week 1, march 1997
Marlene Mckinnon has had many life-changing moments. Moments that truly shifted the course of her life towards a path she never knew was available to her; singing with her best friends at the Radio City Music Hall, thousands of miles away from her mother and father, was never something she would have imagined for herself. Despite how supposedly vivacious and lively she is, her imagination is fairly average.
“I just want to say, you guys have been absolutely amazing!” James yells giddily, pushing his hair out of his face.
The deafening screaming and whooping from the crowd is the only thing tethering her to reality. There is a crowd of six-thousand people, who paid money to watch her play bass, to watch Peter expertly bang on his drums, to watch James sing like a king with an electric guitar slung around him. Real human people paid to see them, The Knights, Live in New York City.
“You see that utter beast hidden behind the drum kit?” James laughs, which sends Peter off into a frenzied and masterfully improvised drum snaring, as a way to communicate his response. Marlene turned and dramatically blew Peter a kiss, which he made a show of catching, throwing his sticks in the air for a brief moment. The cheers transform themselves into calls for Peter,
“Woo! Look at him go!” James whoops again, but it gets lost in the staggering noise of the hall. Basslines start to fall from her fingers, as she plucks at chords and riffs and notes that flow ultimately with Peter.
“And do you see her? This woman with magic and wizardry radiating from her hands!” James compliments her like it’s an undisputable fact. And it is. Marlene is the Cherry Wizard, the woman unseparated from her 1964 cherry red Gibson and skill that borders onto the other-worldly, the magical.
“These are my best friends, guys. Do you have any idea how bloody lucky I am to be friends with a man like Peter Pettigrew, and a woman like Marlene McKinnon?”
“I’m sure not as lucky as being James fucking Potter,” Marlene says, wrapping an arm around the boy’s shoulders.
“Come on, give him a little more applause than that, ladies and gentlemen!”
“Unfortunately for you, this is our last song of the night, but I need to hear you all go absolutely bonkers, yeah?”
An obnoxiously loud round of cheering erupts, the floor trembling with their delirious stomping.
“Marley dear, I can’t really hear them, can you?”
“No Jamie, I can’t either, I guess they don’t want us on stage any more,” Marlene teases.
“The Knights! The Knights! The Knights!”
After rejoicing in the hollering of the band’s name, soaking in the applause and praise, James lifts his hand up, silencing the crowd with a single hand motion. His eyes shift slyly to Marlene, who takes the subtle look as a cue to start playing again, the song they’ve been closing with all year, the first song The Knights ever composed for their debut album: the song Marlene awed the world with, astounding and astonishing as her hands gripped her bass for the first time in that recording studio.
And for the last time, in one of the greatest cities in the world, she strums her bass and lets herself get lost in the familiar thrumming, in the deafening excitement of her fans– god, just calling them her fans makes her giddy– as she goes into the intro of their song, as she becomes the Cherry Wizard.
James’ foot stomps on the stage in rhythm with Marlene, slowly lowering his hand as he grabs the microphone to sing.
I'm gonna fight 'em all
A seven nation army couldn't hold me back
They're gonna rip it off
Taking their time right behind my back
With a skilful drumming of his toms, Peter joins in right on cue, and Marlene sends a little smirk towards him over her shoulder.
And I'm talking to myself at night
Because I can't forget
Back and forth through my mind
Behind a cigarette
James slides his guitar off his back and plays in tune with Marlene’s bassline, and she struts closer to him and the mic stand, feeling bold enough to let her voice accompany James’ for the short chorus.
And the message coming from my eyes
Says, "Leave it alone!"
Peter’s violent thrashing on the cymbals. James’ exhilarated singing. Marlene’s platinum blonde hair whipping around as she head-bangs. The throng of fans jumping with so much elation they push against the barricades. Unsteady hands reaching towards the stage for just one chance to make contact with The Knights.
