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When Brian stepped into the tube, he could tell right away that he was not going to be the only one protesting the Vietnam War that day. The vehicle was packed, and not just with the usual men in suits and housewives on the way to the weekly downtown market - there were students and young people all around, carrying banners and phrases on cardboards and representations of the Vietnam flag. Some of them had renditions of the flag painted on their cheeks; others, obviously taking into account that the police were likely not to react mildly to the manifestation in front of the U.S. Embassy by thousands of disgruntled citizens, had decked themselves out with helmets and protective gear. There were a handful of individuals who had come armed with sticks and baseball bats, and Brian made a mental note to himself to stay away from them if at all possible - he had come for peaceful protest, and did not intend to be dragged away by the police and flung into jail for the night. He knew it was a possibility that this would happen, certainly, but if he could at all help it, he would prefer to prevent it.
More people stepped into the tube, and Brian moved away from the entrance for more space. He hoisted his backpack onto his back again; he hadn’t taken much, just a bottle of water, something to eat in case it was going to be a long afternoon, and a ridiculous hat with the text ‘I Love Tenerife’ that his mother had made him take with him against the sun that was beating down on the city that day. It was exceptionally fine weather, which Brian was sure contributed to what seemed to be a large turnout to the protest march. Still, his parents had been very much against him going to the demonstration; they thought it dangerous and reckless, and it had taken him quite some time to convince them it was safe for him to go. He’d told them he was going with a group of students from university, which was only partially a lie. Yes, there were going to be other people from his school at Grosvenor Square - but chances of them meeting each other were small, given that thousands were expected to turn up today. That was something his parents didn’t need to know, though
Brian felt his stomach turning a bit at the thought of it. He had never attended a demonstration before, but the continued outpour of news about war crimes in Vietnam - the abuse and rape of women and children and everything that moved within the country - forced him to do something. He knew that attending the manifestation might not directly benefit the Vietnamese people, but he hoped that a signal could be sent to the government, which continued to support American military actions in Vietnam. If they could reach the papers, and force some people within the government to rethink their strategy, then that was a decent start, Brian thought to himself.
‘You going to the protest, too?’
Brian was interrupted from his thoughts by the sudden presence of a young woman, likely to be about his age or maybe a little older, who stood in front of him. Her long hair fell over her shoulders in two thick braids, and she sported the Vietnam flag on both of her cheeks.
‘Er - yes, I am,’ Brian said a bit awkwardly, not having expected to be approached by a stranger.
‘You want the Vietnamese flag on your cheeks like me? My friends and me are trying to get as many people as possible in on this.’
‘Oh. Yeah, well, why not,’ Brian shrugged, and brushed his curls out of his face.
‘Marvellous! This will just take a minute,’ the girl said, dipping her hand into her bag and retrieving a little pack of face paint in the three primary colours from it. With the help of a brush, she set out to paint a yellow star on either cheek, and she filled the space around it with red paint. It tickled a little, and Brian smiled.
‘Have you been to the protests before?’ the girl asked, and Brian shook his head, which he instantly regretted when a stripe of the makeup landed on his nose.
‘Oh, excuse me. But no, this will be the first time.’
‘No trouble, I brought paper towels,’ the woman said, rummaging through her bag again. ‘We’re glad to have you along, in that case.’
Brian told himself not to nod this time, and waited patiently until the stranger was done with her work, the end of which was signalled by her pulling out a little pocket mirror and opening it for him.
‘Tadaa - you’re all ready to go,’ she smiled, and Brian looked at his face in the mirror. Two moderately sized flags in bright yellow and red. She’d done a good job; he just hoped that the sun would not melt the paint right off, and that his hair wouldn’t stick to it too much.
‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’
‘Thank you for letting me. Have a safe march,’ she said, and Brian returned the favour. The girl moved on to her next victim, and Brian looked in the dark window of the underground. It really did look decent, and he liked having something to identify himself as a protestor despite not having brought a banner or a cardboard with a message.
