May, Mr. Taylor," he calls over, his eyes flicking between us from the doorway. "You're on in five."

I stare in the mirror, barely recognizing myself. It's as if I've aged five years, as if the weight of the world is sitting squarely on my shoulders. Freddie's dead, and he's never coming back. Queen is over and never coming back. Dominique is gone, and she's never coming back. My whole fucking life is shattered, and I'm starting to wonder if my soul is too.

"They're ready for you," the producer says, ushering us out of the room and down a short corridor towards the brightly lit set. We stand at the edges, squinting under the harsh lights.

"He'd hate this," Brian mutters under his breath.

"That we're here, you mean?"

"All of this," he replies. "The whole fucking circus. He'd hate all of it."

From across the room, the producer motions us in. Pausing just outside the set, I stretch my shoulders and stand a bit straighter, trying to muster some semblance of Roger Taylor, drummer of Queen.

"You ready?"

Beside me, Brian is also attempting to collect himself. He tilts his head from side to side as if trying to shake off his sorrow.

"Ready as I'll ever be," I mumble as I follow him on set. We sit awkwardly on a sofa across from the interviewer, and I immediately reach for a glass of water.

"Good morning, fellows," the fellow says politely. "We can't thank you enough for coming on today, especially given how--"

"Erm, sorry-- sorry, Phil-- we're going live in-- well, right now, as it were." The cameraman interrupts to count down, ending with a dramatic thumbs up to indicate that all of Britain can see us.

"Welcome back," the tv personality says warmly, looking at the camera. "Well, as you know, last week saw the death of one of the most flamboyant and most popular figures in rock music..."

Flamboyant. How I hate that word. Brian shifts uncomfortably on the sofa next to me, and I wonder if he's thinking the same thing.

"Joining us now in the studio are guitarist Brian May and drummer Roger Taylor. Let's start off with a few questions:  How long did Freddie know that he was suffering from AIDS?"

The question was inevitable, and we knew it was coming, but bloody hell.

Brian glances quickly at me. It's less than a second, but we've spent half our lives silently communicating on stage, so there's no mistaking it. We wordlessly trade the same thought just before muscle memory--and decades of media training--kicks in.

Let's just get this fucking done.