Love from Lexie

by Cathy Cassidy

  Marley frowns. ‘But we can talk about anything!’ he says. ‘Lexie, I’ve never dated anyone else for more than a fortnight – only you. I thought you felt the same?’

  ‘I like you,’ I say. ‘I like you a lot – you’re one of my best friends. You drive me mad sometimes, but I still care – a lot. It’s just I feel like we’re more mates than girlfriend/boyfriend. You must feel it too, surely?’

  Marley looks stricken, and I feel a stab of guilt. What if I’ve got this all wrong, if he’s just shy or ultra polite or trying to take things slow? None of those things seem very Marley, though. I smile at the thought.

  Marley is leaning forward, taking my hands in his. ‘I’ve messed up,’ he admits. ‘It’s a skill I have, everybody says so. And the last few weeks have been hectic for everyone … I’ve had so much on my mind I can’t think straight. I just want this gig to go well. I’ve been rubbish, I know, but I’ll make it up to you. Let’s just get Saturday out of the way first, OK?’

  I bite my lip.

  ‘OK,’ I tell him. ‘Deal.’

  Cutting it fine proves to be something of an understatement with the new song, but we are more skilled, more professional now, and we set to work once more, determined to whip it into shape.

  We practise ‘Lost and Found’ night after night until we’re ready to drop, until I am sure that Bex is about to smash her bass guitar over Marley’s head, until I sense that Happi would like to stab him with her violin bow, until every last one of us wishes we’d never even dreamed of being a band. We’re exhausted, but at least the end is in sight.

  Millford is almost ready to protest, ready to party. The Gazette has published a final spread about the festival, showcasing the cool activities on offer and bringing the world up to speed on Ked Wilder. Apparently he has been off the radar for a decade or more, living quietly in the Devon countryside; nobody has been able to tempt him to pick up his guitar again until now. He’s going to sing, he’s going to speak out about the libraries and then he’s going to give a TV interview about it all.

  ‘Miss Walker says it’s the BBC,’ Bex says. ‘How cool would that be?’

  ‘Cool,’ I say, but what I mean is terrifying. National TV. As in, TV seen by people outside Millford, outside the Midlands. People everywhere.

  ‘Someone told Marley and he’s gone even more power-crazy and perfectionist than usual,’ Bex comments, fluffing up her newly crimson hair. ‘Nightmare! The sooner this is over, the better.’

  We watch the park transform, invaded by trucks and vans and teams of workmen who construct the main stage and mixing desk, put up a big backstage tent and four long marquees, then cordon off the whole thing with fancy festival fencing. I can’t quite imagine that by Saturday the park will be rammed with people, people who want to support the libraries, who want to see Ked Wilder play – but it’s happening. It’s unstoppable now.

  Marley crosses another day off the calendar, and another and another until finally we reach Friday, the day before the gig, and there are no more days to cross off. The new song is sounding pure and powerful, with a heart-stopping trumpet solo from Lee, soulful strings and some really intricate harmonies when Marley sings too. It’s great, but Marley pushes us onwards, striving for some elusive perfection only he can see. The mood of the band is simmering somewhere just below boiling point. There is mutiny in the air.

  ‘We’re almost there,’ Marley promises. ‘Once more through the whole set and we’ll have it sounding sweet as honey. From the top!’

  But Sasha sits down heavily on the sofa edge, her shoulders slumped.

  ‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I’m worn out and my head is hurting. Let’s call it a day!’

  ‘No pain, no gain,’ Marley warns. ‘Just once more through. Come on!’

  ‘We’ve been here since four, Marley,’ Bex says. ‘It’s past nine. Sasha’s right. Enough is enough!’

  ‘I reckon the timings were off on “Back Then”,’ Marley argues. ‘Let’s just get that sorted and then we can go!’

  Soumia, always quiet, dependable, easy-going, shakes her head. ‘Don’t you ever listen, Marley? We tell you we’ve had enough and you don’t hear us; you don’t care. We’re OK – we’re good, even. As ready as we’ll ever be. I’ve turned up to every practice – do you even know how hard that has been for me? The lies I’ve had to tell my parents? They think I’m at some kind of study club at school, or at Sasha’s house, revising. I’ve had GCSE exams since the middle of May, Marley … I’m Year Eleven, remember? I sat three of the things this week and there are another two next week … but all you care about is this stupid festival tomorrow, and whether you’ll make the big time based on our hard work. Well, sorry, I’m done!’

