Chapter Text
Thursday, 29th June 1972;
“It’s about time,” Brian tells Freddie. “Been going on long enough, hasn’t it?”
“You could have thought of something,” the singer protests, before dismissing the thought. Too much needs settling for them to bicker amongst themselves, point fingers or ask who should have done what. “Right, boys. Let’s put our heads together and come up with a plan of attack. Operation Smile.”
“Operation Fuck Off,” Roger suggests.
“Charming,” Freddie tells him. “But the name of the thing was less where I wanted your clever little mind to turn.”
“S’gotta be snappy,” Roger shrugs, unperturbed. Shaking his head, Brian smiles at the boy. Roger lives life the way he plays his drums; fast, action orientated and above all, loud. That’s not to say he isn’t intelligent, not in general nor about how he approaches his kit. The way he makes his hi-hat talk for just one example.
“Smashing,” John nods, plucking at his strings. He might not have been there for the great reconciliation, but he’s got ears and eyes and enough astuteness to make an educated guess that something’s changed and this time for the better. “Do you think we could focus on Operation Audition first, though?”
“Goodness, that’s coming up fast, isn’t it?” Freddie gasps, whirling to where he’s set up his mic stand.
“Few days,” Roger nods, scuffing a hand into his hair nonchalantly. Never without that blinding ego, nor the heart-stopping belief in his bandmates, the little terror’s not a bit fussed that they’ve not had a decent rehearsal for weeks.
“Don’t give me that,” Freddie directs, waving the teenager towards the drums. “Get back there and work, for fuck’s sake.”
Unlike in the days previous, there’s a mischievous glint in his eye, a naughty tease caught in the words and unlike in the days previous, it makes Roger giggle as he does as he’s told.
“Operation Fuck Off’s on hold, is it?” Brian asks, amused, nevertheless returning to his Old Lady.
“Raymond can fuck off another day, he’s not bothering us at present,” Freddie declares. “Deacy’s right, we’ve got more pressing matters.”
“For the moment,” Brian warns, not disagreeing. “Feels like Raymond’s not going away.”
“Short of a lantern and a genie,” John nods.
“We’ll conjure our own magic,” Freddie tells him and once more Brian can’t help but wonder just what fey creature left the man on earth. Magic and music and that strange, tempting, tortuous thing that drives him are so closely intertwined within Freddie, Brian’s never been able to sort one from another.
“Don’t we always?” is all he says, however.
“Speaking of magic,” John breaks in. “We set on our song list?”
Lightly rapping the snare, Roger asks, “How long we got, anyway?”
“Don’t know,” Brian replies. He’s not seen anything advertising the audition, although in fairness, he’s not been talking to people, nor looking for it. Tim’s information is usually reliable, and if he’s putting his own band up for it, there’s no reason why it’s a bad call.
“Magic,” John says, eyebrow arching in amusement.
“Fuck it, we’re Smile,” Roger tells him. “Anything we do will get us the gig.”
“That’s the spirit, darling,” Freddie agrees. “All the same, let’s have a bit of a think of what we want to go on with.”
“Might only have one shot,” Brian nods, before raising his own eyebrow. “Our opener, is it?”
“It’s rather good,” Freddie appeals.
“Know it fairly well, don’t we?” John shrugs, fingers already moving on the opening bassline. Joining in, Roger adds the drums and with a glance between them at the younger members of Smile’s antics, Brian kicks in with the guitarwork.
Smiling wide, Freddie comes in with the lyrics at the right spot and they’re off. The song isn’t particularly long but has enough of the newer twists and additional flare they’d worked into several of their stuff recently to show off Smile’s capabilities. And for the first time since Roger got back, they play it well.
It’s almost like taking a breath after being underwater for a long time, that relief.
When he glances across at his small drummer, however, the relief drowns under a wave of concern. Roger’s brilliant with his breathing, knowing where and how to do it with any of their songs so he doesn’t throw off his drumming, not even slightly. Likewise, the energy he expends is never wasted, not even when plentiful, to ensure the best Roger can produce on his kit. Despite all this, currently he’s gasping a bit more than he usually does. Catching Brian’s eye, his fierce glare insists he not make a fuss and stop them, and so far as he’s able, Brian abides by his friend’s wishes.
