Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

33.

January 1993

The next thirty-six hours are the worst of my life. I careen between stone-cold sober and completely pissed, my only goal to be cognizant enough to answer the phone when Tim calls from the hospital. So much press surrounds Cass' flat that I'm forced back to my place so my people can keep me safe, or at least keep the fuckers from breaking her windows to get a photograph. I feel myself teetering on the edge of an abyss, and I've no bloody idea what I'll do if this doesn't turn out right.

And then a snowstorm rolls into town.

Technically, two of 'em. The first storm started the previous day in Wales and joined forces with another in the Midlands. Together, they continued their trek southeast to London, where they dumped half a meter of snow on the ground in just a few hours. According to radio, we haven't had a storm like this since '63, and the city is predictably ill-equipped to handle it.

So imagine my surprise when security calls from the gate saying that I have a visitor. My initial instinct is to turn them away, but my curiosity is piqued. Who in their right mind would trek all this way in this weather?

I open the front door and squint at the driveway, my eyes stinging from the wind and the ice and the prodigious amount of crying I've done. A familiar blue car pulls up, and Deaky steps out of the backseat, bending his head low as he hurries over to the house.  I don't know the last time I saw him use a driver, but, to be fair, I also don't know the last time that I saw him drive in the snow.

He approaches the house, head still down to ward off the cold. I motion him past me and shut the door carefully behind me.

"Hey," I say as if this visit was planned well in advance.

"Fucking hell, it's freezing," he exclaims from just inside the foyer as he brushes snow off his coat and begins to unwrap his scarf. He looks thinner than when I last saw him, dark circles under his eyes. I can't say I'm surprised since I've heard that things aren't going well at home. I thought it was more a question of his marriage, but now that he's here, I'm wondering if he, like me, is just struggling to cope.

John lays his coats and boots carefully on a bench next to the door and looks around curiously. The Zombies' 'A Rose for Emily' blares from the other room, the music echoing through the half-empty house. The bassist furrows his brow briefly before looking over at me.

"This is literally the worst song for you to be listening to right now."

"Don't show up to my house and judge me," I mumble, but yeah, I've reached a low point, and I've been playing this one song repeatedly for hours. I'm also not entirely sober, but I imagine that's expected given the circumstances.

"You know there are some photographers camped out in the woods near your property line?" he asks. "They're badly camouflaged and covered in snow."

"I hope they die of hypothermia."

The song ends and, after a brief pause, restarts. John looks over towards the source of the noise and then back to me, exhaling deeply as if he's just truly realized the depths of hell that I'm in.

"Right," he says. "Well, first thing's first. Enough of this bloody song."

He strides into my living room and walks over to the stereo, which is one of the only things left in the room since I've started emptying the house to sell. He ejects the cassette and peers down at it. Then he looks up at me, his eyes full of worry.

"You look like shit, mate."

I run a hand through my unwashed hair and look down at my Adidas sweatsuit, which was very en vogue in the mid-'80s, thank you very much. Then I look back at John, who is all rumpled and sad-looking himself.