Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, London, 9th January 1987

"So, when're you meeting this donor person Mo?" Mr Brannigan asked his daughter in his strong Belfast accent.

"Some time later in the morning" Monica answered her aged father, sat on the sofa against one of the walls of the room with a cup of tea in her hand and a bath towel slunk around her neck brace on her shoulders to catch her dripping wet, dark hair.

Her parents both sat either side of their grandson Johnny's hospital bed as he lay in a coma, both jet-lagged and donning their long, dark winter coats to hide their thin-layered brightly-coloured summer clothes underneath.

"Do you know who it is yet?" her father then asked.

"Not a thing." Monica replied, taking a sip from the plain porcelain cup and feeling the lukewarm beverage on her tastebuds and trickling down her throat.

"Then why do you want to blindly meet a total stranger? That's what I don't understand" Patsy Brannigan shook her head to herself, stiff upper lip.

"Didn't you both bring me up to have good manners? It'd be rude not to reach out and say thank you," Monica reasoned, and doubted, "Perhaps I should've bought a card as well."

"Don't beat yourself up about it, Mo. You have enough on your plate at the moment" Mr Brannigan comforted, all the while continuously rubbing his grandson's forehead.

"You should be careful," Patsy apprehensively warned, "it might be someone expecting a cash reward or some kind of payment"

"Well, I have no money so no harm done" Monica exaggerated, shrugging.

"You can tell the poor wee lad had a really bad tumble..." Mr Brannigan pitifully crooned as he studied Johnny's visible cuts, wounds and yellowing bruises here and there on his face and torso, then to the boy's unruly bangs sticking out of the bandages wrapped around his head, "If he stays asleep as long as Rip Van Winkle then he'll definitely need a haircut when he wakes up!"

"Aye, Johnny's hair has always been a bit too unruly for my linking anyway," his wife added critically, "You should cut it shorter in case there's nits at that school of theirs!"

"Millions of little boys have their hair cut like Johnny's, mum!" Monica uttered with a slight eye roll.

"She's right, hon. Get with the times!" Mrs Brannigan agreed.

"Anyway I don't know if I'll be sending the twins back to Headfort yet, or ever," their daughter rambled on, "Even then, that school is less likely to have nits than a public school"

Patsy feared disdainfully, "If you keep changing their schools then they'll both be lost causes... they'll never get to know who they are!"

Mr Brannigan jumped in before mother and daughter could start bickering, "I take it Roshni's staying with Paula?"

Monica nodded silently.

Patsy shuffled uncomfortably in her seat, "Well, if that punk was open enough to voice her concerns about your day-drinking to me, then I suppose I can trust her to mind my granddaughter."

"Paula isn't a punk, mam. She's just... nonconforming."

"Same difference! I'm surprised she even got a job in London when she dresses like those hooligans and lesbians you see around town nowadays!" Her mother shuddered slightly.

Monica sighed, "Well funnily enough she is a lesbian but that has nothing to do with how she does her hair or-"

Mr and Mrs Brannigan gasped in surprise.

"Wee Paula McIntyre's a lesbian?!" Monica's father exclaimed, his grey eyebrows arched.

Patsy's hand was on her stiff mouth, shaking her head slowly in disbelief.

"Oh shit..." Monica immediately regretted outing her friend's sexuality.

Fortunately, her father was rather accepting.

"Each to their own I suppose, but my God! I definitely wouldn't have seen it coming. Not with the way she used to badger on and on about boys and parties and sex all the time!" Mr Brannigan reminisced.

Monica's cheeks reddened, "How did you know we used to talk about all that?"

"A father knows, Mo," he winked, "And don't think we didn't notice all those cigarette butts underneath your mother's hydrangea bushes either. It's not good to keep secrets from us."

"That's exactly why I didn't think she'd be an entirely suitable guardian for our granddaughter," Patsy remarked, "But now that I know she's gay I'm not too sure how I feel about that either."

"Punks, lesbians, blood donors... have you got nothing nice to say about anything or anybody?!" Monica went off on her mother.

The whole room went silent, apart from the sounds of the monitors and machinery.

Patsy's icy blue eyes softened as her mouth wobbled to speak, but she couldn't find the words.

"I'm headed for the bog," Mr Brannigan awkwardly declared as he stood up, "Anybody want anything?"