Finishing the song is the extent of it.
“Ribs bothering you?” Brian causally asks.
“Was about to wonder the same,” Freddie tuts, any change in Roger and his playing not going unnoticed.
Scowling, Roger keeps his sticks going, a not so silent protest against any fussing. John matches him on the bass, as ever a staunch ally and willing to stand together against their older bandmates but nevertheless eyes the boy warily.
“Hang about,” he says. “What happened to your ribs?”
“Nuffin’,” Roger grunts, clearly warning everyone to leave it well alone.
Not that that’s ever stopped the rest of them.
“Put your sticks down, sweetheart,” Freddie tells him, tone leaving no room for argument.
“Really, what’s happened? You hurt yourself, mate?”
“Tony,” Brian reveals grimly. “Didn’t want to take no for an answer.”
“Hold on, what’s that mean?” John wonders sharply, hands stilling for once. Grey-green eyes turned to Roger, he looks alarmed. “He hit you?”
“Tried to,” Roger shrugs, but bows to the inevitable and drops his drumsticks onto the skin before him. “Fuck’s sake.”
“Bastard tried to lay him low, but our boy’s tougher than that,” Freddie tells John proudly.
Smarter too, Brian thinks, or at least well versed in the motions a man makes when he intends to strike at you; he’d evaded as far as he could from the swift motion and saved himself a worse injury.
“Caught his ribs,” he says quietly.
“Already looked at ‘em,” Roger huffs. “And I been playing all right, ain’t I?”
“Talented little monster,” Freddie agrees fondly. “All the same –”
“M’fine.”
“Beginning to think we should put that on a tee-shirt for you,” Brian snorts. “Listen, why don’t we take it easy for today – we know how to play our bloody songs, for fuck’s sake – and see what we’re going to do about Raymond instead?”
“If I find out he’s put your good friend Tony up to this,” Freddie swears, beckoning Roger back out from the kit, “I’ll swing for him myself.”
Unhappily, Roger slides off his stool. Large eyes brimming with misery, he mutters once more, “M’sorry.”
“Not your fault,” Brian absolves, although he supposes some of it at least is. What Roger had been thinking of, agreeing to join up with Tony in the first place … except, what other choice did the boy have? No friends, no prospects save what he can offer musically, an older, confident musician might have looked like the best he was going to get for a while.
Poor little mite. Must have been miserable, dancing to Raymond’s tune and only seeing one way to strike out on his own.
All the same, he studies the small drummer thoughtfully.
“Nothing else, is there?”
“What?”
“He’s a persistent bugger,” Brian points out. “Either he’s chronically unable to let go of an idea – like Freddie –”
“I’ll have you know, that’s a boon, darling.”
“- or he has a very good reason for following you up here.”
“It’s London,” John points out, not unreasonably.
“Just happen to land where Roger lives, did he?”
“Did you mention Kensington specifically?” Freddie wonders.
“Might have.” But Roger squirms a little under Brian’s continued gaze, and those of their bandmates. Liking his lip he shrugs. “Dint know he was in with Raymond,” he says at last. “But he’d mentioned some mates that might have things in the works that we’d be able to crash.”
“Where?”
“All over. We were gonna move around.”
Frowning, Brian nods slowly. Tony’d mentioned the same sort of idea, although he hadn’t realised it was as set up as it was. “That why he’s not walking away? He’s made some sort of deal?”
“So he says,” Roger nods. He looks a tad guilty. “Dint know he was agreeing to things before I’d said yes, now he’s on the hop for whatever he’s signed me up for.”
“Well, he’s just going to have to find another puppet,” Freddie tuts, to which Roger scowls.
“Weren’t gonna let ‘im use me.”
“Got the impression you’re under his thumb, hasn’t he?” Brian grumpily sighs.
“With any luck,” John tells him, “he’s got the message now.”
“Funnily enough, I’d thought so the other day too.”
