The second set thundered toward its conclusion, each song flowing into the next with mounting intensity. Jim leaned against the back wall, watching Freddie command the minuscule stage. Somehow the frontman transformed the claustrophobic space through pure physicality—extending his arms wide enough to touch both walls, dropping to his knees then springing up with balletic precision, all while never missing a note.

  Jim absently worked a finger under his collar, loosening his tie that had grown increasingly constricting as the night wore on. His shirt clung to his back with a thin film of sweat, despite his position away from the crush of bodies. The entire crowd moved as one now—heads bobbing in unison, arms swaying to the same rhythm—while his mind kept returning to Claudia's cryptic words and that impossible feeling he'd known her before.

  Freddie approached the microphone, his tank top dark with sweat, chest heaving, that familiar wild light burning in his eyes.

  "You've been extraordinary tonight," he purred, voice cutting through cigarette haze and crowd noise without apparent effort. "This place may be small, but bloody hell, you lot have made it feel like Wembley."

  The crowd's response physically pushed against Jim's chest, compressed by the low ceiling into something almost solid.

  "For our final number"—Freddie ran a hand through his damp hair—"we need you all. Every single voice. This song isn't ours anymore—it belongs to all of you."

  Brian's fingers struck the opening chords of "We Are the Champions." The familiar sequence sent an electric current through the room. Bodies crushed forward, hands thrust upward. Jim felt the floorboards vibrate beneath his feet as the sound enveloped the space.

  When Freddie began to sing, the audience ignited. By the first chorus, hundreds of voices merged with his, creating something that transformed the sticky floors and water-stained ceiling into something approaching sacred ground.

  Jim found himself transfixed. He'd heard this song performed more times than he could count, often in arenas that could swallow this club twenty times over, yet tonight it burrowed under his skin differently. Perhaps it was standing close enough to see the pulse throbbing in Freddie's neck as he delivered each line, or watching Brian's fingers fly across the fretboard with microscopic precision, or catching the rare flash of emotion that crossed John's face during the bridge.

  Midway through the second verse, Jim's attention snagged on something wrong. Roger's tempo shifted—not dramatically, but enough that Jim's body registered the change before his mind identified it. For three, maybe four beats, the drums operated at a slightly different rhythm than Freddie's vocals, creating a jarring disconnect that sent a cold ripple up Jim's spine.

  He glanced at the sound engineer, who continued adjusting levels with blank concentration. The dissonance lasted only moments before Roger locked back in, the tempo correcting itself as seamlessly as if it had never happened.

  Roger never lost the tempo. Not on a track they'd performed hundreds of times. Jim made a mental note to ask him about it later, though a peculiar sense of having witnessed this exact same mistake before nagged at the edges of his consciousness.

  The song swelled toward its climax. Freddie stepped back from the microphone, extending his arms to conduct the audience. Hundreds of voices surged into the gap, singing with such conviction that the cheap ceiling tiles vibrated visibly overhead. The room seemed to expand beyond its physical dimensions, stretching to accommodate the collective energy being generated within its walls.

  As the final note crashed to its conclusion, the audience erupted. The applause felt like a physical entity, a wall of sound slamming into the stage. Freddie stood motionless for a moment, arms extended, silhouetted against the lights, head tilted back to receive the sound like a baptism.

  Jim watched him sweep his arm in a grand arc that would have registered from the back row of a stadium. There was something about his gestures—too large, too sweeping for this cramped space—yet they elevated the shabby club rather than appearing ridiculous.

  After two curtain calls, the house lights flickered on, revealing sticky puddles, crushed plastic cups, and cigarette butts scattered across the floor. The spell broken, patrons began shuffling toward the exits.

  Jim picked his way through the debris to the bar where Terry counted stacks of cash, a cigarette dangling from his lips. A bottle of whisky appeared in front of Jim, along with a glass that bore a chip along its rim.

  "Quite a night," Terry said, thumb flicking through notes with practiced speed. "Ran through the lager faster than a horse with diarrhea."

  Jim winced. "Must you?"

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  "What?" Terry looked up briefly. "It's a fact, innit?"

  Jim poured a modest measure of whisky. The amber liquid caught the light as it splashed into the glass. He took a sip, felt the smoky peat flavor hit his tongue, followed by a slight metallic tang from the damaged glass. Heat bloomed in his chest as he swallowed.

  Terry pushed a battered leather bag across the sticky bar surface. "Your share. Cash, like we agreed."

  Jim lifted the bag, satisfying weight pulling at his wrist. "I'll have the crew cleared out by one."

  "Fine, fine." Terry waved dismissively, returning to his counting. "Place looks like a bloody war zone, though. Cleaning crew'll go mental."

  Jim took another sip while scanning the thinning crowd. His gaze caught on Claudia standing near the exit, zipping her leather jacket, that silver crown pendant catching the light as she turned.

  He placed his glass down with a soft clink. "Excuse me."

  Terry grunted without looking up.

  Jim navigated around lingering patrons, reaching Claudia just as she pushed against the exit door. A gust of cool night air swept in, carrying the scent of diesel exhaust and wet pavement.

