Chapter 2: The Small Stage

  The queue outside the Marquee Club snaked down Wardour Street, a sinuous line of leather jackets, denim, and the occasional flash of something more flamboyant. Jim stood just inside the door, peering through a narrow gap as the crowd spilled onto the pavement. Office workers in pinstriped suits glanced curiously at the gathering throng as they hurried toward Piccadilly Circus tube station, briefcases clutched against the early evening chill.

  Terry materialized beside Jim, trailing a cloud of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne that made Jim's nostrils flare involuntarily.

  "Bit of a mob out there," Terry said, jangling his keys. "Not like that prog rock lot last week. Three blokes and a dog, that was."

  Jim tugged at his fresh shirt cuff, the red tie his one concession to the evening ahead. "The box office numbers were promising. Though I do wonder what the fire regulations actually say about your creative interpretation of 'capacity.'"

  Terry's face creased, revealing nicotine-stained teeth. "Fire regs? My cousin's wife's brother handles all that. Lovely bloke. Blind as a bat without his specs. Never wears 'em on inspection day."

  "I'm suddenly deaf to this conversation," Jim said, checking his watch. "Time to open up?"

  Terry nodded and moved toward the entrance. Jim positioned himself where he could monitor the flow, his stomach tightening with that familiar pre-show tension—like electricity running just under his skin.

  The doors swung open. Noise billowed in as the crowd surged forward, bringing with it the sharp tang of cigarettes, the yeasty smell of lager on breath, and the chemical sweetness of hairspray. Jim watched the incoming tide with a practiced eye.

  "Mind the step there!" he called as a group of teenagers stumbled forward. "Plenty of room inside for everyone!"

  The empty club transformed in fifteen minutes flat. Bodies pressed against one another, the temperature climbing with each new arrival until condensation began to bead on the low ceiling. By half seven, the Marquee heaved with what Terry called "proper full" and what any safety inspector would term "a bloody disaster waiting to happen."

  House music—the latest hits recorded onto a worn cassette—pumped through the speakers at just enough volume to buzz in the background without exhausting the crowd. The floorboards vibrated beneath Jim's feet, the collective energy of hundreds of people building like pressure in a sealed container.

  With the doors now closed and the venue filled, Jim threaded his way through the crowd. Several regulars nodded in recognition as he passed. The crush of bodies forced him to turn sideways as he squeezed toward the area behind the stage masquerading as a dressing room.

  Inside, Roger stalked the cramped space like a caged animal, an unlit cigarette bobbing between his lips as he gesticulated at a miserable-looking roadie.

  "One spare pair?" Roger held up two drumsticks as though they were evidence in a murder trial. "One bloody pair? What am I supposed to do when these snap—play the sodding hi-hat with my teeth?"

  The roadie—Jimmy, if Jim remembered correctly—shifted his weight from foot to foot. "The rest are in the van, but it's parked miles off because of the loading zone. I could nip out and—"

  "Miles off?" Roger snorted. "You'll miss the entire first set!"

  Jim stepped between them, feeling the heat radiating from Roger's indignation. "Jimmy, find Terry and get the keys to the service entrance. There's a back alley for deliveries—bring the van round there."

  Jimmy nodded gratefully and scarpered. Roger glared at his insufficient drumsticks.

  "Perhaps you could try not hitting the drums quite so hard?" Jim suggested, one eyebrow raised.

  Roger's scowl cracked slightly. "Right. And perhaps Brian could play a bit quieter and Freddie could just whisper the lyrics."

  "I was thinking wooden spoons from catering," Jim said. "Though knitting needles might offer better dramatic possibilities when you twirl them."

  A piercing electronic squeal cut through their conversation, making Jim's teeth ache.

  "John's amp," Roger muttered, wincing. "Been screaming blue murder since we got here."

  Jim found John crouched beside his bass amplifier, fingers methodically tracing cables. His face held the same focused expression he wore when balancing the band's accounts—quietly determined, unflustered.

  Jim knelt beside him, catching a whiff of solder and electronic components. "Earth loop?"

  John nodded without looking up, his fingers moving with precise efficiency through his equipment case. "Ground differential. This building's wiring probably dates back to Edison's first experiments." He extracted a small metal box with several input jacks. "Built this DI box last month. Should isolate the circuits, if I can reconfigure the grounding path."

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  "Anything you need from my end?" Jim asked.

  "Time," John replied, connecting the device between his bass and amplifier. "And perhaps confirmation that this place won't burn down around us mid-set."

  "Time I can manage," Jim said, checking his watch. "The electrical safety I wouldn't bet money on."

  Jim left John to his work, moving through his mental checklist with practiced efficiency—throat lozenges for Freddie (the honey ones, not menthol), setlist confirmation with Brian, backstage refreshments (which in the Marquee's case meant a folding table with warm beer and suspect sandwiches).

  When he returned, John's amp emitted a healthy, clean hum.

  "Success?" Jim asked.

  John rose, brushing dark smudges from his knees. "Containment. The real problem is wiring that wouldn't pass inspection in a Victorian poorhouse, but we won't sound like we're performing in a bathtub now."

  "Unlike some who sound waterlogged regardless," Brian remarked as he entered, cradling his Red Special with the care others might show a newborn. "Especially after closing time."

  "I heard that!" Roger called from the doorway. "And I'll remind you next time your guitar sounds like someone stepping on a cat's tail."

