Chapter Text
Tuesday, 20th June 1972;
For such a small item, the key and associated keyring is a weighty little thing. Brian’s taken to carrying with him, almost a talisman, as he and the others struggle to locate their missing band member. As they struggle with his departure. His hand strays to his pocket every time he has no other use for it; he spends hours standing at the kitchen window staring listlessly at his glass lion, fingers turning the key over in his pocket until it’s time for a gig.
They’ve had to fill Roger’s drums with Terry from The Crowd and even had to slink back to Karl to beg a few favours. It’s not perfect. Neither of the men, while all right as drummers go, know the stuff Roger does and there’s simply not been enough hours in the day when everyone’s able to get together and learn. Not when they’re only stepping in here and there, their own interests taking precedence.
It’s not perfect, but it’s got them through.
The tour is finally finished, Smile a man down and fighting hard to incorporate their stand ins. It went as well as they could make it, but no one had been all that enthused by the end. They’ve not booked anything else. They’d told themselves it was only going to be for a few days, just until Roger comes back, but John’s finished Uni and Freddie’s finished a song and still the fifteen-year-old’s not back. While they wait, neither John nor Brian have jobs and while the story about Kit sending heavies around to scare them into paying has proved a lie, they’d still needed to pay for the posters anyway and once more, bills are stuffed into the kitchen drawer unanswered.
A band without gigs is as much use as a chocolate teapot and Brian hasn’t dared continue on with the conversations with his mum. Not when she can point out how right she was to be concerned, not when she can tempt him back to Uni and a stable career and his dad speaking to him once more. Not when Smile are floundering so badly.
Not while Roger’s still not back.
Raymond’s not been seen either, which is a mixed blessing. It’d be nice if he was about so they could track down the coin he’d taken from them. It’s nicer not to have to deal with him, for the time being, however. Word is the little Dagenham show featuring solo acts he’d been so involved with had done well enough that he’d swiftly organised getting a few nights around the place for it. The knowledge is simply background noise, Tim filling the silences with well-meaning gossip and a positive outlook.
If he tells them to keep their chins up one more time, Brian might be tempted to let Freddie deck him.
Freddie doesn’t say much these days, except to snap and bite and Brian’s too numb to flinch at the pain that brings, depriving him of the outlet he craves on those occasions he opens his mouth. It’s the still quietness that hurts worse, Brian’s found. The song he’d been working on has really come along in the resounding silence of the flat although Brian’s not sure why he’s continuing. There’s no one to play it, even if he ever got it finished. Perhaps he’ll give it to Becky, since it’d always felt about her and less for Smile.
There doesn’t seem to be much of a Smile anymore in these slowly spinning days after Roger’s departure anyway. Not one that doesn’t play at keeping going, nor one that speaks of the future. A future that Brian can see, at least.
John’s quietly brought up the possibility of a permanent replacement and if they’re serious about continuing, about keeping on with the little successes they’ve made in the past few months, they need to make that decision. They’ve been putting it off, however, each in his own way not willing to look further than the next day. The day that Roger’ll be back. It’d be horrible if he returned only to learn they’d replaced him.
They’re running out of tomorrows, however, and the day the little drummer left is further in the past than Brian likes to think about.
In which case, John’s prompt has merit. It’s not as if they’ve not done all this before. Freddie stepped in as a replacement for a fickle, frivolous friend from school, John took over when the other long-standing member, Tim, left. Roger himself joined after they kicked Karl out. Brian’s really the only true Smile member remaining, truth be told, and Smile just doesn’t feel like Smile anymore. Not now their furious little drummer’s gone.
Their rehearsals are filled with poor attempts at music with half the rhythm section missing and scattered thoughts of keeping going, moving on and where Roger might have gone. They’re alternately tense or rambling, these practises for songs that hang listlessly between them with no drums to prop them up. Brian’s waiting for the other shoe to drop; for John to announce his return to Leicester, for Freddie to find some other group to mastermind. He’s torn his large Smile diagram in two already.
It’s a rough way to live, this not knowing.
Turning from the hanging decorations in the window, Brian glances towards the door as Freddie opens it for John.
“Morning,” the younger man offers quietly. His gaze roves between them in quiet hope, bitter doubt drowning that glimmer as he judges their expressions. He asks, anyway. “Still no word, then?”
“Nothing,” Brian agrees.
“Right.”
They pretend everything’s normal as John sets down his amp, bass guitar slung across his back. They pretend as the drums sit silent and empty and ownerless.
“Right,” Brian repeats his friend softly, as they try in vain to stretch out the moments before they need to acknowledge their band is a member down.
Typically, Freddie breaks first.
“For pity’s sake,” he snaps, his sudden movements like a blast rocking the stillness of the flat. “This isn’t healthy.”
