Jim woke with a sudden gasp, Claudia's words still ringing in his ears. He blinked in the darkness, his hand instinctively reaching for the lamp. His fingers fumbled across an unfamiliar surface, eventually finding a switch he didn't recognize. Light bloomed across the room, revealing a space that made his heart stutter in his chest.

  Instead of his modest bedroom, he lay in a substantial four-poster bed. His fingertips registered the unmistakable texture of Egyptian cotton, the thread count luxurious against his skin. He sat up, pulse hammering in his throat as he surveyed what was most certainly not his flat. The room stretched at least twice the size of his bedroom, with elegant crown molding and hardwood floors partially covered by a Persian rug whose intricate patterns caught the lamplight. His gaze fixed on the wall opposite the bed where several gold and platinum records hung in sleek frames—records he recognized but had certainly never displayed so ostentatiously.

  "What the bloody hell..." His voice sounded thin in the unfamiliar acoustics.

  Jim swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his bare feet settling not into his threadbare slippers but into buttery-soft leather ones placed precisely where he would have reached for them. The leather was cool against his skin, molded perfectly to his feet as if they'd been worn for years.

  He crossed the room in three hesitant strides. The wardrobe stood open, revealing suits in fabrics his salary had never accommodated—cashmere, fine wools, tailored cuts from Savile Row. His fingers brushed across a silk-blend jacket, the material whispering beneath his touch. From below came the unmistakable scent of high-quality leather—several pairs of Italian shoes lined up with military precision, the hand-stitching visible even in the soft lamplight.

  The bathroom doorknob felt cool and heavy in his palm—solid brass rather than the chrome-plated fixture of his flat. Inside, his feet met heated marble tiles. The shower enclosure could have accommodated a small cocktail party, with multiple showerheads and controls he didn't recognize. The sink counter held an array of grooming products in glass bottles with elegant labels—a far cry from his usual drugstore aftershave.

  In the mirror, his own face stared back, though the shadows beneath his eyes seemed lighter, the furrow between his brows less pronounced.

  "I'm still dreaming," he murmured, leaning closer to his reflection.

  The cold water he splashed against his face beaded on his skin with startling clarity. He dried himself with a Turkish cotton towel that felt substantial between his fingers, the embroidered monogram "JB" catching against his stubble.

  Back in the bedroom, a leather-bound planner lay on the desk. The binding creaked softly as he opened it, the pages thick and cream-colored. His own distinctive handwriting filled the page for today's date, but the details sent a chill across his skin:

  9:00 AM - Production meeting, Hammersmith Odeon

  11:30 AM - Band sound check

  1:00 PM - Press lunch, Savoy Hotel

  6:30 PM - Show call

  8:00 PM - Performance

  The chair creaked beneath him as he sat down heavily. Hammersmith. Not the Marquee Club where they'd performed last night, but the theater Claudia had mentioned—the one he'd dreamed about after speaking with her.

  Jim flipped backward through the planner, pages rustling beneath his fingers. Manchester, Birmingham, Newcastle—entries for an entire tour he had no memory of arranging. Yet each page bore not just his handwriting but his specific notations—the particular way he abbreviated "production" as "prodn" and his habit of underlining critical items twice.

  A telephone rang, the sound coming not from beside his bed but from somewhere deeper in the flat. Jim followed the ring through an unfamiliar hallway. His socks whispered against polished hardwood as he passed framed photographs—the band at Live Aid, at awards ceremonies, album covers he recognized. The living room he passed contained antiques he'd admired in shop windows but never purchased. The ringing led him to a study with a substantial oak desk and a multi-line telephone system far more sophisticated than his simple bedside model.

  The receiver felt heavier than he expected as he lifted it to his ear. "Hello?"

  "Jim, it's Paul." The production manager's voice crackled through with the familiar slight distortion of London's telephone system. "Just confirming our car will collect you at half eight. The production team's already at Hammersmith sorting through yesterday's technical notes."

  Jim's fingers tightened around the receiver. "Half eight. Yes, of course." The words felt thick on his tongue.