As he turned around, however, he locked eyes with a guy who sat across from him on the tube. A young man, about his age, with black hair and sharp features, whose eyes seemed drawn to him on account of the paint on his face. Brian felt himself blush a little, and although he was sure the other man couldn’t tell so through the layer of red paint, he still averted his eyes, turned so that his hair fell in front of his cheeks. He looked into his direction once more, and saw the man was still staring at him. Maybe it had been stupid to have allowed the girl to paint the flag of Vietnam on his cheeks; maybe it was not something he ought to do as a man. Then again, he was sure he’d seen multiple fellow men with the exact same marks on their faces, so it couldn’t be that weird, right? He wasn’t the only one at any rate, but for some reason, this brought but little consolation to him. Maybe he should find a way to get rid of the face paint; maybe there’d be a water fountain at Grosvenor square where he could wash it off… Or would this only result in a bigger mess on his face, that consequently would attract more onlookers?
Luckily for Brian, he didn’t get much time to think this scenario over for too long, for the tube came to a halt, and people started pouring out of the vehicle. He had never been to Grosvenor Square before, but seeing all people with banners and flags leaving at this stop was enough to tell him that this was where he was supposed to get off. He wriggled his way through the masses, ascended the stairs without falling, and closed his eyes against the glaring sunlight when he stepped out of the darkness of the underground.
Once he arrived at the surface of the city again, he wasn’t quite sure where he should start - or where he should even look. The promised thousands of protestors had definitely turned up; the square was almost completely filled with people, waving flags and banners and shouting anti-war phrases in unison. The police had also turned up in great numbers, and were concentrated in front of thU.S. Embassy building, a place Brian could tell right away needed the police protection if it was to pass the day without any window smashing and egg throwing. He couldn’t quite see what was happening all the way to the front of the masses, where the police and protestors were said to be clashing according to excited voices he heard around him. Brian knew he should stay away from the places of action, and yet they lured him in; he wanted to know what was going on, wanted to see with his own eyes if it was right that the police treated citizens with excessive violence and disrespect, and he slowly yet steadily wriggled his way towards the middle of the crowd.
It seemed that with every metre he passed, the atmosphere turned darker, the masses denser, and the people more rowdy. Towards the back, people had been rather quiet, just talking to each other and waving their banners; here, however, people were shouting their anti-war convictions loudly, pressing against each other, and clapping their hands. The energy was intoxicating, and Brian felt himself drawn to join them in their chanting and shouting and clapping. He was sweating under the hot summer sun and the movement of bodies all around him, and wiped at his forehead with a rough gesture.
‘Careful! They’re arresting the first protestors!’ someone shouted, and the message was carried on further down the crowd by loud voices, making sure that all of those in the mass of people stayed on top of what was going on. Brian heard something about people throwing eggs at the police, the mental image of which was funny to him, and about police hitting citizens with sticks, the mental image of which was less funny. The crowds were pushing forwards, backwards; some people moved to the back, not wanting to get too close to the violence. Brian still subscribed to this point of view, too - but surely he could get a little closer, see what was really going on - whether those sticks and teargas bombs were reality or just rumours created by a heated crowd that was ready to turn on the police.
It was easier than expected to surge forwards; people were moving out to the side, and with some determination and the advantage of a thin, lean body, Brian soon found himself reaching a point in the crowd where he could see some of the police. Part of them were sitting on horses, trying to slash at the protestors with the whip Brian supposed they normally used on their horses. Other police members formed a tight line in front of the embassy building, adamant that no one should cross. They had their sticks at the ready - but so had some of the protestors, who’d come decked out with helmets and baseball bats, giving them a very similar protective gear as the police - if not better, given that their baseball bats were longer and sturdier than those suddenly sad looking standard-issue sticks the police had been given.
‘They’re fighting! The police are beating and fighting people!’ Brian heard people in front of him shouting, and the crowd moved backwards for a bit, though only a little. After only a few minutes, they surged forwards again, by now crossing the line of the grass and moving into the streets. He almost tripped and fell over a hole in the ground, and looked down to see a hole in the ground where once a paving stone had been. How they’d done it he did not know, but it seemed like people had extracted stones from the road and thrown them at the police - something that was confirmed by some shouts he heard at his left side.