  Soumia grabs her jacket and heads for the door, Sasha not far behind.

  ‘OK, OK,’ Marley is yelling. ‘We’ll leave it. Whatever. Don’t walk out, Soumia – we need you! And Sasha – please!’

  ‘Leave it, Marley,’ Sasha says. ‘Tomorrow is our big day – we need some sleep! I’ll be back at ten for a last rehearsal, sure, and Soumia too – but right now we’re going!’

  The door clatters shut behind them.

  ‘Sometimes you push them too far,’ Dylan says into the silence. ‘Chill out, dude. We’re only human!’

  We clear away in awkward silence, and the others leave in twos and threes until it’s just me and Marley left. ‘Sasha’s right,’ I tell him. ‘We all need some sleep. Things’ll look better in the morning.’

  ‘Will they?’

  ‘Sure! They always do!’ I promise, although I’m not sure that’s actually true. ‘C’mon, Marley. Let’s lock up.’

  We hide the key in its usual place underneath the steps and walk hand in hand across the park. It looks alien in the falling light, filled with the looming shapes of tents and marquees, and Marley can’t relax. He’s all wound up, convinced that Sasha and Soumia have walked out for good, that tomorrow’s performance will be a disaster.

  ‘They’ll be there,’ I tell him. ‘They’re just tired … They’ve had enough for today. We all have.’

  ‘Am I the only person who actually cares about tomorrow?’ Marley growls. ‘Without me, the band would still sound like a car crash. Don’t they get that it takes hard work and lots of practice to pull a set like this together? Is it wrong to be a perfectionist?’

  ‘Marley, I …’

  My voice trails away into silence as I notice a couple of figures up ahead of us in the half-light, close to the Music Zone tent. One of them is Sharleen Scott, dressed to kill in tiny denim shorts and a crop top; the other is her boyfriend, six foot tall and built like a tank. Tank Boy turns, catches sight of Marley and instantly stands taller, gritting his teeth.

  I feel cold all over. ‘Ignore them, Marley,’ I whisper. ‘Just keep walking …’

  But Marley has stopped in his tracks. His hackles are up, his eyes alight as he shifts from one foot to the other, his hands scrunched into fists.

  ‘All right, loser?’ Marley says calmly, clearly. ‘Nice evening. Out for a walk with your dog?’

  Sharleen’s face slides from happy to horrified to hurt. She bursts into tears and her boyfriend launches himself at Marley, shoving him to the ground. All I can hear then is swearing and the crunch of knuckle against bone, grunts of pain and ragged gasps for breath – and Sharleen’s sobbing in the background. Marley’s face is slick with blood and dirt; he isn’t even trying to fight back.

  Cutting through the falling dusk sounds my own piercing scream.

  ‘Help! Somebody, please help!’

  28

  The Lost Boy

  Sharleen and her boyfriend run away, and I drag Marley to his feet. It’s quicker to head back to Greystones than to try to get to Marley’s house. We walk slowly because he’s shaken and wobbly and I feel sick and shocked.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ I ask as we walk. ‘Say that? You were horrible! I know Sharleen’s a bully, but what you called her … there was no need, Marley. You a
sked for that fight. You made it happen!’

  He just shrugs. ‘Don’t make me feel any worse than I do,’ he mutters, and I am silent again, exasperated. I know how wound up he’s been, and whenever Marley gets close to breaking point it ends this way. He looks for someone bigger and meaner than he is and then launches into a fight that can only end one way.

  As we approach the railway carriage, I let go of Marley for a moment to unlock the door. He sways a little, holding his ribs, then follows me inside, slumping down on to one of the bench seats as I fill the kettle and soak a clean cloth in hot water. In the light of the old railway carriage, I can see that his right eye is bruised and swollen, his cheek grazed. By tomorrow, he’s going to have a pretty spectacular shiner. The timing could not be worse.

  ‘Why d’you do it?’ I ask him as I wipe the blood from his face. ‘It’s like a compulsion – the bruises from last time have only just gone. We talked about this, how it could mess everything up for the band. You genuinely picked that fight out of thin air, Marley. I don’t get it!’