  "Are you alright? You sound odd."

  "Fine. Just..." Jim glanced down at the scattered papers on the desk, eyes landing on contractual language he apparently understood even in this bizarre circumstance. "Just reviewing some contract details. Half eight it is."

  The receiver settled into its cradle with a solid click. Jim stood motionless, taking in details his sleeping mind couldn't possibly have invented—the specific scent of leather-bound books mingling with the subtle notes of brandy from a crystal decanter on the credenza. The green banker's lamp cast a pool of light across a blotter monogrammed with his initials. The chair behind the desk was worn in precisely the spots where his elbows would rest.

  A stack of newspapers on the desk drew his attention. The top paper crackled as he unfolded it, checking the date. Today's date. His thumb smudged slightly on the fresh ink as he turned to the arts section. A review of the band's Manchester performance two nights prior took up half a page, praising their "evolving artistry" and "stadium-worthy sound."

  "Manchester," he whispered. The paper rattled slightly in his hands. "Not the Marquee."

  He dropped the newspaper and crossed to the window, the heavy curtains cool against his fingertips as he pulled them aside. Morning light spilled across an exclusive Kensington street—his neighborhood, but a far more prestigious address than he could afford. A sleek Jaguar sat at the curb, its personalized plate visible even from this distance. His car, apparently—or this version of himself's car.

  "Claudia." Her face materialized in his memory, the crown pendant gleaming at her throat. "Pay attention to your dreams."

  But which was the dream? The Marquee show with its sticky floors and inadequate sound system? Or this seemingly alternate reality where everything had been upgraded—the venues, his flat, even the band's clothing?

  With no better option, Jim returned to the bedroom and opened the wardrobe again. The suits hung with perfect spacing between each hanger, organized by color from light to dark. He selected a charcoal gray suit that his fingers somehow recognized—the slight roughness of the left sleeve button, the way the right pocket lay. The fabric held the faintest trace of his usual cologne as he slipped it on, the fit perfect across his shoulders.

  The Hammersmith Odeon's Art Deco fa?ade caught the morning light, its curves and angles more imposing in reality than in Jim's dream-memory. The car door opened with a solid thunk as he stepped onto the pavement, the sounds of early morning London—taxi engines, distant bus brakes, newspapers being unfolded—creating a soundtrack he couldn't have imagined.

  The stone steps leading to the stage door had a particular pattern of wear in the center, exactly matching what he'd seen in his dreams. The metal handle of the door felt cool against his palm, its slight resistance as he pulled it open triggering another wave of impossible familiarity.

  Inside, his shoes sank slightly into thick carpeting—not the sticky floors of the Marquee but proper theatrical carpeting, its deep red pile absorbing sound. The corridor smelled of furniture polish and fresh paint with undertones of stage makeup and coffee brewing somewhere nearby.

  "Morning, Mr. Beach," called a burly man stationed near the production offices. His security badge caught the fluorescent light, his posture straightening slightly as Jim approached. "The production meeting's just about to start in the main office."

  Jim's mind raced for a name that wasn't there. "Thank you, ah..."

  "George, sir." The man's brow furrowed slightly, creating a pattern of lines Jim somehow knew would deepen when George laughed. "Everything alright?"

  "Fine, George. Thank you." Jim's voice sounded steadier than he felt. "Just reviewing last night's logistics in my head."

  The production office buzzed with pre-meeting activity—the lighting director examining color swatches beneath a lamp, the sound engineer marking up a channel list, the stage manager reviewing timing notes. Coffee steamed from a dozen mugs, mingling with the scent of fresh photocopies and dry erase markers. As Jim entered, conversations paused momentarily, heads turning toward him with expressions ranging from respect to mild apprehension.

  For the next hour, Jim found himself responding to questions, approving changes, and mediating minor disagreements with an authority that seemed to bypass his conscious mind completely. His mouth formed words about Manchester's lighting issues and press requirements while his brain struggled to understand how he knew these details he couldn't possibly know.

