Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

32.

January 1993

I'm not the sort of bloke who enjoys hugs from people who aren't either my offspring or my significant other. None of us in the band are, probably because we spent the early years being groped by random fans. My body, my self, you know?

Miami knows this, and I can see the indecision on his face as I walk across the tarmac towards him. He's leaning against a black Mercedes 500E, looking unflappable as always. Despite being only a few years older, he's become somewhat of a father figure to me. Well, that is if my dad were on my payroll and knew where all the proverbial bodies were buried.

"So," he says as he straightens and walks to meet me halfway. "I know you're not the hugging type, but-- sod it, I'm doing it anyway."

With that, he envelops me in an embrace that, until this moment, I didn't realize how badly I needed. "Goddamn it," I mutter. We stand there for a few moments, me clutching his jacket and him patting me semi-awkwardly on the back. Then, just as quickly, we step apart from each other with an unspoken pact that we shall never again speak of that weepy moment.

"Right," he says, all business again. "Let's get you to the hospital. It's a mess there, so I brought security."

"Where's Tim?" I ask, climbing into the car. As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I remember my phone conversation a few hours ago. Rog, I'm so sorry-- Christ, I'm-- I'm gutted. I don't know how she managed to get away from me. I'd finally taken pity on the poor bugger and reassured him that Olivia is as cheeky as they come, and she's slipped away from me plenty of times.

We manage to make it out of the airport undetected and merge onto the motorway. It's a 40-minute drive to the hospital, during which no one says anything. Silent as a tomb, I think, kicking myself for my gallows humor. There's still no official update on Cassie, but I'm still clinging to the fact that I'd just know if she were no longer here.

The entrance to the hospital is mobbed, even though it's past midnight. At least 40 reporters and photographers are camped on Fulham Road, a cloud of cigarette smoke and assholery rising above them as they wait.

"Is there a back entrance?" Miami calls up to the driver, who turns towards us and shakes his head no.

"It's even worse back there," he replies. "These fuckers have the hospital under siege."

We park down the street and sit in silence for a moment. Even from here, I can hear the commotion from the entrance. Bloody hell, it will be absolute mayhem the moment they see me.

"You good?" Miami asks. No, I'm not fucking good, I think tetchily. Glancing down at my fidgeting hands, I register that I'm no longer wearing my stage clothes. I've no memory of changing, but here I am in the jeans and sweatshirt that I'd packed early this morning when I thought I'd be rushing home to jump in bed with Cassie.

"Rog?"

"Hmm?" I look up, still slightly fucked up from the sedative. "What? Oh, yeah, yeah, I'm alright."

"Do you want James to go in first to get a lay of the land?" he asks, nodding towards the security guy who, I suppose, is called James.

I consider it for a moment, then shake my head because what's the point of delaying the inevitable?

"No, I'm good."

All four car doors open simultaneously as we step out into the cold night air. I look up at the six-story building and wonder in which of the brightly lit windows Cassie is. Is she okay? Is she awake? Does she know why I'm not there? Is she even fucking alive?