“S’jus’ desperate. Left ‘im in a bind, dint I?”
“You’re not responsible for him, Blondie.”
Roger squirms again. “Do sort of owe ‘im, though.”
Eyeing the teenager once more, Brian remembers the day he’d found Roger; after a night spent outside thanks to being kicked out of his lodgings. “There a particular reason you’re so forgiving of him?”
“He’s a mate.”
“Some mate,” John says, eyebrow arching sharply. “Almost stove your ribs in, didn’t he?”
“Barely touched me.”
“Not for lack of trying, sweetheart,” Freddie points out. With a soft sigh, he moves close to the boy, reaching out to draw him near once more. “While I admire your loyalty, I can’t help but wonder at it.”
Glancing between Freddie and Brian, both of whom have pushed for the last bit he’s clearly holding back, Roger heaves a big sigh.
“That party, the last night we were in Kent. Things got outta hand cos of me.”
“What’d you do?” Freddie asks, and despite everything there’s a gleam in his eye; curiosity, titillation, amusement. Whatever Roger did to misbehave bad enough has certainly done more than pique his interest. He’s never been exactly disapproving of Roger’s feisty personality – so long as it’s not something he’s been running headlong into.
“Took a swing at someone.”
“Who?”
“The owner.”
Laughing, Freddie shakes his head at the teenager. “You don’t do things by halves, do you?”
“Tony stood up for me and we were out. I got ‘im kicked outta our digs and he never complained. Not once.”
From what Brian had heard of the story, Tony was the ringleader in this circus. Privately doubting he wouldn’t have gotten himself in trouble anyway, he bites his lip. To him, it seems he turned what was inevitable into something he could gain from. Trust Roger to think he owes him the time of day, what with that sense of chivalry that he has – and takes pains to conceal from people as if he or they perceive it as a weakness.
“Why’d you wanna hit him?” John wonders restlessly. The least accepting of that temper, although his own cool responses that refuse to rise to it always seems to take the heat out of it, he sounds a touch judgemental as he cocks an eyebrow at Roger.
Shrugging, Roger mumbles, “Jus’ did. Was a bit drunk.”
“Were you?” Brian blinks, as Freddie crows,
“Blondie!”
“Bet I can guess where the alcohol came from,” Brian groans, before shaking his head. “If I’m right, then you owe him nothing, mate.”
“He weren’t my bloody keeper, Bri.”
“No, but he gave it to you, right? That makes him responsible, in a way.”
“Brian’s right,” Freddie coos, lightly tapping Roger under the chin with a curled finger. “You’re your own man, but he set things in motion.”
“So don’t think you need to agree to whatever he’s pushing for,” John adds. With a little smile, he asks the group at large, “Suppose he’s included in Offo?”
“Offo?” Brian blinks, before realising the bassist’s used an acronym for their operation plans for Raymond. “Yeah, why not?”
“Smashing. Any ideas on that front?”
“Give me time,” Freddie promises, casually slinging an arm on Roger’s closest shoulder and leaning on it. “I’ll come up with something to rid us of the prick and walk away with our owed money to boot.”
“Perfect,” Brian declares. “While that’s happening, what do you say to trying another song, since we’re all here? You good for one more, Rog?”
“Told you, m’fine.”
“One song,” Brian repeats with a smile. “Just to get back into the swing of things.”
They decide, to his delight, on Polar Bear - because we don’t show it enough love, darling – and take a few run throughs of it. Monitoring Roger’s hands and ribs rather gets in the way of making much progress beyond them remembering the right notes in the right places. It descends into chaos fairly rapidly, Freddie fussing, Brian looming, Roger fuming and John watching it all unfold with quiet amusement.
“Bunch of muppets,” Roger calls them huskily, not quite chucking his drumstick but certainly throwing it down in disgust.
“Here, let me see,” Freddie insists, taking advantage of the empty hand and swiftly grabbing the boy’s wrist. Turning the palm to face him, he peers at the slightly reddened skin.
“Ain’t got fucking holes in it, have I?”
“Not yet.”
