Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

34.

January 1993

The car door shuts behind me with a muted thump. I look up at the light grey sky, and several snowflakes land on my eyelashes. I blink furiously until they melt, wiping a gloved hand over my face and pulling my woolen hat further down.

"Do you want the good news or the bad news first?" Deaky asks as he makes his way over to me, snow crunching under his boots.

"Do you even have to ask?"

Deaky considers this, perhaps trying to decide if, after all these years, I'm more of a glass-half-empty or glass-half-full sort of bloke.

"The good news is that the photographers can't see us over here because of the snowstorm. The bad news is that they're still here, and we have to get past them."

I squint over at the entrance to the hospital, where photographers are huddled together over cigarettes and cups of tea, shivering. Obviously, they lack both self-respect and a sense of self-preservation because they may actually get frostbite whilst waiting for me to show up.

Well, at least there are fewer of them than last time, the fuckers. I look up at the snow whirling in the sky once more as I consider my next move. Next to me, John rubs his hands together and pulls his coat closer. It's bloody freezing out, but he's the sort of fellow who will stand here forever until I'm ready.

"Rog?" he says finally. "You ready?"

No, I'm not ready because I'm too busy staring at the sky and trying to shake this terrible feeling that Cassie hasn't really woken up. It's all a dream or someone high above is having a laugh. And, if that's the case, I'm not sure how much more I can take. Miami keeps going on about how I'm a fighter, but what if I'm not? What if I'm weakling dressed in a drummer's clothing?

"Should we go in?" he asks after a few minutes.

"Yeah." No.

"Right, then," he says with grim cheerfulness as if we're heading towards a firing squad, but at least we're in it together. He begins to walk forward purposefully, his eyes on the prize.

But I hang back, unable to force my feet forward. Not only do I have zero desire to walk through the clump of arseholes, but this feels like a big moment. And, right now, my brain isn't capable of processing big moments.

John walks a few paces forward before he turns to look back.

"Rog?"

His voice is nearly lost in the howling wind, and I can barely see him even though he's no more than a meter away.  I gaze up at the sky again, unable to look anywhere else.

Oh, just fucking get on with it. Freddie's voice echoes through the air. Startled, I look to my right and then my left, confident that he's actually made an appearance this time.

"Did you hear that?" I call over to John, who furrows his brow and, after a moment, walks towards me.

"Hear what?"

"Fred."

John comes to a halt in front of me and runs a hand over his face. "Fred?"

"Yeah. He just said--"

Rog, Freddie says, his voice softer and less sardonic this time. Just get on with it. One foot in front of the other.

"Will you be there with me?" I ask out loud and, if you gave me all the money in the world, I wouldn't be able to tell you which bandmate I'm asking: the one here in front of me or the one who's been haunting my thoughts for the past two years.