‘Get the stones! Throw them at the pigs!’ someone demanded, and in front of him Brian saw people getting down on their knees to do exactly that. The stones came loose with surprising ease, and Brian held his breath as he saw the first protestors hurl them at the police. They were close enough now to hit them with things they threw, and Brian felt himself nearly delirious with the tension of it all.
‘Attention all protestors! This is the London Police speaking,’ Brian heard through a megaphone that was only barely audible over the noise of the crowds. ‘Evacuate the area immediately and peacefully, or we shall be forced to carry out arrests, by force if necessary. I repeat, evacuate the area immediately and peacefully!’
‘Never! We will never surrender!’ Someone behind Brian shouted in his ear, and the message soon carried over to other protestors. The words ‘never surrender’ were repeated ad infinitum by an increasingly hot-headed crowd that continued to push against the police line, which at last seemed to give in. With loud shouting, people in front of Brian rushed towards the place where the police had given way to the crowds, and suddenly Brian found himself standing in the middle of a free for all where police and citizens attacked each other, where banners were confiscated and people taken in, all while stones were still being pelted at the police, and officers were attacked with baseball bats. Brian was frozen in place; he had never noticed he’d made it this far towards the front of the crowds. There had been at least six to eight metres of protestors between him and the police just a moment ago; and now he was here, standing all but eye to eye with officers. To make matters worse, he felt someone poking his side and pressing something into his arms.
‘Do something! Make yourself useful, man!’ a tall guy shouted at him as he handed Brian a cobblestone. In the heat of the moment, Brian didn’t know what happened to him, and he just stood there, sound- and motionless.
‘You there! Drop that stone!’
A police officer had obviously caught sight of Brian with the stone in his hands, and pointed his stick at him. ‘Drop that at once!’
‘I- this isn’t mine,’ Brian tried, but his naturally soft voice did not manage to reach the ears of the officer - or, if it had, the guy did not care. The man charged at him, and white-hot searing pain exploded all over Brian’s right temple. He did as he was told at last - the dropped the stone, but with that, he dropped to the ground himself, too, only being rescued from hitting his head into the pavement below him by the arms of someone catching him just before this happened.
‘Man down! Man down,’ someone shouted, but it didn’t sound natural. It sounded distorted and strange, and Brian’s view went blurry for a bit. He felt movement; felt himself being pulled out of the crowd by multiple people, stumbling on his feet for a bit, before someone quite literally scooped him off his feet and carried him away.
Things went blurry for a bit after that, but when he came to again, Brian felt himself being patted on the cheek by a dark-haired man, who spoke something inaudible to two girls who also hovered over him. Brian’s head hurt, and his face felt warm and sticky. Then, as if the people around him could read his thought about the state of his face, someone splashed cold water in his face, and his eyes flew open as he gasped and spluttered.
‘He’s come to! He’s conscious,’ one of the girls said, sounding relieved. Brian gasped still, and brought up a shaky hand to wipe the water out of his face.
‘Oh, my love, your face paint-’ the man said, and Brian looked at the back of his hand, on which red and yellow had mingled into a strange shade of orange - and he could only guess at what his face must look like now. Still, he had a feeling that this should be least of his worries; his temple was still throbbing painfully, and he felt something dribble down the side of his face. Upon bringing up his hand again and touching it, he found it to be blood, and his stomach turned.
‘Don’t touch it, my dearest. I’ll disinfect it and clean it for you, alright?’ said the man with black hair, and Brian heard the unzipping of a bag. He looked down at his shoulders to see the straps of his own bag still in place, which was a relief to him. Not that the contents of the bag were worth so much to him, but well, perhaps he was more attached to that silly little I Love Tenerife cap than he had been previously willing to admit.
‘Clean?’ Brian slurred.
‘Yes - I don’t want this wound to get infected, that might make for some nasty problems,’ the man said. ‘But I foresaw situations like these, so I brought napkins, disinfectant, bandaids, and water. Speaking of which - you should have a sip. You look parched,’ the stranger said, and he opened a bottle of water for Brian. It was only when it was brought up that Brian realised he had indeed been so thirsty. The bottle was put against his lips, and a hand behind his head lifted him up a little for easier drinking. It was a soft, almost tender gesture, Brian thought later - but now, all he could think of was to gulp down that sweet, sweet water.