“We packing it in, then?” John asks, already moving to take off his guitar.
“Ain’t gonna fall apart with an afternoon’s playing,” Roger huffs.
“All the same, we’ve an important gig coming up shortly,” Freddie says, beckoning for the other hand.
“Best not to risk it,” Brian agrees, unslinging the Red Special from his shoulder.
“Can’t build up the calluses unless I fucking play,” Roger complains.
“You’ll get there,” Freddie dismisses easily, much to the scowling drummer’s displeasure.
Offering a small, sympathetic smile as he places his bass into its case, John commiserates. “We’ll pick it back up tomorrow.”
“Are you free –” Freddie begins, before interrupting himself with a shake of his head. “What am I saying, you’re always free these days.” Not giving the amused bassist a chance to respond, he continues, “We’re seeking bookings tomorrow. Come over early and we’ll make a morning of it.”
“Rehearsal in the afternoon,” Brian agrees, determined that now they’re playing well again they should knuckle down and do something with it. It’d be all they need now, to muck up the audition and halt their comeback before it gets started.
“I’ll find time,” John says wryly.
“If you’re washing your hair, we’ll try another day,” Brian snorts.
“I can put it off,” John offers. “If you need me.”
“Muppets,” Freddie sighs fondly, before telling the bassist, “We’d appreciate it, darling.”
“Right, I’ll see you sorry lot tomorrow then.”
“Put us in the book,” Roger suggests, giggling and laughing louder as John takes out his little book and obliges.
Friday, 30th June 1972;
They get going a tad later than expected. Freddie, apparently, is making an effort. Banging on the bathroom door, an amused John and Roger at his back watching with interest, Brian tries not to groan in exasperation. He knew he should have set a firmer time with the frontman.
“Freddie, come on!” he calls, banging again. “What’s taking you so long?”
The door swings abruptly open, revealing a frowning singer. “You don’t rush perfection, darling.”
“Thought you were having a tricky shit,” Roger tells him.
“If I was,” Freddie responds, wicked gleam in his eye, “Brian’s incessant knocking wouldn’t have helped.”
“Dunno,” Roger giggles. “Coulda scared it outta you.”
“Or given him performance anxiety,” John suggests, looking a bit disgusted. “Leaving the shits behind, could we get going?”
“For shits and giggles,” Freddie agrees, making Roger giggle again.
“Next tour name,” he tells his groaning friends, making for the front door. “You ready, Freddie?”
“Just let me grab my shoes, angel.”
He pauses as Brian follows him towards his bedroom.
“Your shadow’s gotten taller,” John notes.
“Are you really joining me?” Freddie wonders curiously as he opens his door. “For shoes?”
“I’ll tie the laces myself if it gets you moving. Honestly, mate, stopped clocks keep better time than you do.”
“What’s the rush? And your services aren’t required, I’m wearing my moccasins.”
Pointing impatiently towards the shoe rack set up in the corner beside the overflowing wardrobe, Brian scowls at his smug best friend as he answers him.
“I’d like to book something before Roger gets a driving license.”
Perched on his bed, working one foot carefully into his shoe, Freddie glances up with another of his glittering, dark looks. “I do love it when you get fired up.”
“Shoes, Fred.”
Striding back out to the front room, he groans softly at the others, already exhausted.
“Cheer up,” John tells him. “He’ll be dressing himself in no time.”
“I could go off you, you know.”
“Honestly, you’re doing a marvellous job with him.”
“Thin ice, Deacy,” Brian warns the younger man drolly, before turning and hollering through Freddie’s open door. “Shake a leg, would you?”
Emerging from the bedroom in different clothing to the last time they saw him, Freddie tsks at Brian as he sweeps past.
“You’re on your way to an ulcer, darling.”
“Rather be on my way to a booking. We ready, then? Finally?”
Snorting, Roger waits for Freddie to reach him. “That last nerve Brian’s got? You’re tapdancing on it.”
“He’s a lot of fun,” Freddie reveals in what’s not supposed to be a whisper for Roger’s ears only.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Brian declares, to no one in particular. “I want a new band.”