Don't wanna hear about it
Every single one's got a story to tell
Everyone knows about it
From the Queen of England to the Hounds of Hell
And if I catch it coming back my way
I'm gonna serve it to you
And that ain't what you want to hear
But that's what I'll do
Marlene tried ecstasy once, with Peter and James because they are her partners in everything, a triumvirate, constantly moving and acting in unison. She remembers giggling at the clouds in the sky, she remembers feeling a sense of joy and peace once unknown to her coursing through her veins. The world extended itself to the three of them in Peter’s spiralling bedroom, nothing more and nothing less.
Now, reaching the end of the song, the world is Peter, James and the fans screaming their names. This tour became her blessing, her escapism, her enlightenment.
——
Crew members rush to get them through the bustle of the stage wings out the back door, and the screaming fans gathered outside make themselves heard, waving tokens of appreciation: letters, notes, precious things to sign, t-shirts, notebooks, the occasional bra.
“Bloody hell, that will never get old, will it?” Peter guffaws, stepping dangerously close to the barrier, giving everyone high-fives.
“What, women screaming your name? Lord, Peter, you’ve got to up your game,”
“Not all of us are skanks like you, McKinnon!” James butts in with a smirk;
“Better to be a skank than a complete wanker!”
“Peter I love you so much!” A young girl swoons.
“Thank you! So does my mum, and James’. I’m the bastard son reminding her of her adulterous sin.” He says without taking a breath, and he grabs the pen in her hand to start doodling.
“That’s why she’s been sending me Jaffa Cakes straight to my hotel room , James gets fuck all and Marlene wants to marry her. Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have said that. D’you want me to sign your arm? Oh God, I love that dragon tattoo! Did you know that Marls wants a tattoo like that too? Except she fell in love with a shitty tattoo artist, and now she has a–”
“God, Peter! I’m never telling you anything again. Can’t keep anything to himself, bloody git.” Marlene laughs nervously and pulls him away from the girl. He’s always had a knack for becoming best friends with the fans, the People’s man; he once got lost in Houston the night of their concert because he wanted to have some beer with the real cowboys. Which he did.
As Peter and her continue to navigate the crowd, waving and smiling at as many people as possible, she turns around to find James talking to a blonde woman with a voice recorder. Must be the press, she thinks, and gets ready to join him. Marlene nudges Peter, and they both make their way before a raucous voice splits through.
“No one wants you here, you fake-ass bitch!”
She freezes. She feels the words grate at her skin, and suddenly her lungs are too heavy in her chest, her limbs too long to move. But Marlene pushes past her anxiety until she can grasp at her anger.
“D’you want to say that to my face rather than my back, mate?
The man is old enough to be her dad. Or even, older than her actual dad, with his receding salt and pepper hairline and his pinched face. His sweat-stained AC/DC T-shirt floats on his gangly body, although he’s the same height as Marlene.
“You’re a fucking talentless disgrace: i know your performances are always pre-recorded. Always. You’re not good enough, you have no idea what you’re doing.” He spits in her face vehemently.
Marlene’s instinctive reaction is to just crumble to the ground. To let this complete stranger, unaccomplished, immature, idiotic misogynistic man crush her up like a wrecking ball. Marlene has always been extremely sensitive to criticism, to rejection, to the constant insults that get thrown her way because she’s a girl amongst wolves. The worst thing about it all, is that this is barely mild, compared to the other words used against her. This is scraping the skin of your knees as you fall off your bike for the tenth time in one summer's day. She’s braced herself against the harsh talons of her own mother, she can handle this.
“Oh yeah? Tell that to the Greenwood brothers. I just stood on the same stage as The Cure, as Bob Dylan, as Siouxsie and the bloody Banshees, and you think you’re important enough to tell me that I’m not fucking ace?” Marlene laughs darkly, and grips the barricades to get closer to his face.
And as the stench of beer invades her senses, she says quietly but hotly: “You are a nobody surrounded by people who think I’m a star. So go fuck yourself.”