Much too soon the bottle was removed from his lips again, and he groaned, closing his eyes.
‘Not too much all at once. I’ll give you some more in a bit, but let’s first clean this wound. ‘Come, sit up for me a little,’ he said, and helped shove Brian into a more upright position against the brick wall he was leaning against. ‘Thanks for the help, ladies - I’ll manage from here,’ he said to the girls who were looking on anxiously. They nodded and asked a few more questions that Brian didn’t overhear, and then they left to join the crowds again. The masses were noisy still, and people ran amok all around them, but all Brian could see was the face of the man who poured water onto a napkin. He knew that face from somewhere - he’d seen it before, but he didn’t know where…
‘I’m just going to wipe away the blood now,’ he said, and Brian nodded. The napkin was cold against his skin, and he frowned in pain when it was used to clear the blood from the place of the wound.
‘This might show for another while,’ the stranger said, more to himself than to Brian. ‘But we’ll just have to wait and see what happens. Does it hurt much?’
‘Kind of,’ Brian answered softly, feeling the pain throbbing at his temple.
‘I figured as much - I stood next to you as it happened. Saw that pig hit you right into the head - bloody bastard. You weren’t even doing anything,’ he said, preparing a wipe with disinfectant. ‘Now, I’m going to need to to clench your teeth together for a bit, because this will likely hurt.’
‘Don’t want to,’ Brian mumbled, and the man smiled at that.
‘I know. You can hold my hand if that makes you feel better. Maybe squeeze it if you need to,’ the stranger said, and before Brian could reach out, he’d already placed his hand on Brian - warm and small, with long, lean fingers. Brian gripped onto it despite hoping he’d have no need for it - something he hoped for in vain. The second the disinfectant-drenched napkin came in touch with the bleeding wound on his forehead, he groaned at the pain it caused, biting his teeth together and squeezing the hand he’d been offered.
‘Fuck - that hurts,’ he whispered through gritted teeth, breathing out through his nose.
‘I know, this is never going to be a nice feeling. Almost there, though,’ the man consoled him, rubbing the wipe over the wound. Just as Brian was about to tell him that he’d rather have an infection than go through this torture any longer, the wipe was removed, and the guy reached for a bandaid.
‘So, we’re just going to cover this up as well as we can. I’m afraid these bandaids are too small, though…’ He chewed on his bottom lip, and Brian wondered again where he’d seen him; so familiar as he looked, and yet he couldn’t come up with an answer to his own question. ‘I should have a piece of sterile gauze, though. I’ll just tape that to your forehead for the time being.’
As he said, so it happened; Brian stayed still on the ground and held the white patch up against the wound while the stranger who’d come to his rescue taped it into place.
‘So - you’re all good to go,’ he smiled. ‘But I think it’s best we get you home.’
Brian nodded at that suggestion. One glance at the crowds around him, from which people were being carried off by the police one by one at this point, told him that he did not want to go back in there even if he had not been injured.
‘Yes,’ Brian agreed. ‘I’ll take the tube - it’s very close to here,’ he said, and he scrambled off of the ground. He felt himself growing light-headed as he did so, and the grip of the man’s hand on his back was the only thing that kept him upright.
‘Easy, easy, my love. We’re in no hurry,’ he was told, and Brian nodded carefully. ‘Are you okay? Do we need to wait for a little while?’
Brian shook his head. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Just - where’s the tube?’ he asked. Despite having come to for a while, he still felt dizzy, and could not make out where he was, or the destination he was looking for.
‘It’s to your right. Come, give me your arm, I’ll get you there.’ Brian did as he was told, and the stranger hooked his arm around his, guiding him out of the street, staying close to the walls of the buildings to avoid being caught and carried off by the riot police that had arrived by now, which was just about the last thing Brian needed now.