  "Leaving so soon?" he asked.

  She turned, her lips curving into that same knowing smile. "The show's over, isn't it?"

  "Technically. Though there's usually an unofficial encore at whichever pub the band commandeers afterward."

  "I imagine that would be entertaining." Her eyes tracked over his face with unsettling intensity, as if mapping his features. "But some of us need to prepare for the next performance."

  "You mentioned Hammersmith," Jim said, frowning slightly. "I don't recall that being on our schedule."

  "Yet here we are, already discussing it." Her smile deepened. "I've enjoyed tonight, Jim. More than I probably should admit."

  "You speak as if this were more than a concert."

  "Isn't everything more than it appears?" She tugged her collar higher. "Music, people, moments in time—all contain depths beyond their surfaces."

  "Most rock fans don't philosophize between encores," Jim said.

  "And most managers don't feel they've met someone they've never encountered." She glanced over his shoulder. Jim heard a sudden swell of excited voices. "Your duties call, I think."

  Jim kept his eyes on her face. "Will I see you again?"

  "I'll see you at the next show," she said with quiet certainty. "Take care, Jim. And pay attention to your dreams tonight. They might have something to tell you."

  Before he could respond, she slipped through the door. Jim watched her silhouette recede down Wardour Street until she turned a corner and disappeared, leaving behind that prickling sense of familiarity and the weight of her enigmatic words.

  Behind him, Freddie's laugh cut through the noise—theatrical and instantly recognizable. Jim squared his shoulders, straightened his tie with practiced fingers, and turned back to the business of managing rock stars through their post-performance rituals.

  The next hours passed in practiced motion. Jim distributed payment to local crew, negotiated the equipment load-out schedule with Terry, arranged taxis for band members, secured the last equipment cases in the van. When he finally stepped onto the empty street, the Marquee had gone dark, its daytime anonymity already reclaiming it.

  The cool night air hit his face with shocking clarity after hours in the smoky club. London had quieted to occasional black cabs and night buses. A persistent high-pitched whine filled Jim's ears—the physical memory of amplified music—giving the street a muffled quality, as if experienced underwater.

  His flat in Kensington greeted him with darkness and silence. Jim moved through familiar motions—hanging his jacket with the collar properly aligned, rolling his tie before placing it in its drawer, setting his shoes on their wooden trees. His hands completed these small rituals while his mind remained caught in the evening's oddities.

  He sank onto the edge of his bed, exhaustion dragging at his limbs. Still, his thoughts circled relentlessly—Freddie's unusual memory lapse, Roger's inexplicable tempo shift, and Claudia's words that seemed to anticipate events not yet scheduled.

  "Pay attention to your dreams," she had said.

  As sleep pulled him under, Jim's last conscious thought was that her words had sounded less like suggestion and more like instruction.

  His dreams arrived with unsettling clarity—not the usual fragmentary impressions but vivid, detailed sequences that felt more like memories than imagination.

  He walked through a different venue—larger, grand, with plush red seats rising in tiers and ornate moldings adorning the walls. The Hammersmith Odeon. He recognized specific details—the particular curve of the balcony rail, the exact arrangement of the lighting rig, even the distinctive wear pattern on the backstage carpet.

  The dream shifted. Now he stood in the wings as the band performed to a seated audience. The lighting rig threw precise patterns across the stage, the sound cleaner and more defined than at the Marquee. He could see Freddie silhouetted against professional spotlights, Roger's expanded drum kit, Brian and John positioned with proper space between them.

  Another shift. A vast expanse opened before him, filled with thousands upon thousands of faces. Stadium lights cast harsh white illumination over the scene. A sea of hands moved in perfect unison to the distant stage where four tiny figures commanded this human ocean with casual mastery.

  Jim felt himself drawn toward this vision of Wembley, pulled by something beyond conscious thought. The details presented themselves with impossible precision—the exact angle of the lighting towers, the specific layout of the sound system, the precise configuration of the backstage area. These weren't generic stadium images but exact, specific details he couldn't possibly know yet experienced with absolute certainty.

  In the strange logic of dreams, he both observed and participated, feeling the night air on his skin as he watched 72,000 people sway as one. The sensation transcended ordinary dreaming—these weren't fantasies but experiences with the textured quality of actual memory.

  As he drifted deeper, Claudia's words echoed through these impossible recollections: "Time can be more complex than we perceive it to be."

  In his dream, Jim stood watching as thousands of voices merged with Freddie's, singing "We Are the Champions" with such unified purpose that the sound seemed to bend reality itself—creating a moment that existed both now and already in memory, simultaneously experienced for the first time and remembered from before.

  Historical notes: The post-show operations described in this chapter reflect the very physical, cash-based music business of the mid-1980s. Venue settling (the process of paying the band their agreed fee) was often conducted in cash, with money counted out and handed over in leather bags or envelopes. This practice created both security concerns and opportunities for creative accounting that would be unthinkable in today's more regulated entertainment industry.