  ‘I’m not a coward,’ he says, wincing as I try to bathe his eye. ‘If someone hits me, I’ll hit them back – even if they’re bigger than me. I’m not scared of anyone. Not even my dad.’

  I frown, perching on the sofa beside him. ‘Does … does your dad hit you?’ I ask.

  ‘Used to,’ Marley answers. ‘My mum, Dylan, me – but mostly me. Think he just hated me more than he hated the others … I don’t know.’

  Silence falls around us, ugly, awkward. For weeks I’ve been aware that Marley was holding back, showing me just a tiny slice of who he is. Now I know why.

  He takes a deep breath. ‘He doesn’t hit me any more. He’s banged up – in prison. They were after him already for fraud, but he hurt me so badly they did him for grievous bodily harm too. He went down for three years, and when he comes out he’s not allowed to come anywhere near us. Now you know. Are you sorry you asked?’

  ‘Not sorry,’ I whisper. ‘Oh, Marley …’

  He shakes his head, distant, as if dredging up more memories.

  ‘I want to tell you all of it, Lexie,’ he whispers. ‘I’ve never told anyone before, never met anyone I thought would understand, but you … maybe you will?’

  ‘Tell me,’ I say.

  Marley frowns. ‘D’you remember when you said you felt like we were more best friends than girlfriend/boyfriend? Well, that’s a part of it. I’m no good at relationships. I don’t find it hard to actually get a girlfriend, but things never last. I know I have a bad reputation …’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I whisper, but it’s not OK, obviously. It’s not OK at all.

  ‘D’you want to know why he hit me, Lexie, that last time?’ Marley demands. ‘My dad? He caught me kissing someone from school and he was so angry, so disgusted, he tried to beat the badness out of me. He put me in hospital.’

  ‘Oh, God!’

  Marley takes a ragged breath in, raking a bloodied hand through his fringe. His eyes brim with tears, as if dragging up the past hurts more than his ruined face.

  ‘D’you understand what I’m telling you, Lexie? D’you know what I’m saying?’

  ‘Yes – your dad caught you kissing some girl from school …’

  He shakes his head, shoulders slumped, silent for a long moment.

  ‘No, Lexie, not a girl,’ he tells me softly at last. ‘I wasn’t kissing … a girl. Do you hear what I’m saying? Do you get it now?’

  My eyes open wide. ‘I don’t … but … what?’ I murmur. ‘Is this a joke?’

  ‘It’s not a joke. I – I think I might be gay, Lexie,’ Marley is saying. ‘Please don’t hate me! Do you see now why my dad hated me so much? Why I hate myself? Why things between you and me got kind of weird?’

  I’ve stopped listening, though. A dozen mismatched jigsaw pieces fall into place. The boy who’s dated half the girls in the school but never stuck with anyone for long; the boy with a reputation as a user; the boy who’s living a lie, who’s been lying to me from the moment we met.

  I feel sick, dizzy, as if I might faint.

  ‘I’m no good, Lexie,’ he is saying, distraught. ‘I’m messed up, damaged, rubbish, just like my dad says, and if I end up in scraps sometimes and come off worst – well, I guess I deserve it …’

  A surge of anger washes over me like an icy tidal wave, taking my breath away. I stand up, my whole body shaking.

  ‘Are you asking for my sympathy?’ I say. ‘Seriously? When you’ve been lying to me all this time; playing games with my head? You told me I was different, that you’d never felt this way!’

  ‘I haven’t – you are!’ he protests. ‘I thought that maybe this time things might work out. I’ve tried so hard …’

  But no matter how hard he’s tried, Marley cannot bear to touch me. No matter how much he cares, I’m not enough. I’m not wanted, not needed … all over again. The taste of rejection is like ashes on my tongue. I slam out of the railway carriage, his voice echoing behind me.

  I fumble my key into the lock of 3 Kenilworth Road and bolt up the stairs. Moments later, there’s a knock on my bedroom door and I hear Mandy’s voice asking if I’m OK.

  ‘Not OK,’ I croak. ‘Please … leave me alone!’

  But Mandy doesn’t seem to hear because the door creaks open and she comes in anyway, sits down beside me on the bed. ‘What’s happened, Lexie?’ she asks. ‘Is it something to do with Marley? Has he … finished things?’

