Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

21. Roger

"Cancelled?" Freddie's voice echoes through the nearly deserted waiting room.

It's 4am, and we're in a dingy A&E in lower Manhattan. I'm slouched miserably in a hard plastic chair, one that was designed to discourage people from lingering too long. Sunglasses hide my bloodshot eyes, and I really wish that I could have showered after the gig.

"What do you mean, cancelled?" Freddie is in deep conversation with our tour manager, who looks as if he may quit at any moment. If you ask me, Freddie is speaking a little too loudly, considering we're at a hospital.

Taking a deep breath, I nudge John, who is slumped against my shoulder fast asleep.

"Deaky," I hiss. "Wake up."

"Hmm?" he mumbles, turning so that his back is facing me. I genuinely admire his ability to sleep anywhere, no matter how uncomfortable the location or how dire the circumstances. It's a skill that I hope to master one day soon.

"Wake up," I repeat.

"Is there an update on Brian?" he mumbles, curling even further into a little ball.

"They're canceling the rest of the tour." I don't mince words as I watch Freddie gesture wildly as if indignant that there's a situation that even he can't control.

"What?" John sits up straight, his eyes pried wide open as he visibly attempts to clear his sleep-addled brain. "Cancelling? The tour?"

"Deaks," I say in a low voice. "I really do think that we're cursed."

**

Our tour of America didn't start out this way. We'd been living large since arriving here, and we fucking adore this country. The motorways are endless, the skyscrapers are colossal, and the concert-goers are in love with us. Don't even get me started on the size of the hamburgers.

And New York, man, what a place. I fancy myself an urbane sort of fellow, but this city takes everything to a different level. There's a restlessness in the air as if its inhabitants are continuously on the hunt for something bigger and better. Just walking down the street is exhilarating.

In fact, the whole tour was going along swimmingly until Brian collapsed. One moment, we were in the middle of our usual postmortem of the gig. The next moment, our guitarist was out cold on the dressing room floor.

He'd been complaining of feeling unwell ever since the show in Louisiana, and, in retrospect, he had indeed been steadily turning a shade of light yellow. John had even made a joke about jaundice the day before, wondering if Brian should eat some meat or something. But, fuck. I've never been so scared in my life as when I watched him collapse onto the ground, unresponsive to any of us.

"Rog?"

Deaky nods towards Freddie and Terry, who are speaking with a solemn-looking doctor. We hurriedly jump up to join them. Freddie sees us coming and gives us an exasperated eye-roll. From the outside, it may look like he's pissed off about whatever is happening with the tour, but I know that he's devastated about Brian.

"Hey," Terry says as we approach. The doctor nods at us and strides down the corridor purposefully.

"What did the doctor say?"

"Brian has a nasty case of hepatitis," Terry says. "The doctor thinks it's because of the inoculation he got before we left for Australia, the one that fucked up his arm."

That bloody trip to Australia, I rage to myself. Will the fallout ever end? Apparently not.

"Hepatitis? Will he be okay?" John speaks up, running a hand through his hair worriedly.