Sooner than expected, they stood in front of the entrance to the underground, and Brian grabbed the handrail of the stairs as he carefully made his way downstairs. He still suffered from double vision and almost stepped next to the stairs a few times, but the man at his side kept him in check whenever he threatened to misstep, and together they made their way downstairs. It was nowhere near as crowded as it had been before; maybe most people had either already left, or they’d continued their protests elsewhere, where the police would leave them in relative peace. Brian wasn’t complaining; he was glad that when the metro arrived it was mostly empty.
‘Thanks a bunch,’ he said, turning to the man next to him. ‘I think I’ll manage from this point.’
‘Oh, no, I’m bringing you home,’ came the unexpected answer. ‘I have to make sure you get there safely.’
‘You really don’t have to,’ Brian said, even though he was kind of glad this proposal was made, for he felt weak and feeble still, and was afraid he might not make it on his own.
‘I do - it’s the right thing to do, to make sure fellow protestors get home safely,’ he said, and together they stepped into the metro, taking a seat on the bench at the right side. Brian sat down, but felt himself growing light-headed, and the stranger who had come with him seemed to see this, too.
‘You need to lie down,’ he told him, and pressed against Brian’s chest to push him down.
‘What, right here?’
‘Yes - you can put your head in my lap if you want to,’ he was told, and to be frank, this was an offer he could not refuse. Ignoring the other people around them, Brian lay down with his head in the stranger’s lap, and looked up at that familiar face, those eyes he knew from somewhere.
No longer able to oppress his curiosity any longer, Brian decided to just ask. ‘Do we know each other? I have a feeling I’ve seen you before.’
The man smiled down at him. ‘We did. On the tube this morning.’
That was it - the tube this morning! The man who’d sat across from him and who’d looked at him after he’d gotten his face painted by the girl! Of course it was him - how could Brian forget so quickly?
‘I can’t believe I forgot so soon,’ Brian said. ‘You looked at me after - eh, after this girl painted the Vietnam flag on my face,’ he said, feeling his face heating up again as he relived the moment of shame he’d felt right then. It turned out there was no need for this, though.
‘I did. I thought you looked cute,’ he said, twirling his finger around a strand of black hair.
‘I thought you thought I looked like an idiot,’ Brian admitted, and the stranger laughed.
‘What? Why would I think that? I loved your dedication to the protest. I may or may not have followed you around, trying to catch your eye, but you were too absorbed in the cause of our demonstration,’ he smiled. ‘I wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t know what to say. So when you got struck by a police officer… well, excuse me for saying it, but that was the moment I thought, ‘it’s my lucky day!’’
Now it was Brian’s turn to laugh. ‘Why, you’re enjoying seeing me in pain?’
‘No! Not that - but I was glad I could do something to help you,’ the man said. ‘I would have come up with something else if it had not been for you getting hit. Might have whacked you myself, for example.’
‘What?’ Brian asked, eyes flying open.
‘Just kidding, love,’ the man said, patting his curls. ‘I don’t even know your name yet.’
‘It’s Brian. Who are you?’
‘Freddie.’
‘Nice to meet you, Freddie,’ Brian smiled, and he received a heart-warming smile in return. ‘Just a shame it’s in the worst possible circumstances.’
‘It could have been worse,’ Freddie said. ‘We could have landed ourselves in jail for the night.’
‘Exactly what we needed,’ Brian sighed. ‘God, my head feels like it’s about to burst.’
‘When you get home, we’ll get some aspirin into you,’ said Freddie. ‘Try and rest a little for now,’ he said, stroking Brian’s hair where it spilled over his lap. Brian closed his eyes again, and leant in to the touch of Freddie’s fingers on his curls.
Sooner than he liked, the trip by the tube was over, and Brian was hauled from the bench and led outside by his new companion. They had to wait for a short while on the bus station, but soon enough bus 67 arrived, and Freddie bought two tickets to the West End, where Brian could vaguely make up in his scrambled brain that his parents and he lived. They sat down in an again almost empty vehicle, and Freddie motioned for Brian to put his head on his shoulder. Brian did as he was instructed, and groaned as his painful temple bumped into Freddie’s shoulder.
‘Careful, love. You’re going to be sore there for a little bit,’ Freddie warned.