"I'm fine, dad. Thank you for coming back from your holiday early."

"Not at all, Mo," Mr Brannigan leaned down to affectionately kiss his daughter's forehead, and earnestly he told her, "We're just glad you're safe."

Monica could hear the anxiety and exhaustion straining her father's voice as he walked out the door, leaving mother and daughter alone.

She stared into her cup as she brought it up to her lips again, but now her tea had grown cold and there was no taste of it left except for the taste of weak milk and undissolved sugar.

Monica remorsefully began, "I'm sorry for snapping at you like that, mam."

"You're right anyway, Mo" Patsy hastily replied.

Monica lifted her head. Her mother's eyes were now red and glistening with tears.

"You know," Patsy went on to admit, "It's not easy watching your daughter grow up too fast. Just you wait until Roshni's older and you'll see what I'm talking about."

"Mam, you've already had a conversation like this before. So you can grovel away about how you were-"

"Please, just listen to me!" her mother sharply cut across her.

Monica placed the cup of cold tea on the ground beside and folded her arms, careful not to sit back up too fast for fear of hurting her sprained neck.

"In the beginning," Patsy continued, "I used to think that Freddie was a bad man, but I was wrong."

"No, you weren't wrong," Monica numbly responded, "Even Laurence Olivier warned me."

"You've met Laurence Olivier?!"

"And Cliff Richard in the same night! It's a long story... anyway," she dismissed, "Laurence didn't exactly warn me against him. He just told me to look out for myself."

"Anyway, Freddie surprised me many times, you know, more times than I care to admit," Patsy confessed, "especially sending us money on a whim like that when the store got petrol-bombed."

Her daughter told her, "I don't really want to talk about the F word right now."

"If you don't want to talk to him then that's fine, but what I'm trying to say is that mothers get it wrong too."

"Yeah, I learnt that too for myself" Monica sarcastically said.

"What I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry, Mo. Maybe if I wasn't so... so judgemental, then maybe you wouldn't have rebelled and moved away."

"'Rebelled'?" Monica repeated, "Mam, I moved away because I was 18 and I fell in love!"

Patsy sighed, "Look, I don't want to argue with you, especially not in front of him."

Monica stopped fiddling with her hands on her lap and glanced over to Johnny on the bed, and realised that if things took another turn for the worst she didn't want her son's last memories to be the sound of his mother and grandmother bickering with one other, especially of his parents separating was already bad enough.

"By the way, what I said in April still stands," Patsy added earnestly, "If you need somewhere to live, we can take our old house in Ballysillan off the market. It still hasn't been sold."

"That's very generous of you and dad, but I don't think Belfast is entirely safe."

"Nowhere is entirely safe, Mo. That's what your dad always tells me when it comes to taking risks. But, after thirty odd years of being married to him and being a mother I learned that you can only do so much to protect the ones you love. And the other day, you did your best."

Monica forced a smile, "Thanks, mam. So did you."

Patsy reached over with open arms, and Monica reciprocated the healing embrace.

"Your dad and I are so proud, you know." Her mother whispered in her ear.

"For what? Failing uni, nearly drunk-drowning in a swimming pool, crashing my first ever car and sending my children to A & E?"

"Obviously not that!" Patsy frowned, pulling away, "What I mean to say is that you've faced so much adversity, and you're still here!"

"I am still here," Monica agreed, then quietly she doubted, "But what if Johnny won't be?"

That, her mother couldn't answer.

*****

In a black taxi somewhere down the Earl's Court Road...

"Thank you for coming along, Phoebe."

Freddie Mercury waited for his ex personal assistant Peter "Phoebe" Freestone, who was sat next to him in in the back of an inconspicuous Austin FX4 cab and staring out the window, to acknowledge his gratitude.

All the while, the radio on the dashboard crackled through the car speakers, filling the silence between the two men with news bulletins from across the world.

At last, Phoebe coolly replied to him, "You don't need to keep thanking me, you know. I'm only really coming because Abigail called me yesterday." Phoebe coolly replied.

Taking one glance at Phoebe beside him was enough to make Freddie feel ashamed, for the man's bruised eye socket was still a little swollen and his broken nose was now bandaged with flesh-coloured tape that tried to hide the damage, but only drew more attention to the injury itself. Phoebe's lower lip was also noticeably split from being socked in the mouth by Mr Steinherr.

