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.

As I watch him, the first question my mind is, why is Rog here? Why isn't he in London? He only left earlier in the day so, if he'd been there and back, he'd what? Said hello to Skylar, tried to apologize, and been rebuffed? And then decided to drive back overnight?

And would Skylar really be so angry about the whole interview thing?

I mean, sure, I'd be fucking livid if I were her. How could Rog have been so stupid? The Sounds interviewer had been a real snake, it's true. Can you believe that she used that photograph of me even after she promised not to? I mean, really. I give her a beautiful fucking interview, and she pulls that nonsense?

So, yes, she's a cunning bitch, we can all agree on that. But to misquote Roger so insidiously, so craftily...

Well, unless he'd actually said it. Which he may have. I'm not the only one who can't be trusted around journalists. And, if he did say it, then he's a first-rate arsehole, and all the make-up sex in the world won't help his case.

In front of me, unaware of my presence, Roger mutters under his breath as he methodically destroys all order in the kitchen. He's clearly not sober and is wholly unaware that he's making so much fucking noise. After ravaging the cupboard, he starts in on the drawer of cleaning supplies.

"What the hell is he doing?"

I jump half a meter in the air as Deaky whispers the question from just behind me. The tennis racquet--which I still have raised next to my ear ready to strike--goes crashing to the floor. Startled, Roger looks up to see me squinting at him from the doorframe, and John peeking over my shoulder.

He starts to say something, but before he can get the sentence out, he loses his balance and tumbles to the ground. John and I remain frozen in place as Roger lays on the linoleum floor, running a hand through his long hair.

"...Rog?" I finally say, venturing a foot into the kitchen. All I get in response is a garbled response.

"Roger," I repeat. "What are you doing? It's half three in the morning."

Mumble mumble mumble. I look back at John, who shrugs at me wide-eyed. More incoherent mumbling, though this time, John can decipher a few words at the tail-end.

"Oh!" he exclaims triumphantly as if we've discovered King Tut's tomb. "He's looking for the emergency stash."

Of course. Why didn't it occur to me sooner?

We'd come to Rockfield a few weeks earlier, each of us armed with copious quantities of liquor and wine. But our supplies dwindled quickly, partly because the fuckers at Trident were breathing down our necks about the album, and partly because we're all borderline alcoholics.

So, in an effort to behave like responsible adults, we'd each hidden an emergency stash around the house.

John had gone through his supply first. Mine had been raided second. Roger hadn't actually stashed any away, saying something about self-control, but, soon after that, his portion was also gone. Now it's only Roy's emergency bottle of whisky that remains, which must be what Roger is prowling around for..

"Why aren't you in London?" John asks, walking gingerly over to Roger. "How did things go with Skylar?"

Roger lets out a groan and sits up, his back hunched over and his long hair in his face. Now that I can see him clearly, he looks absolutely dejected.

"I fucked up," he muttered, angrily shoving his fringe out of his eyes. "I fuuuuucked uuuuuup."

He's slurring, and I'm wondering how in the bloody hell he's managed to get to London, fuck things up, get back, and be this trollied. The logistics of it all escape me.

"Well, what happened?" I walk over and sit criss-cross next to him. "It can't be that bad, right?"

Behind me, John starts to quietly replace the crockery back to its rightful home. He stands on tiptoes to reach high above the refrigerator and, in one fell swoop, grabs the last bottle of liquor in the joint.

"You've known where it was the entire time?" I ask indignantly. "That's not very neighborly of you, John, not, you know, very bandmate-like or whatever--"

He gives me a look, and I shut up, watching as he collects three teacups off the floor and arranges them in front of us. As he starts to dole out Roy's whisky, I look again at Roger. He's staring at the floor in front of him, looking equal parts cross and depressed.

"Was she angry about the interview?" I query. "I'm telling you, we should sue. Between what they said about you and using that picture of me--"

"It wasn't the interview," Roger croaks. "Yeah, she's pissed off about that. Oh, and the moment that I found her in the pub, some random chick started to come onto with me, of course--of course, of fucking course, because I can't get a fucking break, can I?--but, fuck, I fucked up, and I told her... well, I fucking told her that I love her."

