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29
The person appointed to lead the St. Camford-approved official tour of the university is a stuck-up, foppish idiot who claims to be a third year studying politics. But having just received an unofficial tour of the university from Jonie — with all aspects of its corruption uncovered — I feel she’s taught us more about St. Camford and the wider world than this hopeless chump ever could.
“One doesn’t just need to select the best university,” he drones with a polite guffaw. He has a stretched, horsey face and a bizarre hairstyle that resembles a failed quiff. “If only it were that simple, hah! Choose the bestsocietywithin the best university and that, my friends, will propel you for life. Luckily, I’m treasurer of the Bellingson Club, so I’m practically guaranteed a free pass to any and all aspects of the world following graduation. I hope we’ll be seeing a few of your faces there, of course — if, that is, you pass our rigorous initiation ceremony, oho!”
“Aw right?” a tired voice says, slumping beside me. “Whit’s this prat gibberin’ about?”
I turn in surprise to see Finlay. “Where’ve you been?”
“Wi’ Luke. Keepin’ him company. Danny’s wi’ him noo.”
“How is he?” Rory asks quietly.
Finlay shrugs. “Pissed. Everywhere he goes, someone’s ready tae slag him aff. No’ tae his face, of course — they didnae know he’s here — but he’s listenin’, takin’ it a’ in, and he feels like shit.” He rubs the backs of his eyes. “Is it just me or is everyone in this uni a fuckin’ heidcase?”
“Excuse me!” our tour guide says sharply, as we pass through a corridor lined with portraits of former university heads. “Voicesdown, please, otherwise you’ll spoil it for the students who actuallywantto be here.”
“They’ll be few and far between, pal,” Finlay mutters, and I hold back my giggle.
The tour guide’s eyes narrow on Finlay, and he struts over to him like a puffed-up peacock, his hair flopping into his eyes, which he shifts with a self-important flick of his head. “Name.”
“Name whit?”
“What is yourname?”
“Jack,” Finlay replies without missing a beat.
“Jackwhat?”
“Kanov.”
The guide’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Well, Jack Kanov,” he begins, and some of the other students around us titter. It takes a moment, but then the guide nods in recognition. “Ah, I see how it is. What school are you from, boy?”
Finlay doesn’t answer.
“Uh-huh. The class clown’s not so keen to speak now, are you? You may believe you’re something special in your current school but let me tell you: you’re a nobody until you enroll here.” He glances up and down at Finlay, taking in his mussed black hair and thick, expensive kilt, and he mutters spitefully, “You’re such a nobody, I don’t even recognize you fromTattle.”
My mind flashes back to last year, Finlay complaining aboutTattle’s bad taste after shoving him to the back of some stupid Most Eligible Bachelor list.
“If you are here,” the guide murmurs to Finlay, his gaze drifting across the assembled crowd to make sure all eyes are on him, “then you’ll be well aware of how difficult it is for highborn English schoolboys to be removed from their past.”
Finlay scowls at him. This more than anything seems enough to break his silence. “I’m no’ fuckin’ English.”
The guide appears to flinch at Finlay’s outburst. “That explains the vulgar diction — my deepest condolences. But you are well aware that the ins and outs of your life will be known intimately by your fellow peers, who will then follow you throughout the remainder of your life, from public school and university to gentleman’s clubs and beyond. Exceedingly difficult, it is, to bury your past and expect to re-emerge anew. Especially in these ever-so-progressive times, when the misdeeds of one’s life are freely presented with the click of a button. So I’d warn you to correct that attitude — and indeedaccent— you’ve brought today, or else make life very miserable for yourself down the line indeed.”
I glance between the pair of them. Finlay’s scowl deepens with every word, until his brows are nothing but a straight beetle-black line. It’s strange, but these days I have to concentrate doubly hard on the guide’s marble-mouthed murmurs while Finlay’s accent has become second nature to me. The guide speaks plummier than Luke ever did before this summer — as though, like Luke, he’s trying to live up to a standard and status so high it doesn’t actually exist.
The guide gives the gathered crowd a sunny smile. “Shall we continue?” he asks brightly to the remainder of the tour group, and he stomps his way back to the front of the group. I note Arabella’s tiny, vengeful smirk in Finlay’s direction, as does Rory, whose silver eyes narrow at her.
“Whit a fud,” Finlay mutters darkly, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jacket as the tour resumes. “Bet that isnae even his real accent, either.” In a low, bitter voice, he continues his tirade, “Naebody speaks like me. Thinks he can look doon on me because o’ my accent, when he’s probably some chancer fae a cooncil estate in fuckin’ Wigan.” He sounds melancholic. “No tae be crass and bring money intae it, but it’s hard enough when ye grow up bein’ telt yer own voice is slang and ye must be a thick cunt because o’ it. Any desperate fucker can get themselves elocution lessons.”
It reminds me of arriving at Lochkelvin, my accent a brand-new novelty, there to be automatically mocked and derided. “I like your voice,” I tell Finlay, and he gives me a wide smile in appreciation, slipping his hand around mine.
Rory, meanwhile, is approaching Arabella. “Have you told anyone?” he hisses as his opening gambit, and Arabella shrugs him off.
“I’mtryingto pay attention—”
“Have. You. Told. Anyone. About. Luke?”