“Nonsense,” Freddie sniffs, brushing past him down the hallway. “Are you coming?”
“Breathe,” John advises, moving past Brian also.
“Where’re we going first?” Roger asks as they finally make it out of the building. “The Crown?”
“Trish is undoubtedly missing us terribly,” Freddie nods, “but I think we need to stop by Vin first.”
Grimacing, Roger hesitates. “Suppose I should let ‘im know I’m back,” he ventures.
“Think you should see if you’ve still got a job,” Brian notes, poking Roger in the back to get him moving once more.
Hunching a little, Roger nods. “Think he’s angry?”
“Knowing Vin, he’ll think he’s given you time off,” Brian snorts.
Roger still looks apprehensive, but he doesn’t refuse to go near the second hand vinyl shop. He sticks close to the others as they squeeze through the door, but he doesn’t refuse. Brave little fucker.
“Vin!” Freddie sings loudly as they make their grand entrance, uncaring of anyone else in the shop.
“Freddie,” Vin nods easily, before noticing Roger. “Wotcha, Rog.”
“Vin,” Roger greets, before coming to a halt, apparently stuck on how to further proceed.
Stepping in, Freddie simply gets down to business. “Will we send the small child to work as usual tomorrow?”
“Don’t see why not,” Vin agrees, glancing at his Saturday boy. “If you still fancy it.”
“Yeah,” the teenager nods, slightly wide eyed. Why he hadn’t expected the easy going friendliness to continue, Brian doesn’t know. He knows Vin as well as the rest of them by now, is surely aware of that calm, relaxed nature. Guilty conscience, Brian decides. Turning shadows into nightmares.
“Wonderful,” Freddie trills now that’s sorted. Smoothing his hair, he confidently steps closer to the counter where Vin’s been fussing with what records he wants to play. “Now, how’s that’s lovely cousin of yours?”
“Jane?”
“Nephew,” Brian corrects, almost choking as he tries swallowing a laugh. “We’re looking to get him to do a job for us.”
“If it’s selling tickets, again,” Vin cautions, “I’m not sure he’ll take you up on it. Got it in the neck, he said.”
“Only before we got everyone on the same page,” Freddie dismisses with a casual wave of his hand.
“S’not tickets, anyway,” Roger tells the man.
“No, we’ve got this perfect little idea,” Freddie agrees, drawing out the copy of the booklet Doug had done for them. Explaining what they want, the frontman draws out a promise from Vin to get his nephew to give them a bell and sort out the details.
“Magic,” John smiles, stretching slightly as they emerge from the shop. Glancing at Brian and Freddie, he echoes Roger’s earlier question. “Where’re you thinking, then?”
“We’ve got to get The Crown,” Brian announces. He’d spent a while last night as he waited for sleep to claim him planning where he’d want Smile to play and sell their booklets. “Always done right by us, people there know us – good chance they’ll pick up a booklet, right?”
Expression pinching a little, Freddie demurs. “I’d hoped we’d spread our wings a little.”
“We will. We’ll grab the newer places,” Brian nods. “But we don’t want to turn our backs on our history.”
“Got a solid foundation there,” John agrees, eyeing Freddie for any more objections.
“All right,” the singer relents. “Let’s go say hello to Trish.”
They end up saying hello to Mick instead, stood in the open trades door at the back while Roger makes a fuss of Rosie as she squeezes past his legs to seek out the boy. They walk away with a date in their pocket, and a promise from Roger to walk Rosie soon.
“Maybe after work tomorrow,” he offers, to which Mick simply nods, arms crossed over his wide chest and muscles and tattoos straining with the position.
Tsking lightly at the teenager, Freddie arches an eyebrow. “Don’t you think we’ll be rather busy rehearsing?”
“Won’t be for long,” Roger assures him, apparently set on taking Rosie for a play in the nearest park. He raises bright, laughing eyes. “Bri can come with me, keep an eye on the time.”
“I’ll find him a stopwatch,” Freddie declares, directing them towards the nearby tube station. “Onwards, darlings! Camden awaits.”