On the other hand, Phoebe had to give Freddie credit for putting a bit of effort into his own appearance. The man had chosen one of his lesser worn-out leather jackets rather than his crumpled tracksuit tops, and it looked as tough he tried his best to iron his light denim jeans by himself. His raven hair had been combed back with only a small amount of gel, meaning that he'd just showered and that there was no grease to hide, and there was colour in his freshly shaven cheeks and no dark circles under his dark eyes.

"You look much more well-rested than when I last saw you" Mr Freestone complimented.

"I wouldn't have slept a wink last night if it weren't for the sleeping pills." Freddie murmured.

Phoebe curiously cocked a brow at him.

"It was only Nytol. Monica left some behind in her drawer, you see," he elaborated, and sadly mused, "I didn't even know she was taking it."

With the little sympathy he had left, Phoebe asked, "Do you want me in there with you, or do you want me to wait outside?"

"No, that's okay," Freddie assured him, "But thanks for taking the time to come out here, even though I've been an absolute tosser."

"Look, I've already told you that the Dublin thing wasn't important anymore," Mr Freestone said begrudgingly, "And anyway, why now? What made you have a change of heart?"

Freddie sighed, "There was no change of heart, I just found the truth out for myself."

"How?"

"I was shifting through the faxes in the machine yesterday, and I saw your carbon copy of your message to Mary in the scraps," he reflected, "And so, I read it and found out that you had given the right dates to book my test after all."

"Ahh... well, better late than never I suppose," Phoebe simply responded, staring straight ahead, "That still doesn't explain how the hospital got it wrong though."

"Mary got it wrong. Deliberately." Freddie muttered bitterly.

"I wouldn't be so cynical, Fred," Phoebe doubted, "Mary's usually quite careful and professional about dates."

"No, I confronted her about it. She tried to deny it at first, but when I pushed her enough with evidence she got rather callous. In the end I told her to hand in her keys. It wasn't a clash, just a wilful act on her part."

Phoebe didn't know how to respond to such juicy and intriguing gossip, but there was one thing that he was sure of:

"Sounds to me like you finally caught on."

Freddie lifted his head from his lap, "Come again?"

"It was painfully obvious to me that Mary and Monica never really saw eye to eye. Monica made an effort to be nice because that's just how she is, but Mary was rather catty in return, didn't you think?"

"I always knew that Mary never liked Monica, I just wasn't 'man enough' to do anything about it until yesterday because... well, you know why not."

"Fred," Phoebe began, "I know you still feel guilty about being unfaithful to Mary, but what she did to you and your family is equally unforgivable... and I as well, she sabotaged my job in the process."

"She also made me smash my favourite antique tea set into smithereens, the bitch," Freddie spat, then remorsefully trailed off, "I should've called her that instead of Monica..."

Phoebe shook his head, "It probably would've made things worse if you did."

"Pity that my tea set took the hit."

"Not to worry, you have plenty more at home."

The two men snickered quietly to themselves.

When Phoebe smiled slightly, Freddie noticed that a few of his newly replaced front teeth were off-colour, and he felt guilty again.

Freddie then mused, "I don't understand why the world has so many bad people in it. And I have to be one of them."

"You're not a a bad person, Fred. Just human like the rest of us." Phoebe defended.

"But what Monica said the other day is right," he went off, "My children are just another product of my sexual appetite and selfishness. And if I was HIV positive because of all those men I used to fuck and forget all those years ago, goodness knows. I could never have been allowed to donate my blood to Johnny."

Phoebe didn't condone Monica's words, but he knew that she probably just said them in the heat of the moment and were therefore meaningless.

"First of all, Johnny and Roshni were a product of your love, and they very much still are," he argued, "Secondly your decision to donate to Johnny, your own son, was selfless and noble. Noble enough that Monica wants to meet you and thank you."

"...She doesn't even know it's me yet." Freddie responded in defeat.

Phoebe offered yet again, "Are you absolutely sure you don't want me in the room with you? It's a daunting situation."

He listened as Freddie took a deep, sharp breath, and answered, "I better face it alone."

Phoebe understood, "Alright."

