Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

37.

May 1993

"Rog!" John calls over from the soundboard where he's flipping through The Sun. "You're a clue in today's crossword puzzle."

Brian looks up with interest from his perch just inside the studio as he fiddles with one of the mics. He and John don't have an official purpose here; they're just lending me very pricey moral support as I slog through what may end up being a solo album.

Maybe. Probably. Well, we'll see.

"What's the clue?" Brian asks, running a hand through his mass of hair. "Wait, no, let me guess...."

"Has-been drummer turned old man?" I offer from my spot behind the kit. There's a grin on my face but, no, really. Stretching out my back for the millionth time today, I wonder if all 40-somethings feel this bloody ancient or if it's just me.

"Former playboy turned current recluse?" Brian counters as he squints in frustration at the mic.

"You're gonna break it," I call over to him. "There are people actually, y'know, trained--it's their expertise--who can--"

"'Drummer and lyricist who penned 1984 hit 'Radio Gaga,''" John announces from across the room. "Except they've fucked up, and there's no "o" in Taylor when I put it in the puzzle."

"Well, that's The Sun for you," I reply. "Can't even get the crossword right. Though I will say that I quite like being referred to as a lyricist. Has a nice ring to it."

Across from me, Brian rolls his eyes. "If you love it so much, Rog, maybe you could, oh, I dunno, finally reveal the lyrics to all your new songs. Mate, it's not normal to write the instrumentals first. It just goes against nature."

"We've always done the click tracks first, you git."

Back and forth we go, bantering with the easy confidence of three people who have done this for decades. Oh, sure, we've had plenty of rows in the studio, but most of the time, it was like this. And yeah, maybe I haven't quite managed to finish all the lyrics to the songs, but let's not kid ourselves that we're here with the sole purpose of recording my album. This was the band's Hail Mary to save me from myself and, well, my bandmates don't have a lot going on right now.

"Seriously, Brian, leave the mic alone," I call over. "If it breaks, I'm sending the bill straight to--"

Across the room, John makes a funny noise--something between a gasp and a gulp--that has us both looking over. He stares down at the tabloid and then looks up at us, watching him. Then, slowly and deliberately, he closes the paper and chucks it in the bin as nonchalantly as is possible for someone with a totally guilty look on their face.

"What's in the paper?" I ask.

John hesitates a nanosecond. "These MPs, they can't be arsed to...."

He mumbles something about the Putney constituency and a failed vote, but he's never been able to lie properly. His voice trails off as he watches me stalk through the open door and into the control room. I retrieve the paper and place it on the soundboard, flipping through it hurriedly. The press has been on about John's marital problems, so I'm fully prepared to write a long-winded rant of a letter to the editor on his behalf.

What I see, however, has nothing to do with John or his marriage. What I see takes my breath away to the point that it's physically painful. What I see both fills my heart with hope and with dread.

Beneath an annoyingly alliterated headline is a black-and-white photograph of Cassie, presumably taken whilst she was doing errands. She's dressed casually in jeans and a jumper, her eyes glued to the ground and her expression perfectly neutral. I peer at the photo looking for a glimpse of Liv or her brother or anyone who was part of our world, but all I can see is the Boots signage in the background.