  Later, alone in the quiet auditorium, Jim took a moment to absorb the dramatic difference in scale. The Marquee's claustrophobic confines had pressed the audience against the band, creating an intimacy through forced proximity. Here at the Hammersmith, the plush red seats rose in elegant tiers, offering both comfort and acoustic advantages. His fingers traced the velvet arm rest of a seat in the center section, the material slightly worn but still luxurious. Overhead, the ornate plasterwork caught shadows from the work lights, creating patterns that drew the eye upward to the high ceiling.

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  The stage itself stood framed by the proscenium arch, its polished wood surface reflecting the lights being tested above. Technicians called to each other in the catwalks, their voices echoing in the empty space as they adjusted instruments in a lighting rig that contained more technology than the Marquee's entire electrical system.

  "Quite different from playing clubs, isn't it?"

  Jim turned to find Brian standing in the aisle, Red Special guitar case in hand. The curls framing his face caught the light from the stage, creating a halo effect that matched his thoughtful expression.

  "The acoustics alone make it worth the upgrade," Brian continued, tilting his head slightly as if listening to the room itself. His fingers tapped the guitar case lightly. "This place was actually designed for music, rather than adapted from whatever building was cheapest to lease."

  Jim studied Brian, noting subtle differences from his memory of yesterday—the slightly more fashionable shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, the leather boots rather than his usual clogs, the barely perceptible straightening of his normally stooped posture.

  "Did you have a chance to ask for those changes to the reverb settings we discussed in Manchester?" Brian asked, his eyes focusing on the stage with scientific precision. "The harmonic series in the upper register was getting lost in the mix."

  "I believe they're being adjusted now," Jim replied, the words forming more easily than he expected. "The sound check should confirm."

  Brian nodded, his lips curving into a slight smile. "Excellent. That venue in Manchester had strange standing waves in the mid-range. Made my guitar sound like it was coming from underwater during 'Seven Seas of Rhye.' Fascinating from an acoustic physics perspective, but rather distracting musically."

  A shiver traveled along Jim's spine despite the comfortable temperature. The specific mention of Manchester and the song title aligned precisely with what he'd read in the newspaper review.

  The sudden bang of a door against the wall shattered the quiet atmosphere. Roger's voice echoed through the theater before he physically appeared.

  "I don't care about the bloody loading zone," he was saying, his footsteps rapid and forceful on the carpeted aisle. "That's a 1979 Aston Martin V8, and I'm in love with my car. It stays where I parked it."

  Roger emerged from the shadows of the back row, sunlight from the open lobby door briefly silhouetting him before the door swung shut. He wore designer jeans that had likely never seen the inside of a department store and a silk shirt unbuttoned further than strictly necessary. The aviator sunglasses perched on his nose reflected the stage lights in twin golden points.

  "Morning, Miami," Roger called, using Jim's nickname with the casual familiarity of long usage. His drumsticks protruded from his back pocket, one slightly higher than the other. "Sorted out that business with the promoter in Leeds?"

  "All taken care of," Jim replied, the words coming automatically despite having no recollection of any Leeds promoter or his problems.

  The side door opened with barely a sound as John slipped in, bass case in hand. Unlike Roger's dramatic entrance, John's arrival caused barely a ripple in the room's atmosphere. He nodded to Jim, the slight movement communicating volumes in its economy, before joining Brian near the stage. John set his case down with practiced care, the latches opening with soft clicks.

  "—frequency response in Manchester could have been better," John was saying, his voice low but carrying clearly in the theater's acoustics. He unfolded a sheet of paper from his pocket, the creases suggesting it had been consulted multiple times. "We should be able to clean it up tonight. I've modified the signal path for the click track so Roger doesn't lose it during the louder sections."

  Brian leaned over the paper, his curls briefly obscuring his face. "Still, best of the tour so far, I thought. Even with those issues, the crowd response was extraordinary."

