In the Year of the Cat (Queen or Freddie Mercury Fanfic)

18. Mona Lisas, Mad Hatters, and an Omelet

By the time I finally awoke, night had fallen hard and the sun was gone.  With a sigh I removed my journal from my eyes, to find the most beautiful spread of indigo sparsely flecked with bright, silvery white stars stretched above my head.  In the very middle shone the perfect white wafer that was the moon.  Evening had cooled the air, which made lounging outside much more pleasant.

I checked the balcony door handle, which of course was also locked.  Freddie hadn't come back yet; I peered into the windows and saw no lights in the hall.  I picked myself up off the balcony. 

Naturally, I started to fret, wondering how he would behave once finding me.  Freddie might indeed report me this time.  Or else, perhaps he'd think it indescribably comical that I should come crawling back to him, and therefore laugh me into oblivion. 

Worrying about what might be or might not be won't help, I told myself.  Worry eats holes in your stomach.  He might not be back for hours yet. 

I remembered for once that I actually wore a watch and squinted at it.  Nine forty-nine.  The night was just beginning in Freddie-land.  I stood to stretch my legs.

And the sleek Silver Shadow pulled up to the flat. 

Crap!  I ducked back down, watched through the bars as the car halted by Freddie's door.  Rudy hopped out of the front and hustled around to the back to open the passenger door.  Out stepped the man himself.  From my angle I couldn't read his face, but he looked like he was in a hurry to get inside.  Was he being followed?  I mean, by someone besides me.  But no other autos rounded the corner.

The front door didn't shut.  Odd.  Inside, the hall light flicked on.  He was running up the stairs; faintly I heard the thump-thump-thump of his feet ascending to my level.  Grabbing my journal, I swung myself over the balcony and more or less fell to the ground, unhurt.  I didn't want him to know I'd been up there that long.  Too late I remembered my shoes, but I'd kicked them to the side, and so weren't immediately in view from the window.

All of a sudden I felt at least three pairs of eyes boring into the back of my neck.  I turned to see three men (including Rudy) in the car, two of them whooping and shouting slurred, unintelligible things.  My jaw dropped.  No!  I'd been spotted! 

"Oi, Freddie!" the one with a face like a plum pudding called.  "Get out here!  'S a intruder!"

"Do something, man!"  The other guy poked Rudy's headrest. 

Rudy didn't move.  He just watched me to see what my next move would be.  And, since the flat door was indeed ajar, and Pudding Face was yelling at me to explain myself, I hotfooted up the steps and dove into the flat. 

No doubt that Pudding Face and/or the other guy - a good-looking black fellow with a loud, cackling laugh - would give me away once Freddie came back down.  All I could do right now was hide.  I crept into the dining room and ducked beside the table. 

His footsteps came down much slower than they had gone up.  I peeked over the top of the long table, waited till he walked into view.  At last he reached the foot of the stairs, and I could get a better look at him.  In spite of myself I smiled.  It was good to see him again.

Clearly Freddie hadn't found what he was looking for; angst that had shown on his face after the Tony Parsons interview sharpened his features again.  But it wasn't angry angst, there was no horrid chill.  No protective mask.  Just a very real sadness.  His eyes were lowered, his hand resting quietly on the railing. 

"Damn," he whispered.  "Bloody f---ing hell.  How stupid could-"

Then Pudding Face and Cackles burst through the door and shattered this introspective moment. "Are you okay, Fred?" Cackles asked breathlessly.