"'Face it alone'... that's a good title," Freddie repeated, rummaging through his jacket pockets, "I've got to write that down somewhere..."

"Okay, maestro," Mr Freestone chuckled, and offered, "Would you like a pen?"

"Please."

Mr Mercury took the biro from his ex assistants hand, and scribbled down the instantaneous song title on the back of a crumpled-up receipt.

As he did so, the acoustic opening for The Beatles' 1969 hit Here Comes The Sun started playing though the car speakers:

https://youtu.be/xUNqsfFUwhY

The whimsical, bright song evoked an uplifting feeling for Phoebe as he listened on, and he felt a smile on his face slowly forming.

Now feeling more comfortable, he began to ask Freddie, "By the way, did you really mean what you said to Mr Steinherr the other night?"

"About what? Not wanting to fuck him?" Freddie uttered, distracted.

"No! About me being good and hardworking and all."

With a sincere twinkle in his eye and a firm but soft voice, Freddie promised, "I meant every word of that speech."

Phoebe gave a little smirk, "Even though you were tipsy as well?"

Freddie rolled his eyes, and bore a toothy grin, "Well, I definitely meant the bit about you being a pain in the arse!"

They both chortled hard until their stomachs started to ache with laughter and the taxi driver in the front seat was giving concerned looks at the both of them in the rear view mirror.

"Little darling..." George Harrison crooned from the radio, "It's been a long, cold, lonely winter..."

Once they'd both settled and their sides weren't splitting, Freddie broached, "How's the job hunt going?"

Phoebe sheepishly admitted, "Haven't really had the time to look again."

"Well," Freddie anxiously proposed, "I haven't even really started looking for another personal assistant either. So, if you want to-"

"Yes please!" Phoebe interrupted.

Freddie stuttered in disbelief, "Y-You mean, you'll come back?!"

Phoebe nodded excitedly.

"Thank you!" Freddie threw himself at him as far as his seatbelt would allow as his heart burst with joy.

"Woah!" Phoebe exclaimed as the man hugged him, but he couldn't help but reach over and hold him back.

Now the atmosphere between them wasn't as tense as it had been, and was replaced with a sense of relief now that their friendship was on the mend.

Freddie was so dizzy with consolation that, over Phoebe's shoulder, he didn't initially recognise the woman with monochromatic hair and the black-haired little girl on the opposite side of the street out Phoebe's window.

The taxi was stopped at a light in traffic, so he had plenty of time to also spot the big black dog leading the two of them down the sidewalk. Then it was clear...

"Roshni?!" Freddie moonily breathed his daughter's name.

"What?" Phoebe looked out behind him in surprise.

There Roshni Wendy Bulsara was, walking hand in hand with Paula McIntyre down Earls Court road without a care in the world and being dragged forward by the large dog that neither men could remember the name of.

Mr Freestone noticed Freddie stretch across and frantically start rolling his door window down.

"Oh no!"

He tried to stop him, "Fred, don't-"

"Roshni?!"

The girl halted. Her head snapped around at the sound of someone calling her name, as did her Auntie Paula's.

Roshni's happy smile faded into dismay when her blue eye's met Freddie's.

The driver slowed down, having sensed commotion in the back seat.

"Just keep driving, sir" Phoebe urged him.

The car sped up again with the flow of traffic that was now bleeping and honking horns behind them in anger. But for Freddie, time had stopped altogether.

He stared as Paula protectively clutched his daughter by her side, and they both walked away quickly down the sidewalk, and disappeared around the street corner. The sight alone made Freddie's heart drop.

"Why did you do that?!" Phoebe scolded him lightly, "Are you trying to make things worse?"

"I..." The man was too crushed to answer, "I just wanted to see my little girl again" 

"Well, maybe she doesn't want to see you" Phoebe wanted to say, but held his tongue.

Freddie's voice faltered, "She looked so happy, didn't she? Then she had fear in her eyes whenever she saw me."

"Maybe you're not ready to do this, Fred" His newly reappointed personal assistant earnestly suggested.

Freddie didn't respond, leaning his head against his elbow and stared out the car window.

Phoebe persisted, "Do you want the driver to turn around and head back?"

He watched Freddie hesitate a little longer.

"...No, fuck it."

"You mean you'll go?"

Freddie looked Phoebe dead in the eye:

"Monica has to know the truth."