  Jim stood frozen in the aisle, his hand gripping the back of a seat as the fabric of reality seemed to warp around him. They spoke with such conviction about a concert he had no memory of attending, yet his mind supplied images that matched their descriptions—Roger losing the monitor feed during the second encore, John adjusting something backstage between songs, Brian's solo cutting through the mix with particular clarity during the finale.

  The main doors swung open with theatrical timing, sending a shaft of lobby light across the red carpet. Freddie entered with an entourage that hadn't existed at the Marquee—a young woman carrying garment bags, an older man with a clipboard, and a slim man discussing hair options with animated hand gestures.

  "Darlings!" Freddie called, his voice filling the space effortlessly. "Have we recovered from Manchester's excesses?"

  Jim's eyes registered the differences immediately—the higher quality of Freddie's casual clothes, the subtle designer labels visible at collar and cuff, the more precise trim of his mustache. Most noticeably, Freddie moved differently here, his stride containing an additional layer of confidence that seemed impossible given his already commanding presence at the Marquee.

  Freddie's gaze landed on Jim, his face transforming with genuine warmth. "Miami! There you are. Helena's brought those costume options I mentioned." He gestured to the garment bags with a flourish. "I'm torn between royal excess and decadent simplicity. Both make such different statements, don't they?"

  Despite his inner turmoil, Jim found his mouth curving into a smile. "Perhaps save the royal excess for Wembley? The Hammersmith deserves something with theatrical flair but not quite full coronation regalia."

  The words left his mouth before his brain had formed them—Wembley? Were they playing Wembley Stadium? Yet Freddie nodded as if this were completely unremarkable.

  "Quite right," Freddie agreed, his rings catching the light as he gestured toward the stage. "Save the most extravagant for the grandest stage. One must consider the architecture when choosing the costume." He turned to his assistant. "The Japanese silk with the black trim, I think. And make sure they've stocked the proper tea in the dressing room—not that builder's brew they tried to serve in Manchester. Nearly ruined my vocal warm-up."

  As the band gathered on stage, Jim retreated to the sound desk positioned in the middle of the theater. The massive console bore no resemblance to the battered mixer at the Marquee. Rows of perfectly functioning faders gleamed under the work lights, not a single knob missing or slider scratched. Multiple effects processors lined the rack space to the right, their LED displays blinking in standby mode. The engineer seated at the board greeted him with the easy familiarity of regular collaboration.

  "We're starting with 'Seven Seas of Rhye' for levels," the engineer said, his fingers already moving across the board with practiced efficiency. "Freddie wants to work on the backing vocal balance in the chorus. Said the harmonies were getting buried in Manchester."

  Jim settled into a plush theater seat, the springs giving slightly beneath his weight but offering perfect support. The view from this position encompassed the entire stage, where the band was setting up with the help of several roadies. The expanded floor space allowed for Roger's complete drum kit with room to spare. Brian's multiple amplifiers lined up stage right, while John's bass rig had grown to include cabinets that would never have fit in the Marquee.

  "Testing... testing..." Freddie approached the center microphone, tapping it lightly with one finger. His voice emerged from the suspended speaker arrays with crystalline clarity. "One, two, three..."

  Jim closed his eyes momentarily, letting the theater's acoustics wrap around him. Each sound existed in its own space, distinct yet part of a greater whole. From the low end rumble of John testing his bass to the crisp attack of Roger adjusting his hi-hat, every frequency found its proper place without the muddy compression of the Marquee's inadequate system.

  "Shall we, boys?" Freddie's voice cut through Jim's thoughts.

  Roger's drumsticks clicked together four times, the tempo precise, before they launched into "Seven Seas of Rhye." The piano introduction rang through the theater, each note distinct and rounded, the attack and decay perfectly balanced in the acoustic space. The guitar entered with that distinctive tone only Brian could produce, sounding both vintage and utterly modern simultaneously.

  As Freddie began the verse, Jim found himself leaning forward, the soft velvet of the seat against his palms. Freddie's voice soared above the instruments, finding pockets in the arrangement that hadn't been audible in the Marquee's compressed soundscape.