“No,” John replies. He shifts, fingers restless on his bass’ strings. “What are we doing about it?”
“I’ve heard nothing from anyone I’ve asked,” Brian mumbles. He’s not sure what else he can do; Roger’s left no trace of his flight from them. It’s frightening how a small teenage boy can disappear so entirely.
Pursing his lips, Freddie pauses his quick stride momentarily. It’s only to shift direction, however; his steps bring him to the telephone stand in rapid, decisive movements.
“What about that boy he’s friend’s with?”
“Lawrence?”
“Yes, him. Where’s he live?”
“No idea.”
They’ve been over this before, but Freddie’s hand still waves impatiently at the telephone directory, sitting unused on the shelf beneath the telephone itself. “What’s his surname? Well-to-do family like his is bound to be in this bloody book of numbers.”
Brian shrugs wretchedly. They very well might be, but he’s never known the older teenager’s last name. He’s never thought to ask, as he’d not thought to make a note of where he could find him should he need to get hold of Roger. Misery curls in his stomach. He’s made a bit of a pigsty out of this business of being Roger’s responsible adult.
The thought prompts his next suggestion, one he’s been putting off by mostly sticking his head in the sand. No longer, though. Responsible adult, of a sort.
“I think,” he says slowly, the words tasting foul, “it’s time to give his dad a ring.”
“You don’t think he’s gone home, do you?”
John’s startled exclamation is met by two guilty, miserable stares. They’ve discussed it a number of times, just as they’ve theorised their little drummer might have hidden with Lawrence or Jean.
“It’s somewhere he knows,” Brian offers at last.
“It’s somewhere he doesn’t like,” John retorts.
Freddie beckons Brian over. “It’s worth a try.”
Swallowing over a dry throat, Brian searches for the number he’d been given for Michael’s neighbours. He’d give anything not to do this; for a start he doesn’t want to admit he’s lost Roger and for another, he’s never met them before. He wonders how often they take messages for the man he, also, has only met once. He’d certainly seemed confident about their cooperation.
“Hello?”
“Hello.” It comes out half strangled, and Brian hastily clears his throat. “Good morning. Um. I was given this number to contact Michael Taylor.”
“Were you now?”
The voice on the other end of the line is more than middle aged, if Brian were to guess, and flatly put out.
“Yes. Um. Sorry.” Biting his lip, Brian grimaces. “It’s about Roger. His son.”
“Just who is this?”
“Brian,” Brian scrambles. “Michael knows me, Rog’s been staying with me.” A long silence stretches awkwardly. He winces harder. “Would it be possible to let Michael know to get in touch please?”
“Very well,” the man answers brusquely and Brian breathes a sigh of relief. For a horrible moment, he’d thought he had the number wrong.
“Thank you.” His bandmates are waiting, frowning, as he hangs up. Brian shrugs. “He’ll give us a bell, I suppose.”
“Too much to hope they’d have caught the urgency and gone to fetch him for you,” Freddie sniffs, thoroughly fed up and not shy in letting anyone within earshot know.
“Might be a bit miffed I’ve got their number,” Brian points out.
“A young boy’s gone missing!”
“They don’t know that, do they?” Brian snaps back.
“What do we do?” John asks. They pause in the brewing row to look at him. “If he’s back down in Cornwall and not coming home?”
“Talk some bloody sense into him,” Freddie growls but it’s all an act. He’s not angry. He had been, once, when the deception and theft had first been discovered, but that fury’s bled out through the wound of Roger’s long absence. Mostly, he’s just guilty and afraid and covering it with the acerbic front he puts on when he’s feeling terrible.
He’s not said as much, but Freddie feels responsible for Roger running. The longer it’s gone on, the worse he’s been, telling all who know him just how awful he’s feeling about things. Brian knows how that is.
Thinking back, he wishes he’d said something other than expressions of disappointment. He wishes he’d made sure Roger knew that while he could take time to clear his head, he was wanted back. Expected to return, as he’d done so often before. As Brian had taken for granted. As had not happened. It appears that the rising phoenix has run out of rebirths, has been exhausted by the fire at last.
It seems that Smile’s been taken down with it.
John, as always, ignores the bile of Freddie’s tone and pushes for an answer. Likes to know what’s what does their bassist, and this waiting in limbo’s doing his nut. Brian can understand. The not knowing is quietly killing him also.
“No, really, what’re we going to do? If he doesn’t want to come back, like.”
Freddie’s pacing stops again, his back to them. “Then we wish him well and carry on.”
Just like that, Brain wants to ask. Farewell and thanks for all the music. He bites his cheek. It doesn’t feel as if that should be the end of it. They’d not only brought a drummer into the band, they’d taken Roger into their lives. Freddie’s speaking as if the teenager’s just another casual acquaintance. Easy come, easy go.
