Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

25. Freddie

Boom.

Bang.

Ever-so-slowly, my mind registers the commotion coming from downstairs. Banging, clanging, a goddamn noisy mess that reverberates throughout my brain and interrupts my dream just when things were getting interesting.

I sit up straight, my breath quickening as I peer out in the pitch-black bedroom. I'm a city-dweller and I thrive on ambient light, ambient noises. Not these fucking crickets. And not this fucking silence.

Speaking of silence... the clanging downstairs has stopped, making me wonder if I imagined it in the first place. Laying back down, I wearily command my brain to go back to exactly where it has been before the--

There it is again. What the fuck is that?

Or rather, who the fuck is that?

Because I'm here in my bedroom. Deaky is fast asleep in the next room, as evidenced by the cacophony of snores escaping through the wall. Roger is in London having a make-up shag with Skylar. Brian is convalescing at his flat. And Roy and the other fellows are staying in the adjacent building.

So who is downstairs making such a ruckus at 3 o'clock in the goddamn morning?

Swinging my legs over the side of the cramped bed, I hurriedly throw on trousers and cautiously creep across the room. The door creaks as I slowly inch it open just enough to poke my head out. It's once again silent, and the only things disturbing the oppressive countryside silence are Deaky's snores and the crickets.

Then, out of nowhere, another bang, this time sounding like metal hitting the ground. Tiptoeing down the corridor, I wince when the ancient wooden floorboards creak under my weight. Frozen in place, I hear a pause in the activity below. After a long moment, the clanging resumes, this time sounding like bowls and plates being shoved aside.

Could it be an intruder? An incredibly loud burglar who's stealing our... crockery?

My eyes rove around the darkened corridor for an object that could be used as a weapon. Just to be safe, mind you. After all, Trident sent us out here to record a hit record, not get ourselves killed.

Tennis racquet... broken lamp... racquet... lamp... my arm snakes out and grabs the racquet before I begin to slowly make my way down the stairs. As I approach, the banging gets louder, as if the intruder could give zero fucks about the noise he's making.

I mean, really, what sort of moron breaks into a building a million miles from anywhere and then makes such a fucking ruckus? If we had anything of value here--which we most certainly do not--wouldn't be it easier to pack it away tidily and sneak out under cover of darkness? But no, this simpleton has turned on every light in the place.

I stop on the landing and raise the racquet above my shoulder, mentally preparing to charge into the kitchen. I momentarily debate if I should wake Deaky, as surely two people could easily overpower this idiot burglar. But I hate asking for help, so I'll see this through, for better or for worse.

Taking a deep breath, my arms tense, and the adrenaline starts to course through my body. I lean back and propel myself down the stairs. As I near the ground floor, I hear a heavy object hit the floor, followed a loud "fucking fuck!"

I pause at the bottom of the stairs.

No, it couldn't be.

How could...?

Shaking my head, I creep towards the kitchen to peer around the corner. And there, sure enough, is Roger crouched unsteadily in front of a cupboard surrounded by various pots, pans, and dishes. His hair is mussed, and he looks like he's in quite a state. He's muttering to himself as he intently rummages through a deep drawer full of tinned soup, beans, and the like.