  "Fear me you lords and lady preachers..." he sang, his voice projecting to the empty back row as easily as to the front.

  The chorus approached, the band building energy with practiced precision. As Freddie reached the line "I'll defy the laws of nature," something extraordinary happened. His voice suddenly doubled—not with the controlled division of an effect but as if two identical Freddies were singing simultaneously from slightly different positions in space. The engineer beside Jim straightened abruptly, hands moving across the console with urgent precision.

  "What's happening?" Jim asked, the fine hairs on his arms rising.

  "Echo problem," the engineer muttered, his fingers dancing across faders and knobs. "But it's not coming from our effects—it's in the main vocal signal somehow."

  For several seconds, Freddie's voice seemed to emerge from multiple locations simultaneously, creating an unsettling dimensional quality. The sound wrapped around Jim's head, coming from both the main speakers and somewhere deeper, as if from inside the walls of the theater itself. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the effect vanished, leaving a single, clear vocal.

  Brian stopped playing, his hand raised. "What was that?" The Red Special hung from his shoulder, momentarily silent. "Sounded like we were getting some kind of delay on Freddie's microphone. About 30 milliseconds, I'd guess, with unusual phase characteristics."

  The sound engineer frowned at his console, pushing his glasses higher on his nose as he studied the board. "All settings are normal, no delays engaged. Could be radio frequency interference with the wireless system. These theaters have all sorts of ancient wiring in the walls."

  "Check all connections," Jim said, surprised by the steadiness in his voice. "And test the spare microphones too. Let's not leave anything to chance."

  As technicians hurried to comply, Jim gripped the armrests of his seat. This exact scenario—Brian raising his hand with that particular expression, the engineer's precise frown, the specific configuration of people on stage—he'd seen it before. Not in the Marquee, but somewhere else, sometime else.

  The strangest part was that despite his confusion about his current circumstances, this technical problem felt familiar, like a book he'd already read once.

  "Try patching through the secondary receiver," Jim suggested, the words forming without conscious thought. "And check for bleed from the lighting control."

  The head engineer looked up, surprise evident in his raised eyebrows. "Good call—there's bleed from the dimmer rack. How did you spot that from here?"

  Brian turned toward Jim, guitar strap shifting against his shoulder. His eyes held that scientific curiosity that approached everything as a puzzle to be solved. "How did you know that? We've never had that particular issue before."

  "Educated guess," Jim replied, avoiding Brian's perceptive gaze. "Similar problem at..." He hesitated, not wanting to mention the Marquee when apparently they hadn't played there, "...another venue once."

  The sound check continued, each moment unfolding with an eerie predictability that made Jim's skin prickle. Roger dropped a drumstick during the bridge of "Seven Seas of Rhye," catching it on the rebound off his floor tom with a casual flourish that suggested both accident and practiced recovery. John adjusted his bass strap at exactly the moment Jim's mind anticipated, the small gesture occurring precisely when expected.

  When they finished, the band dispersed to their dressing rooms, footsteps echoing across the wooden stage and down the corridor beyond. Jim remained in his seat, the empty theater surrounding him with its ornate architecture and professional appointments. The velvet seat cool beneath his hands, the slight scent of wood polish and aging curtains in his nostrils, the distant sound of a door closing backstage—all of it felt utterly real yet completely disconnected from his memories of yesterday.

  "Time can be less linear than we perceive it to be," Claudia had said, her voice echoing in his memory with the same dimensional quality as Freddie's had moments ago.

  Jim stared at the empty stage, remembering her enigmatic smile and that silver crown pendant catching the light. He'd meet her again tonight, here in this theater—he felt certain of it. Perhaps then he might begin to understand why he seemed to be living in a reality that contradicted his memories yet felt utterly, convincingly real.

  For now, he had a show to prepare at the Hammersmith Odeon, a venue he'd simultaneously never worked before and knew intimately—a paradox as elusive as the strange echo of Freddie's voice during the sound check, one source somehow manifesting in multiple places at once.