“Smashing,” John observes.
Saying nothing, Brian bites his cheek to hide his smile. Only place they’ve been talking about in Camden is The Friar’s Rest. Whatever grudge Freddie has with the establishment, apparently it’s secondary to Smile’s onwards climb. Never let it be said that a thirst for success isn’t a good thing, Brian muses as they head for the correct platform. Or that Freddie isn’t capable of waiting until he’s extracted what he wants before enacting revenge. If Bernie, the manager at the Tipsy Vicar, suspects he’s got a formidable foe in the frontman, he doesn’t show it as he hesitates when they reach him.
Brian gets the sneaking suspicion he’s trying to place who Smile are and if he wants to book them.
With a flourish, Freddie draws out the booklet – paying for itself, that is – to both remind the man of them and to demonstrate their popularity.
Lying through his teeth, or simply assuming the interest they’ll get, Freddie smiles brightly. “We garner a lot of interest,” he tells a bemused Bernie. “As you can tell.”
“Played here before,” Roger adds, scowling a little, less in the mood to capitulate and charm their way into Bernie’s good graces and a booking. “Liked us.”
Brian gets the impression the man’s wondering how he might have forgotten the small drummer, and if they’re trying to snow him.
“Come with our own songs,” John offers genially. “Few covers. Do all right.”
“Honestly, Deacy, don’t sell us too hard,” Freddie tuts, before turning back to Bernie. “How does the eighth sound?”
Snorting a little, shaking his head, Bernie gives in. “All right. I’ll see you a week tomorrow.”
“You won’t regret it,” Freddie chirps happily. As they leave, however, he whispers to Brian, “Not this time, anyway.”
Smiling, Brian asks, “How’s Wimbledon strike you?”
“I think we can swing up that way.”
The Keep and Candle don’t have anything currently on offer, however, not until the end of July. They extract a gig, disappointed it won’t be for a few weeks but determined to have something with the venue; The Keep and Candle’s somewhere Smile need to keep their name relevant, after all. It’s a Sunday night, also, but better, as John tells them, than a kick in the teeth.
“We’re in,” the bassist shrugs. “Good place to start off from.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Brian agrees. “Right, how’s about we keep our lucky streak going and hit Sally Lane?”
“I like Sally Lane,” Roger nods, although his scowl would indicate otherwise.
“Whatever’s the matter?” Freddie wonders, noticing.
“Think those fuckers are still booking Northern Freight?”
“Perhaps,” Freddie shrugs airily. “Who cares so long as they book us also.”
“Ain’t gonna be happy,” Roger points out, gleefully it should be noted. “If we take his nights from ‘im.”
He’s speaking of Harry Briggs, of course, rather than the band. He’d not, as far as Brian’s aware, had any problems with the other members, and only ran into trouble with the drummer due to an inability not to show the man up or keep his mouth shut. Brian wouldn’t dream of telling Roger he brought it on himself – no one deserves to be smacked about the way Briggs treated the teenager – but at times he doesn’t help himself. Mind you, he reflects ruefully, without Roger’s chronic case of showing off, he and Freddie would never have found him. And that, he decides, would be a crying shame.
Warmly, he slings an arm about the boy’s shoulders as they make their way towards the vaunted Sally Lane, where Roger’s decided to stage his undoing of Briggs it would appear.
“Don’t fret,” he tells the small drummer. “We’ll have our day and ‘Freight’ll be yesterday’s news before you know it.”
“Already are,” Roger replies.
“That’s my boy,” Freddie coos.
“Nothing like a bit of friendly rivalry,” John observes mildly. “Right, let’s get cracking, shall we? Skipped breakfast for this, I did.”
“We’ll stop off in George’s on the way home,” Freddie offers blithely.
“We’ll make a sarnie back at the flat,” Brian counters, thinking of the as yet unpaid bills multiplying in the kitchen drawer.
Scuffing a hand through his hair, Roger snorts. “So long as it’s not flipping jam.”
“What’ve you got against jam?” John asks, eyebrow arched.
“S’been our grub for the past few days.”