He’s beginning to think perhaps he’s in the habit of forcing a stronger bond with people than they’re really giving. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t let go of Becky, why his parent’s approval means so much to him. What if Brian’s been the problem all along and moving on isn’t as hard as he sets it up to be.
Except Freddie’s not managed to turn and face them, has he? And the frontman’s been chasing half remembered gossip and unrealised dreams and smoke and mirrors for the past few weeks, like a bloodhound on the scent for any trace of Roger’s whereabouts.
“Fred,” Brian softly calls.
His best friend sets his shoulders, finally turning. “No, if he wants gone, let him.”
“What if –” John starts, face that of a kicked puppy and tone unsure.
“He chooses,” Freddie cuts him off firmly. “We’ll put the option before him, but I don’t want him here if he’s not fully invested.”
He’s hard, a man of stone, cold granite and chipped marble. A frozen rock weathered and beaten and remaining as firm as allowed. He’s desperately trying not to show his worries and guilt, but Brian knows him. Is well aware of his tricks and deceptions. John, meanwhile, doesn’t have to be a rocket scientist to work it out for himself. He might not have known Freddie for as long, but he’s got a good, sensible head on his shoulders.
Besides, once you get to know him, Freddie’s not too hard to read, hardened exterior and all.
Dredging up a smile he barely feels, Brian asks, “What if he’s not gone back to his dad?”
That stone façade cracks a little, worst case scenario’s filling the gap between them. All the same, Freddie only says, “If he wants out of the band, let him go.”
John’s strings resound, the man unable to remain still as his fingers find an outlet. “All right,” he ventures. “Then what?”
“Know any decent drummers?” Brian says and wonders where the humour came from.
John doesn’t smile, however. “Den’s been talking.”
“About what?” On the pretext of adjusting his mic, with the cut off stand fixed in its homemade clip courtesy of Smile’s handy young bassist, Freddie avoids looking at him. The Crowd’s Dennis isn’t the only one that’s been talking recently. So far, they’ve not really done much in the way of listening.
“Terry,” John replies anyway.
Brian’s first reaction is a grimace. The man’s not a bad drummer, and he’s a decent sort in his own way; amicably stepping into Smile’s crisis several times when he could and doing what he was able to get to grips with for their originals, but Brian can’t picture Terry sat behind him at the kit from here on out. Or perhaps that’s simply stubbornness, refusing to accept anyone else in Roger’s place. It’s not as if Smile haven’t gone through more than one drummer in the past.
“Should see about a chat,” he finds himself saying, head ducked to his Old Lady as he fine tunes what doesn’t require tinkering with. “See what’s what.”
There’s a beat, a hush where the flat hold’s it’s breath, before John agrees softly. “Suppose we should.”
“I can’t see Rich being happy about it.” There’s a heat in Freddie’s voice now, a spiteful edge that cuts and spills blood. Mostly Freddie’s, always so ready to punish himself, despite the direction his words take.
“Can’t imagine he would be,” John shrugs. “But Terry’s talking about going elsewhere. Or so Den says.”
“And what of Dennis?”
“Don’t think he’s looking to join us.”
“Not –” the laughter feels odd; a relief, a gasp, a keening in the night of age old hurt, “not about that. How’s he feel about Terry leaving?”
Again, John shrugs. The little smile he offers is self-aware. “Don’t think The Crowd are that fussed, to be honest.”
“What a ringing endorsement,” Freddie scoffs.
“Just about how far the band goes, I mean.”
“Terry’ll have to pull his socks up if he wants in here,” the singer tsks. “No room for hobbyists.”
“No,” Brian agrees quietly. “Not here.”
They fall into a rehearsal, mostly trying to keep the illusion of normalcy going. Music’s always been a comfort, and none of them are above reaching for that familiar solace. They’re just treading water, however; there’s no talk of how something could be tweaked or altered, how something’s suddenly too fast or too slow. There’s no looking to the future, when they want the piece perfect and presentable to an audience. There’s just today, and getting through to tomorrow.
Afterwards, Brian walks John out to the van. He does most days now, using the short journey as an excuse to check the letterbox located in the hallway. Since he’s there anyway. The disappointment of an empty space has become something of a routine, superseded only by the heartstopping occasions he’s found an envelope inside. Each time, it’s been another bill or statement but the heart wants what the heart wants and each time Brian’s helplessly hoped for something else. Peering inside as John waits patiently, Brian’s heart misses a beat once more.
An envelope awaits. Hands shaking despite the knowledge it’s nothing he’s looking for, Brian reaches in and draws it out.
“Another bill?”
Brian freezes, heart now beating wildly. Unable to find his voice or the words needed, he mutely shows the handwritten address on the front. In an untidy scrawl, both Freddie and Brian’s names have been placed above the location of the flat.
“You don’t think…”
Abandoning John’s amp in the hallway, Brian tears back down towards the flat. “Fred!”