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ Brian mumbled. ‘God, my parents are going to freak out when they see me like this. I’ll never be allowed to leave the house again if it’s up to them.’
‘I’m sure they have to let you go eventually,’ Freddie said. ‘And if not, I’ll come and fetch you.’
‘They’ll keep the door closed on you,’ Brian prophesied.
‘Then I’ll climb up the gutter to your room,’ Freddie smiled, and for some reason, Brian believed he actually would.
‘I have just one question, by the way,’ Brian asked as the bus took off and drove into the streets. ‘How on earth did you carry me away from the crowd and towards that wall?’
‘Oh, that wasn’t me,’ Freddie smiled. ‘I’m one seventy-five on a good day, and maybe 120 pounds. Some other guy, more of the bodybuilding type, came in and scooped you up. So as much as I’d like to take credit for sweeping you off your feet, it wasn’t me, unfortunately.’
‘That explains something,’ Brian said - but then the bus made a sharp turn, and he bumped his head against Freddie’s shoulder again. ‘Fuck - this is so inconvenient,’ he muttered.
‘It sucks, but it’s going to be fine. Come, this journey should easily take another twenty minutes. You go catch some sleep if you can,’ Freddie said. Brian once again could not protest this plan, snuggled closer to his new friend, and allowed sleep to overtake him.
# # #
Brian had been pretty right about his parents freaking out when they got to see him; in fact, they saw him limping into the street with the help of Freddie through the kitchen window, and his mother threw open the front door before they could even reach the path leading to their house.
‘Brian! Oh, Brian, what on earth happened to you?!’ she demanded, loudly and with obvious concern.
‘Not so loud, Mum, the whole street might hear,’ Brian told her, but his mother did not heed the warning in any way, shape, or form.
‘What do I care about the whole street? My poor boy!’ she exclaimed, and turned around in the door frame. ‘Harold! Harold, come here at once! Brian is injured!’
‘It’s really not that serious,’ Brian said, but the fact that he had to be supported by Freddie as he walked towards the house made this statement rather invalid.
‘You’re limping, and you’ve got a wound on your head! Oh, Harold, where are you?!’ his mother wondered desperately. ‘Come inside the house, quick. You must lie down at once,’ she said, and took Brian’s arm, all but dragging him over the threshold of the house. Freddie stood on the other side of the door for a bit, unsure of what to do, but then Brian turned around, wordlessly begging him to come with him, and Freddie stepped inside the hallway. He took off his shoes beneath the wardrobe, unsure of whether this was expected of him or not; Brian’s mother wore indoor slippers, and in her hurry, she did not give her son the time or opportunity to take off his sneakers. Instead, Brian was all but dragged into the living room, put down on the sofa with a blanket, and his mother paced back to the hallway to shout at her husband upstairs.
‘Harold! Come downstairs at once, and bring the thermometer with you!’ Having done this, she turned to Freddie, who stood in the hallway still.
‘Sorry, lad - do come in. What’s your name?’ she asked, leading him into the living room.
Freddie cleared his throat. ‘I’m Freddie Mercury. Freddie Bulsara, really. Farrokh Bulsara, that is. I mean - whatever. Just call me Freddie,’ he blurted out as he was being pushed into a chair next to the sofa, on which Brian was lying, trying to survive his mothers well-meant ministrations.
‘Let’s get you an ice pack,’ she told her son after having covered him with the ugliest crocheted blanket Freddie had seen since having visited his grandmother back in Zanzibar. She disappeared into the kitchen, and Brian turned to Freddie with a sigh.
‘I told you this would happen,’ he groaned.
‘Don’t worry - my parents would react the exact same way,’ Freddie said. ‘It’s nothing I’ve never seen before.’
‘Brian, boy, what on earth have you gotten yourself into?’ said the voice of the man who’d descended the stairs without either of the two boys hearing it.
‘Nothing much,’ Brian said. ‘Just - bashed my head into something.’
‘Into what?’
Brian shrugged. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter - was it cleaned properly?’
‘Yes, I’ve made sure of that. I had disinfectant with me in case such things happen,’ Freddie answered on Brian’s behalf.
‘Very good,’ his father nodded, sinking down into a chair. ‘Where’s your mum?’