John freezes mid-pour. My eyes feel like they're bugging out of their sockets. The room is absolutely silent for a moment as we all collect our thoughts.

"You-- you told her that you love her?" I ask tentatively. Roger nods miserably as John sets the whisky bottle on the ground and nudges the teacups towards us. We each pick it up and take a drink, the liquid creating a familiar burn at the back of my throat.

"That's good, right?" John's soft, kind voice finally breaks the silence as Roger shakes his head miserably.

"Apparently not," he said. "Skylar froze. She fucking froze. Her entire body stiffened in my arms, and this-- this panic was in her eyes... as if I had just told her that I maime puppies in my spare time."

Roger pulls his knees up towards his body and leans his head against them. I run a hand through my hair, wondering what went wrong. Of course, Roger is in love with her. That's been evident for bloody ages. And I would bet serious money that Skylar feels the same way so... what happened?

"I told her that I loved her," Roger continues softly as he stares at the floor, unable to make eye contact with either of us. "And she just looked at me with those panicky eyes like a deer in the headlight... and then she walked away."

"She walked away? What do you mean she walked away?" Deaky reaches for the whisky and hastily pours a refill.

"Well, her mate from the hospital pulled her back towards their group. I couldn't hear a fucking thing, it was so loud and--oh! They played Seven Seas! Right after a Supremes song, can you imagine that? I saw a few people bopping along..."

Roger trails off as he sees us watching him as he goes off on a tangent.

"Anyway, so her colleague pulled her away before either of us could say anything, and... well, that's that, isn't it?." Roger says the last bit definitively as he brushes off his trousers. He stands and walks over to the nearest cupboard and begins to replace the tins of soup.

We sit in silence for a moment, watching him tidy up. Finally, John speaks up.

"So what did she say when she came back?"

"I dunno, I left." Roger's back is to us, and it takes a moment for us to decipher his muffled words.

Deaky and I look at each other, brows furrowed. "You... left?" I finally ask.

"Well, yeah, I fucking left. I tell her that I love her--something I've only said seriously once before in my entire life, and she just walks away? So, yeah, I left. I walked right out of the pub and got back in the car to drive back here."

"How did you--" I start to ask how in God's name he's managed to get so drunk considering that he couldn't manage to find the liquor, but think better of it. "--so, uh, you just left? Does she even know where you are?"

The drummer shrugs and then cocks his head to the left, finally turning to face him. "I dunno. Maybe. Doesn't take a genius, does it? But I don't care anymore. It's always too much for her. She doesn't want to move in together--she acted like I was having a laugh when I suggested it--and clearly, she doesn't feel the same way about me, so..."

He trails off and starts to laugh, the cackle of a drunk, embarrassed, exhausted person. I have a flashback to how long and hard I chased Mary and how worried I'd been when I finally got up the courage to tell her that I loved her. And I'm the sort of fellow who wears my heart on my sleeve half the time, which Roger rarely does, so... fuck.

Roger continues to half-heartedly replace plates and bowls into the cabinet while John and I stare at each other. We're waging a silent battle over who will get Rog upstairs and into bed. I cock my head to the right and stare down Deaky, willing him to admit defeat. Finally, with a sigh, he stands and walks over to our bandmate. After some general grumbling and unsteady feet on the stairs, Roger is tucked in, and we can finally go back to sleep.

The next morning, I'm once again awoken by a banging. Bleary-eyed, I stumble towards the stairs. As I pass by Roger's half-open door, I glance in to see an empty bed.

Muttering to myself, I walk to the door and fling it open, hoping against hope that Mary has decided to get in on this mess and is here for an unannounced visit. Squinting in the sunlight, I shield my eyes with my hand and try to decipher the silhouette standing on the front porch.

"Hi, Freddie," a soft, familiar voice says. "Is Roger here?"