  I laugh, but there’s no humour, no joy in it. It’s harsh and grating, a sad, ugly sound. Mandy puts an arm round my shoulder, gently. I want to move away, keep her at arm’s length the way I always have, but suddenly I’m so weary of it all. I need someone to talk to, someone like a mother, and Mandy is here. She cares.

  ‘It’s over between me and Marley,’ I choke out. ‘But it’s not what you think – it’s worse. He doesn’t want me at all; he never did. He’s … he’s gay!’

  I tell the whole story – the mutinous rehearsal, the fight, the confession.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ Mandy says. ‘I’m sorry. That must be so hard for you to take in. You liked him so much … your first boyfriend. But it’s good he’s found the courage to tell you, Lexie. He must be a very mixed-up, messed-up boy right now – very lost – but I think he’s trying to be honest, trying not to hurt you.’

  ‘He’s failed then,’ I whisper. ‘It feels like he’s smashed my heart to bits. What’s wrong with me, Mandy? Why can’t anybody love me? Why do they always walk away?’

  Mandy sighs, wiping my tears away with a tissue, stroking my hair. She is so close I can feel the tickle of her wavy hair against my cheek, breathe in the smell of her citrus shampoo. Somehow, quietly and without me even noticing, Mandy has become more familiar to me than my own mum.

  ‘Lots of people love you, Lexie,’ she is saying. ‘Me and Jon, Bex, your friends … You are an amazing girl. You really are. I think Marley cares a lot about you … It sounds as though he’s just coming to terms with things himself. It won’t have been easy for him.’

  ‘No, but … it hurts!’

  ‘I know, Lexie, I know …’

  I don’t want to feel sorry for Marley, don’t want to understand. Right now, I just feel humiliated, foolish, rejected. Rejected all over again. Mandy seems to know just what I’m thinking.

  ‘Lexie … we never talk about your mum, but maybe it’s time we did,’ she says softly. ‘I think she loved you very much. We don’t know what happened or why she vanished, and that’s tough. Perhaps she had no choice, somehow, but even if she did … maybe she believed you’d have a better life without her. I am certain of one thing, Lexie. If your mum is out there somewhere, if she is … well, she will never stop loving you.’

  ‘If she loves me so much, why isn’t she here?’ I yell. I push Mandy away, stumble across the bedroom to the window, as if by looking out at the starry sky I might somehow find some answers. ‘Why didn’t she care enough to stick around? I hate her, Mandy! I h
ate what she’s put me through. All these years, sick with guilt, thinking it was my fault …’

  ‘It was never your fault,’ Mandy says. ‘Never, not for one moment. You were nine years old!’

  ‘But she didn’t love me enough to stay,’ I murmur, and then the tears come again and Mandy’s arms are round me, holding me tight. It’s like a floodgate has opened; all the stress and pressure of the last few weeks, the hopes and dreams smashed into pieces, the nightmares … all of it comes out. I’m crying for me and I’m crying for Marley and I’m crying for the little girl I used to be, the girl who lost her mum and blamed herself, carried that blame for way too long. Maybe it’s time to put that burden down, to stop searching, stop writing, stop hoping?

  Maybe it’s time to let go at last of the woman who let go of me.

  29

  New Day

  I wake at dawn, the first fingers of light pushing through the curtains to signal a new day. My eyes feel gritty from last night’s tears, but my head is clearer than it’s been for a while and, although my heart is hurting, my shoulders feel light, as if someone has lifted a heavy weight away.

  When I check my mobile, there are a dozen unread messages from Marley, anguished apologies, pleas, despair. He spent the night at the old railway carriage, it seems, too scared to go home.

  Stay where you are, I text. I’ll be there by seven.

  I shower, dry my hair, pull on my clothes for the gig, stuff my tambourine in a bag. I have no idea if we’ll be playing now, not with Marley’s face all bruised and swollen, but I’m determined we’ll do our best.

  Downstairs, Mandy is in the kitchen making coffee. I put my arms round her in a hug and hope she knows how much I love her, how grateful I am, how lucky I feel to have her and Jon and Bex to be my sort of family. I think she does.

  ‘You’re up early,’ she says. ‘How do you feel? How did you sleep?’

  ‘Better than I have in ages,’ I tell her. ‘I’m going to talk to Marley. You’re right – he was brave to tell me. He hasn’t told anyone else, and he must be feeling awful about how I reacted. I need to put it right.’