  Jim slipped away from their familiar sparring, making a final circuit of the club. The Marquee now pulsed with bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. Sweat and cigarette smoke hung in the air like fog, while the floorboards vibrated with hundreds of shifting feet. The background hum of conversation had risen to a roar that Jim felt in his chest as much as heard.

  Five minutes to showtime. Jim returned backstage to find the band gathered in the narrow wings. Freddie bounced on his toes, shaking out his hands, energy practically crackling off him. Brian hunched over his guitar, murmuring something to his tech while making microscopic adjustments to the tuning pegs. Roger spun his newly acquired spare drumsticks through his fingers like miniature propellers. John stood slightly apart, hands in pockets, a small island of stillness.

  "All set?" Jim asked.

  Freddie's teeth flashed white against his mustache. "Darling, I was born for this. What's the crowd like?"

  "Packed to the rafters," Jim said. "So dense they're practically one organism. Should sound fantastic—human bodies make excellent acoustic baffles."

  "How delightfully morbid," Freddie laughed, eyes sparkling. "Such a romantic soul under that tie."

  The house music faded, triggering a wave of noise from the waiting crowd. Jim stepped back to his usual spot where stage and audience remained equally visible. This moment—this breath between anticipation and realization—secretly thrilled him more than any other.

  The lights blazed up, and the crowd's roar physically pushed against Jim's chest as the band walked onstage. He watched as four men he'd seen bickering over sandwiches moments ago stepped into light and transformed.

  Freddie strode to the microphone with the confidence of a man addressing Wembley Stadium, somehow making the cramped stage of the Marquee seem exactly the right size.

  "Good evening, London!" His voice sliced through the noise. The crowd bellowed back. "Rather intimate quarters tonight, isn't it? I can practically count the fillings in your teeth from here."

  Laughter rippled through the audience.

  "We're going to get very close tonight," Freddie continued, fingers trailing along the microphone stand. "I hope none of you are shy."

  Brian's guitar erupted without warning—the opening riff of "Tie Your Mother Down" tearing through the room like lightning. Bodies surged forward instantly, hands shooting upward, voices merging into a collective shout. Roger's drums thundered in, and then they were off, the confined space concentrating their sound into something visceral enough to bruise.

  Jim watched, dividing his attention between the crowd's response and the technical execution. The sound ricocheted off the low ceiling and close walls, creating a density of tone that larger venues couldn't match. Despite the compromises they'd made backstage, the performance crackled with raw energy.

  Freddie worked the limited stage like a boxer in a ring, each movement deliberate and concentrated by necessity. Every gesture registered with doubled impact—no need for grand sweeps when the front row could see the beads of sweat forming at his temples, the pulse beating in his throat. He gripped the microphone stand and leaned out over reaching hands, close enough for the front row to feel his breath.

  Brian played with closed eyes, head tilted slightly back, fingers flying over the neck of the Red Special with surgical precision. The familiar riff filled every molecule of air in the club, somehow creating a wall of sound that felt impossible from just four musicians. Roger attacked his kit as though it had personally insulted him, extracting maximum volume from minimal equipment.

  Jim swept his gaze over the audience, automatically scanning for trouble spots—overly aggressive behavior, people in distress, technical staff with panicked expressions. All seemed—

  He froze.

  A pocket of stillness caught his eye. While bodies heaved and swayed all around her, one woman stood motionless about halfway back. Dark curly hair framed a face with sharp, intelligent features. Unlike the fans straining toward the stage, she maintained her position with unnatural calm, observing everything with measured intensity.

  Her leather jacket hung open over a simple top—nothing remarkable in this crowd—yet something about her commanded attention. A silver pendant with what appeared to be a crown design glinted at her throat. She didn't dance or sing along; she watched. Not just the band, but everything. The crowd. The security. Him.

  As though pulled by a magnetic force, her gaze shifted until it locked with Jim's across the churning room. A shock ran through him so visceral that his hand gripped the nearby equipment case to steady himself. His pulse spiked, mouth suddenly dry.

  He knew her. He was certain of it. Not just recognized—knew. Had spoken to her, discussed important matters with her. The certainty of this knowledge crashed against the equally certain fact that he'd never laid eyes on her before.

  Her lips curved upward in a slight smile. She inclined her head in a gesture of acknowledgment that spoke of shared secrets.

  Jim's temples throbbed with the pressure of trying to place her. It was like reaching for a word that hung just beyond grasp—the frustrating certainty that the knowledge existed but remained inaccessible. His skin prickled with goosebumps despite the overwhelming heat of the packed club.

  She held his gaze a moment longer, that knowing smile deepening slightly, then returned her attention to the stage as "Tie Your Mother Down" reached its crashing finale. Jim found himself unable to look away, even as his body automatically performed its duties—checking sight lines, monitoring the crowd density near the stage barriers.

  Who was she? And why did her single glance trigger such profound disquiet?

  The questions pounded in his head, nearly drowning out the music. One thing was clear—he needed to speak with her. Something told him she might hold answers to the odd sensations that had been plaguing him all day.

  As the crowd's applause thundered through the Marquee, rattling the ancient light fixtures overhead, Jim began calculating the quickest path through the densely packed bodies. The mysterious woman's presence felt like a challenge, and Jim had never been one to leave a puzzle unsolved.

  Historical notes: Live music venues in 1986 London operated in a very different regulatory environment than today. Fire safety regulations and capacity limits were often interpreted loosely, with venues like the Marquee regularly exceeding their official capacity during popular shows. The practice of "guest list" management was crucial, with managers like Jim often having to make quick decisions about press access and VIP treatment without the benefit of instant communication tools.