Peter wraps an arm around her shoulders and steers Marlene away from the man, equal parts baffled and bitter.
“Are you okay?” Peter asks, except it’s not really a question: he knows she is about two seconds away from bawling her eyes out. Not tears of anguish and heartache, or from being hurt , but uncontrollable tears of fury. Marlene has always shown her anger through tears.
The two of them walk past James, who greets them with his usual bright smile, and he falters on his words addressed to the interviewer as he sees Marlene’s face.
“Marley?” He says softly.
“James Potter, one last question: Now that your tour is over, are there any upcoming projects the fans should look out for? Will you be staying in the states a little longer with your bandmates, or is there nothing keeping you here?
James completely ignores her, and cradles Marlene’s small, heart-shaped face in his hands. He hugs her tightly, and she relishes in the familiarness of a good James Potter hug.
“A new song? Anything personal in regard to your love life? Or is life back to being boring now?” The woman pushed the voice recorder in his face, slightly hitting James’ chin, making him turn back to her. His eyes are frantic with worry, and he barely remembers to say goodbye to the interviewer before dragging Marlene and Peter inside their tour bus. Their driver, Donald, spots them, flicks his cigarette to the ground and settles behind the wheel.
“What happened?” James demands as soon as the door is slammed shut”
“Some asshole.”
“Who? Where?”
“James,”
“Don’t listen to him, okay? Whatever he said, it’s nothing. In fact, it’s less than nothing. Do you have any idea how lost we’d be without you. We are gonna be one of the greats because of you, Marlene.”
“James, dear lord–”
“Pete, who introduced us to the religion of rock?”
“That would be Marlene Mckinnon,” Peter answers proudly.
“And who convinced my mum to turn her garage into a rehearsal studio despite how shitty and noisy we were in the beginning?”
“Why, that would be our little minx Marlene.”
“Who has our initials tattooed on her body?”
“Uhh Marlene? Oi— hold on, I didn’t know about that!”
“Who’s the best bassist in the world?” He asks and ignores Pete, finally turning to Marlene.
“Gail Ann Dorsey. I’d—” She answers confidently.
“You’d carry her babies for the rest of your life, yes we know. ” Peter adds.
“That’s not what— Who’s my favourite bassist in the world?” James rolls his eyes, and forcefully but tenderly grabs her shoulders.
“Me,” Marlene mumbles.
“Who?”
“Me.” she laughs a little as James shakes her shoulders.
“Can’t really hear you– can you hear her Peter?”
“Afraid not.”
“It’s me!”
“There you go!” He yells triumphantly and kisses Marlene’s forehead, then Peter’s for good measure.
“Hey Marls, can I see the tattoo?” Peter slides up against her to inquire.
“Never.”
James signals at Donald with two bangs against the bus walls, and it rumbles back to life, heading towards their hotel. The tension slowly eases away into the atmosphere, and the trio finally come down from their performance high. The tour is over: the laughs, the memories, the music, the USA. Everything is coming to a close and none of them truly know what the next step is, except Marlene. For the last month, she’s kept her two friends in the dark about her plans to stay in New York, to move across the ocean alone.
She doesn’t know how to make them understand that she has to always put in the extra mile to be recognized and acknowledged in this world. They’re considerate and understanding, but they’re men. And for once on her life she wants to take her chance and build something on her own, a name, a legacy.
So it just festers at the top of her tongue: “Oh by the way, I’m not going back to Manchester because I want people to see me as ‘Marlene McKinnon, bass legend’ and not ‘the weird McKinnon girl who clings to James and Peter because she has nothing better to do’.”
The bus pulls to a stop behind their hotel, and James is talking about his favorite posters (so far “James: praying isn’t the only thing I do on my knees,” in glittery red is winning), but Marlene is too trapped inside her own mind to join in on Peter’s high-pitched wheezing.
“I’m quite glad I don’t have any obsessive fans publicly sharing how much they want to sleep with me ‘cause I’ve got a good voice.”
