Late June, 1974
Roughly three months prior to the events described in the prologue
Roger's PoV
Victoria. It had become something of a prohibited word within the band, the constant ghost hanging over us, whom no one would address. We all thought about her often, that much I knew for sure, but we never spoke about her, at least not directly. The last time I had brought her up, the others had merely slipped into an awkward silence, not knowing exactly what to say. It was weird how she could have so much of an effect on us, even now, after three, long, lonely, longing years of searching for her.
John was the first one to stop talking about her. She had barely been gone a few months when her name fell into disuse on John's tongue. It was strange and perplexing; he had transitioned from demanding that he travel home to be with her following the discovery of her pregnant state, from never mentioning her again after his car accident, going quiet the moment her name was mentioned in any conversation.
Freddie was next. He said it hurt him too much to talk about her, to think about her, to confront all the things he had done wrong that had led to her leaving. Lead singers couldn't be sad, he said, or it would lead to all their songs sounding sad.
Brian spoke about her often, for the first year or so, when the hopes remained high within all of us that she would come back, that she would find her way back to us once all the press had died down, once she had calmed down. We didn't understand how she could do it on her own, without us there to support her, even if it was just financially. Brian couldn't understand how she could leave him, her closest friend in all the world, and survive for a long period of time, without his shoulder to cry on.
But she did. And after about a year had passed, and it became clear that she wasn't coming back, that she had started a new life without us all, he too stopped mentioning her name, finally stopped leaving drunk voicemails to the disconnected landline of her old London flat, and carried on with his life, as if she had never been. The only time he acknowledged her was every year, on her birthday, when he would gather us all around a table, pour us a double shot of whiskey and make us raise our glasses in a toast to all we had achieved that year and, rather ominously, those we had lost along the way. Freddie and Deaky probably didn't know that it was her birthday that this little ritual was carried out on, and therefore did not understand the significance of what they were doing. I did.
It was hard, but life had to carry on. I had cried, I had raged, I had sat in my house all day for six long months, staring at the walls despondently, once I had finished my stint in rehab. I had drank, I had smoked, there had been moments when I had considered resuming my abuse of narcotics. All of that achieved nothing; it didn't make me feel better, not really, it just increased the self-loathing. Eventually, we had to go back out on the road, had to record our first album, had to perform on the BBC. I had dreaded going back to it all, there had been days when I had genuinly considered putting down the drumsticks forever, throwing them in the Thames and watching as the river slowly pulled away my life, my career. But I hadn't. Freddie had convinced me to give it a try, to do one last tour stint, to see whether I knew exactly what I would be giving up. I had never properly thanked him for doing that.
The music, as cheesy as it sounded, had saved me. It had given a purpose in life again; rather than staring at the claustraphobic four walls of my tiny London tenement, I had something to focus on, something to work on and perfect. Of course, there were still days when I could barely face the prospect of getting of bed, of living a life that would be without her, that would be without my daughter, but they slowly started to lessen, until I had resumed some semblance of a normal, functioning adult.
The more I started to feel like myself, the more effort I began to put into Queen. The screaming fans were no longer the ones I cared about, they were no longer the ones I was trying to impress. Everytime I wrote a song, every time I played the drums on a record, I put my heart and soul into it, re-recording the same song a thousand times to ensure that the final product was perfect, just in case she heard it. Every time I started to get tired, lagging behind my drum set, debating just saying that my piece was 'good enough' and calling it a night, I pictured Victoria sat in her home, wherever that may be, sliding the record on to her vinyl player in a few months time, and swaying softly to the music, my daughter in her arms as the sound of the band slowly filled the room, allowing me to be close to her at last, even if it was just through my music.