“We’ll find the mouse some cheese,” Freddie declares, bringing them towards the tube station again.
“Could do with finding the van some petrol,” John adds with a grimace.
“Public transport beneath you, darling?”
“I’m fine with my bass slung across my back,” the younger man points out. “Amp’s a bit of a pickle, though.”
“Perhaps we should have left Blondie to busk,” Freddie muses.
“Right, cos my three coins a day’s gonna make the difference.”
“Look after the pennies,” Brian tells him. “And the pounds, you know…”
Turning to look up at him Roger scoffs. “Gonna take a lot of pennies, Bri.”
“Start saving,” he advises. “Got a piggy bank?”
“Got a pocket.”
“Nearly the same.”
“Here we are,” Freddie announces as the train rattles forcefully into view. “Mind the gap!”
“Busy, isn’t it?” John marvels.
“Tourist,” Brian snorts “This is practically empty, mate.”
“Right, that’s why we’re all standing is it?”
“We’re growing good.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“Don’t wander off,” Freddie adds towards Roger. “We’ve had enough of going to fetch you for the time being.”
“M’not wandering off. M’standing right next to you, you wally.”
“I’m taking steps –”
“Thought you said not to wander.”
“- to keep you … that’s funny. Brian, the small child made a joke. Did you hear?”
“I heard him put you in your place.”
“Charming. Gang up on me, why don’t you?”
“You need it sometimes.”
“It’s good for you,” John adds cheekily.
Throwing up his hands, and nearly smacking Roger in the face since he’s kept close as told, Freddie cries out in dismay. “Bastards. Why’d I put up with you?”
“Cos we’re the best musicians in London,” Roger tells him. “And one day, the world.”
“I like your thinking,” Freddie beams. “Brian, haven’t I always said he was my best idea?”
“Something like that.”
Sally Lane proves amenable to their plans, and they walk out with a gig in hand. They’d even been complimented on the performance they’d given just before Roger’s plans fell apart, much to their delight. With a few upcoming gigs in their pockets, they decide to make one last stop before going home for a now much anticipated rehearsal.
“Doug,” Brian greets as they crowd into the print shop. “Not busy, are you?”
“Can spare you a few,” the man shrugs. “These the rest of them, are they?”
“Don’t you recognise us from our photographs?” Freddie asks, drawing out the draft Doug had given Roger. “We’ve a few revisions.”
“Is that going to add on to the cost?” John interrupts, laying a hand on the singer’s arm to halt him.
“Might. Bit of extra work, you know?”
Addressing Freddie, John tells him sternly, “Only the most important.”
“Deacy!”
“We can come back to it if it works out and we make our money back from it.”
Pursing his lips, Freddie reluctantly agrees, before laying out what he’d like Doug to amend. Privately wondering if John was sent for the dual purposes of bass and stopping them from shooting themselves in the foot, Brian bites his cheek as he hides his smile. There’s a core of iron in that boy and he’s not about to go up against it.
Assuring them he’d have the initial batch good to go by the time their next gig rolls around, Doug waves them out of the shop before his boss – apparently the most tolerant man on Earth when it comes to side projects – has cause to complain and runs out of his legendary patience.
“Home, then?” Brian wonders rhetorically. Feeling pleased with their progress, he’s revelling in thoughts of how good a musicians life is – a stark difference to other days when he bites his nails to nothing over money, composing and the estrangement from his parents.
“One last stop,” Freddie says, however.
“Oh? Want to get another booking?”
“Something like that. Do you suppose Tim or that pack of hyena’s are sat in The Crown?”
Checking his watch, Brian shrugs. Lunch trade. “Could be. Why?”
“I’ve a little idea I’d like to run past a few people.”
“Gonna tell us what it is?” Roger wonders, large eyes alight with the thrill of a new adventure on the horizon.
“I might,” Freddie teases, tugging lightly on a blond lock. “Considering you’re going to be instrumental in it.”
“What’m I gonna do?”
“Rotten little thing that you are, you’re going to form a new band.”
“What?”
Roger’s not alone in exclaiming surprise.