“What?” Meeting them halfway down, the frontman’s face shows his alarm. “What’s the matter?”
“Letter,” John replies, because Brian’s still having trouble with words.
Hands trembling, he rips up the top flap. Excitement, dread, hope and worry all tumble aside in the wake of baffled hesitation. The envelope contains nothing but a few small notes.
“Cash?” Freddie frowns.
“Roger,” Brian insists, ignoring the contents in favour of displaying the handwriting again. They know this hand, these swirls and squiggles; they’ve seen his writing on numerous occasions.
Freddie hums noncommittally.
“C’mon, Freddie, it’s Roger.”
John nods. “Who else’d send money?” His eyebrow twitches. “Except your aunt Mildred, perhaps.”
Freddie finally looks up. “I don’t have – oh, for goodness’ sake.” Off Brian’s searching look, he purses his lips. “All right, the little toerag’s sent us recompense for stealing our stuff and absconding.”
“More’n that,” Brian says. “Wouldn’t give a toss if he was planning on scarpering for long, right?”
“Or he’s tying up loose ends.” Now John’s shifting to Freddie’s side of the argument and Brian glares in the bassist’s direction. Not at all helpful.
Taking back the envelope he scans it for more clues. “London postmark, just two days ago. He’s still here.”
“Marvellous,” Freddie tells him. “Glad we narrowed that down.”
“Oh, bugger,” John adds. “We stirred his dad up for nowt then.”
Groaning, Brian’s shoulder’s slump. Terrific. What a brilliant conversation that’s going to be. All the same… “Be better than telling him his son’s gone missing.”
“Has, though, hasn’t he?”
“We know he’s in London,” Brian declares. He can work with that. “Right, let’s make the rounds again, shall we?”
“Really,” Freddie tuts, “is there much point?”
Brian pauses in nipping back into the flat for his keys. “What?”
“All that’s really changed is he sent a letter while in London.”
“Right, we can cross off other places from our list.”
“What other places? We’ve no places to begin with,” Freddie snaps, and Brian’s temper once more snaps back.
“Better than sitting on our arses twiddling our thumbs. Stay here if you want, I’m going –” his tirade, and the rejoinder Freddie’s clearly about to start in on is cut short by the telephone ringing.
Hurrying over, Brian wonders if Roger’s phoning to see if they received his money and for a brief, heartstopping moment thinks he has as a raspy voice queries, “Hello?”
“Hello?” Brian responds eagerly.
“Was told you were looking for me.”
Brian pauses. The words are right, but that husky voice … “Oh,” he realises. “Yes. Hello, Michael.”
“Well? Bloody neighbours’re giving me gyp here.”
“Sorry. Um. It’s just…”
“Not ill, is he?”
“No. Er, not that I know of.”
There’s a pause where Brian tries to find the right way to tell Roger’s dad his son is missing. Michael breaks it with a huffed laugh.
“Don’t tell me he’s taken off on you.”
“Um.” Brian winces. He thinks Michael’s making a joke, poorly, and wonders how to tell him just how right he is.
“Lad’s a runner,” Michel tells him, however, no humour just once more interpreting the silence. “Little bastard. Don’t say I didn’t warn you how much trouble he was.”
“He’s no –”
“Fucking waste of space,” Michael continues. “Well, he ain’t come crawling around here at any rate.”
“We’re sure he’s still in London,” Brian manages, before hastily adding, “We’re doing all we can to –”
“Save your time.”
“What?”
“Cunt’ll turn up as and when he so chooses. Don’t think of anyone else, that one, always got to be on his terms.”
“I don’t think –”
“He’ll be back, mooching food or coin and looking for a space to lay his head.”
“Really,” Brian insists firmly, “Rog’s not –”
“Got his head in the clouds,” Michael grumbles. “Tried to do my best by him, but what can you do when they just won’t learn?”
“Honestly, he’s not been any trouble.”
“Why you bothering my neighbours, then?”
“It’s just, there was a bit of a scene, and we’d wondered if he was with you,” Brian attempts, only just spotting Freddie in time and avoiding losing the telephone to him.
“He ain’t. Ain’t likely to be, either.” A heavy sigh reverberates down the line as Brian once more twists away from an angry Freddie. “Fucking neighbour’s are gonna be sticking their noses in, now, ain’t they?”
“Sorry,” Brian tells him automatically, because he tends to apologise for anything he stumbles into.
“You tell him to write me,” Michael harrumphs. Muttered, he adds, “Give him a piece of my mind.”
Shoving Freddie forcibly away, Brian nods. “I’ll let you know when he’s back.”
Hanging up without a further word, Brian turns on his best friend.
“That dreadful man should hope I never go down there and …” shaking his head, he purses his lips. “All right, darling. Let’s go take another look for the small child.”