Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

25.

December 1992

Insomnia is a bitch.

I don't remember the last time that I slept through the night, but I imagine it was back when everyone in Britain didn't know about my love life. Sure, I know that this is all a flash in the pan, that the press will find a new and better story, but it feels a bit like my life is slowly falling apart.

After several hours of tossing and turning in the dark, I finally give up and pad downstairs. I fix myself a cup of tea and turn on the radio, filling the kitchen with the strains of Little Saint Nick. It's just past 6 and still dark outside. I feel as if I'm the only person awake in the world.

For the past few months, it's at quiet moments like this when sometimes I can hear Jack in my head. Of course, it's not really him. But his voice sounds just like I remember it, and sometimes I let myself believe that he's really there, that I'm not just talking to myself.

"It's Christmas, Jack." My words reverberate through the kitchen as if he might actually hear me. But all I hear is Brian Wilson's run run reindeer, run run reindeeeeeeer.

I'm about to put on the kettle when I hear him.

Is it? We don't do that sort of thing up here.

Oh... well, what do you do up there?

If I told you, I'd have to kill you. Sorry, gallows humor. That's what we do up here: gallows humor.

Jack, I have to ask-- I can't stop thinking about this: will you ever forgive me for forgetting the Christmas pudding that day?

Are you still worried about that, Cassie? Because I'm not. Anyway, everything is predetermined from the moment we're born. If you hadn't forgotten the pudding, then mum would have forgotten the sprouts, and I would have gone out anyway. And the driver would have had the same number of pints at the pub, and he would have smashed me up no matter what.

You're just saying that to make me feel better.

Does it make you feel better to know that, try as we might, everything is written in the stars?

Well, when you put it like that... But I don't believe you. It's not all predetermined. It can't be.

Considering where you live and where I live, which of us is more equipped to have that specific knowledge?

God, Jack, I miss you. Is that really you?

There's no reply, of course, because this is just my inner monologue, just a conversation that I would move heaven and Earth to actually have with my brother.

Then, just like that, I hear my name being called in the distance. It sounds unmistakably like Roger, but that's crazy because he's at home asleep. God, this insomnia and these phantom voices. First my brother, then my boyfriend--is Freddie Mercury going to make an appearance next?

"Cassie!"

This time it's unmistakable, and I think it's real? I hurry over to the window facing the small garden and peer out into the darkness. I think I may actually be going mad.

But then, that voice again. "Cass! Open up. It's brass monkeys out here."

It's definitely Roger, but nothing beyond that fact makes sense. I squint to the left and then to the right, finally spotting Roger's silhouette in my neighbor's garden. He's bundled up against the cold, a thick wool hat covering his head.

The neighbor's dog barks and, a moment later, a light goes on in their second floor. My eyes widen, and I hurry to open the window, but it's stuck. Another light turns on, the dog barks again. A light sheen of sweat appears on my forehead as I grapple with the window. Finally, it opens a crack, and cold air rushes in.