“Hang about,” John protests. “Didn’t we just book ourselves a bunch of gigs?”
“Those are Smile gigs,” Freddie tells him airily.
“Right. With Roger. Our drummer.”
“He’s going to be a busy boy,” Freddie reveals happily. “Two bands at once, the little scamp. Whatever’ll his dad say?”
“Fuck, that’s a point,” Brian remembers. “Ought to let him know Roger’s back and all right and all that stuff.”
“Wrote ‘im,” the fifteen-year-old tells him absently, too preoccupied with this second band idea Freddie’s dreamed up. “Why’m I getting a new band?”
“We – or rather, you – are going to show the bastard that he messed with the wrong band. By the time we’re – or more accurately, you – are through, he’ll be paying you to piss off.”
“Neat trick,” John remarks, grey-green eyes dancing as he observes their small drummer. “You very annoying, Roger?”
“Can be,” the boy shrugs.
“More than that,” Freddie announces. “You’re going to be bad.”
“Bad? Want me to steal our cash back?”
“Bad, as in a terrible band. You’re going to so hurt his reputation, Raymond’s not going to be able to show his face in the music scene for decades.”
“Ouch,” Brian says, although he’s finding it hard to dredge up much sympathy. “Criminally Underrated aren’t going to like that much.”
“I’m sure they’ll come around to our way of thinking,” Freddie shrugs. “From what I hear, they’re already on the outs with him over a startling lack of coin and bookings.”
“Magic. They gonna be in on this, then?”
“Sadly, no. Raymond’s not stupid. Corrupt, greedy and slimy, but not stupid, more’s the pity.”
“He’d guess something’s up,” Brian realises. “If Rog turned up with one or two of them in tow.”
“As it stands,” Freddie nods, “we’re banking a lot on the fact he wants to manage Roger – hopefully it blinds him to what we’re doing.”
“Wants me as a solo act,” Roger points out warily. “Won’t take another band, will he?”
“The more time he spends with you,” Freddie tells him, “the more time he gets to turn your pretty head. He’ll suffer the band, for a time at least.”
“If his greed holds out long enough,” Brian cautions.
“If it doesn’t, we’ll still have done some damage. And with any luck, he’ll have gotten the message and ended this nonsense about us having to pay him back for Kit’s bill.”
“Suppose we’d better see if anyone’s about, then,” Brian smiles. It’s a wild scheme, not unlike anything else Freddie gets up to when he sets his mind to something, but he finds himself enthused by it this time. Glancing at Roger, his smile widens. The teenager’s got that bounce in his step that’s indicative of a good mood. Unsurprising, really. If anyone’d be up for one of Freddie’s nutty plans, it’d be Roger.
Therefore, when they spot several members of The Crowd enjoying a nice lunchtime pint, Freddie practically preens. Whirling, he seeks out Brian.
“Give that great lump a ring,” he instructs. “Tell him to get his crooked arse down here.”
“I’m going to presume you mean Tim?”
“Who else would I mean? Roger needs a bassist and it’d be too suspicious if everyone came from The Crowd.”
“Might not want to call him a great lump, then.”
Waving a hand impatiently at him, Freddie shoos him towards the payphone sat on the wall, close to the bar. “Don’t get caught up talking to Trish. We need Tim, remember.”
“Could you write it down for me?” Brian asks seriously. “Not sure I’ve got it straight, here.”
“Would you stop messing about? Time’s wasting, Bri, honestly.”
“You need to laugh more, Fred, mate.”
“I’ll split my sides laughing myself silly if we can pull this off,” Freddie promises darkly. “Now, off you pop. Tell Tim he’s perfect for this.”
“He’ll like that.”
“Precisely. If nothing else, the egormanic’ll want to hear what we’ve got planned.”
“Lovely.”
Fishing in his pocket for change, Brian offers Trish a smile as he passes. She’s looking especially radiant today, hair pulled up into a ponytail and skin glowing from the combination of yellow and pink in her top. Reluctantly turning from the vision, Brian reaches the telephone and dials Tim’s number as fast as the rotary allows.