“You don’t have a good voice, Pete.” James quips, nudging Marlene, who flashes a tiny smile. She can sense his worried eyes locked on her, and she doesn’t have the heart to meet his gaze. James Potter is the type of man you can only ever be yourself with.
They’re waiting for the elevator, and the opening doors give Marlene the perfect excuse to step away from James. The doors slide shut, but a pale hand slips through, revealing the out-of-breath man on the other side.
“Hi.” He says calmly with an overly smug smile.
His dark black hair is long and wavy, and falls perfectly behind his ears, pierced ears. Silver jewelry and silver eyes shine mischievously, and he’s— well he’s quite stunning. Marlene has to blink to take him in fully. He’s wearing almost exclusively black leather: leather pants, leather jacket, leather boots.
Marlene is weirdly jealous of his look.
“Oh my god.” James whispers, dramatically hitting against Marlene’s shoulder
“What?”
“Oh my god. Marlene— He—“ James keeps stuttering quietly, unable to form a proper sentence.
She leans over to glance a look at Peter, who is just as confused as she is.
“What’s wrong with you?” Marlene says, and a little too loudly, gaining the stranger’s puzzled attention. In fact, his eyes don’t start away from Marlene’s. The lift dings, and the doors slide open once again.
“Looking for a good party?” He says before Marlene can think to take another step.
“Excuse me?” Marlene interjects.
“You’re rockstars. Rockstars party. I know where the parties are. So— wanna party with me?”
“You’re a weirdo,”
“You’re Sirius Black.”
Marlene’s huffed insult comes out at the same time as James’ awed exclamation.
“You’re James Potter.” He counters, eyes focused on James. ”I'm a bit in love you.”
“I love you! Wha— I wanted to marry you when I was 12.
“I wanna marry you now. And I’ve been obsessed with you for years now.”
James squeals like a pig before jumping onto Sirius.
“James, mate? Want to enlighten the rest of us on who the fuck Sirius Black is?”
“Ouch. Marlene Mckinnon you’re a stone-cold killer.” He dramatically fakes being stabbed in the heart and falls even more into James’ arms.
“He’s an actor.”
“Uh, he’s a brilliant actor! Every American thing I watched growing up starred you!” James gushes, arms still hugging Sirius.
“Aw, my husband is such a charmer.” Sirius jests.
“I’m Peter.”
“Yes, I know. I know almost everything about you three.”
“I know fuck all about famous actor Sirius Black”
“He plays Shawn Rider in The Matthews.” Peter pipes in
“Right.” James has been forcing the other two to sit in front of the TV at 5.30pm every Tuesday for years, just so that he can be all caught up with his beloved American sitcom. Marlene could easily recognize anyone from the show, but right now there’s something about Black, his stance, his mannerisms, his vibes. There’s an edge to him, something real and genuine and a little moody.
“I thought you’d be taller.”
“I thought you’d be nicer.”
“Most men are undeserving of my kindness. Especially literal strangers trying to lead us to weird parties.”
“You won’t know it’s weird unless you come with me.” His answer is perfectly timed with the lifting pinging open, and it seems only Marlene was smart enough to notice that they’ve missed the floor with their rooms, and that they’re on the penthouse floor.
“Do we even have a choice?” Marlene huffs as Sirius struts out of the lift.
“‘Course you do. But, considering the lengths I’ve gone to planning this party, which is in fact in your honour, I’d really like for all of you to come.” He smiles this time, not a smirk or a cheeky grin, but a real shy smile.
“Absolutely wicked!” James rushes out, and Peter follows suit, giving Marlene an apologetic shrug.
After a moment of silence, Marlene waves her hands between the doors and steps out.
“James is bound to start crying once he gets drunk, so somebody needs to take care of him.”
“Naturally,” Sirius rolls his eyes playfully.
“I’m a shamelessly sensitive man!” James gleams, taking hold of Marlene’s arm and dragging her to the door.