‘I’m right here,’ said his wife, coming into the living room with an ice pack. ‘You brought the thermometer?’
‘I’m sure I don’t have a fever from bumping my head into something,’ Brian said, but despite his protests, the white stick was pressed between his lips, the pack of ice put on his forehead, and the blanket was hoisted up all the way to his chin. He looked at Freddie miserably, and Freddie had to oppress a snicker at the sight of it.
‘You are one of Brian’s friends from university then, Freddie?’ Brian’s mother asked.
‘No, we met-’ Freddie started, but fell silent when he was interrupted by Brian.
‘Yes, I know him through school. We met up at the metro with some others, but we decided Freddie would take me home, so the rest of the people could stay.’
‘Ex-exactly,’ Freddie said, sensing that the lie was better than the truth in this case. ‘We have classes together.’
‘Ah, so you study astrophysics, too?’ Brian’s father asked.
Freddie blinked, but Brian looked at him pleadingly, so Freddie nodded. ‘Sure. Well, that is, it’s my minor. I study - er, biology, actually.’
‘Splendid,’ Brian’s mother said approvingly. ‘I want to thank you for taking such good care of our son; he was adamant about going to the protests, even though we warned him against it so much. But what can one do? He’s 23 - he has to sort for himself,’ Brian’s mother lamented, and Freddie could swear he could hear Brian groan.
‘Well, it was a peaceful protest,’ Freddie lied. ‘Brian just had the misfortune of running into something, but the manifestation itself was entirely safe,’ he said, hoping Brian’s parents wouldn’t check the news anywhere soon - because if so, then he might indeed have to climb up the gutter if he ever wanted to see Brian again.
‘Why, we much appreciate your help, but I think Brian must rest now,’ his mother said, and Freddie nodded, standing up from his chair.
‘Indeed. Rest is important for recovery,’ he agreed. ‘Just - allow me to give you this,’ he said, reaching for his pocket for a piece of paper. ‘Does anyone have a pen or so?’
He was handed one by Brian’s father, and scribbled his name and number on the crumpled little slip of paper. He walked towards Brian, crouched down next to him, and looked at him with soft, caring eyes that made Brian melt a little.
‘Give me a call one of these days. Let me know how you’re doing,’ he said, and Brian nodded.
‘I will,’ he promised.
Freddie leant in to him then. ‘Blink twice if you need me to rescue you through your bedroom window tonight.’
Brian laughed, and nodded again. ‘I think I’ll be fine.’
‘Let me see you to the door, Freddie. Really, we are most obliged for your help to Brian,’ his mother said again, and Freddie smiled.
‘That’s what friends do for each other,’ Freddie answered politely, and crouched down on the floor to put on his shoes again. The door to the living room had been left open, and Freddie could hear the TV being switched on, the voice of the broadcaster booming through the living room. Not very good for Brian’s painful head, he thought, but soon this was the least of his problems when he heard what was being said by the monotonous voice of the presenter.
‘A large anti-war manifestation held at Grosvenor Square, London, this afternoon, turned into a riot in which students confronted police, threw cobblestones at them, and hit officers with baseball bats. Police defended themselves with the use of sticks and tear gas, and multiple warning shots were fired into the air to keep the rioters at bay. A dozen protestors and policemen were injured, and an unidentified number of them have been taken into police custody after they refused to leave the square after repeatedly having been told to leave. Edward Gavin, spokesman of the London Police, confirms that multiple people from both sides were wounded, and that the U.S. Embassy was pelted with stones and eggs by people opposing American war efforts in Vietnam.’
‘Brian Harold May,’ Freddie heard a man’s voice call out, and he got to his feet, shaking the hand of his future mother-in-law.
‘It was nice meeting you, Mrs. May. I hope Brian recovers soon,’ he said - and with that, he dashed out of the door. This was exactly what he had feared for - that their story of a peaceful protest would fall apart the second a radio or TV was switched on. Oh well, there was nothing to be done about it now - Brian would have to talk his way out of it, and if not, then Freddie’s offer of climbing up the gutter and rescuing him through his bedroom window still stood.