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Rory answers him with a small, patronizing smile.
“Startin’ tae think your whole thing about tellin’ me aff was a sham. Me no’ bein’ in touch. You worried somethin’ was wrang. Ye knew I was alive. I did exactly as ye requested: Belly goes boom.”
“You did,” Rory concedes.
I don’t miss the slight puffing of Finlay’s chest. “Completed it successfully, I believe, since the whole fuckin’ country’s discussin’ the political thoughts o’ the charisma-vacuum that is Arabella Baxter.” He checks for Rory’s reaction, but he remains as placid as ever, giving no indication he approves or disapproves. It seems to make Finlay speak all the more, waiting for the correct combination of words to tip Rory into some emotion, bad or good. “It was a’ anyone could talk about. Luke thought it was hilarious. At one point, I thought I’d even get an article a’ about me in The Daily Toot — ‘Head Girl OWNED By Political Rising Star.’ Aye, I like the sound o’ that — ‘Finlay Fraser, 18 and devilishly handsome—’”
To my surprise, Danny interrupts with a soft, “What’s the deal with you?” He’s watching Finlay, shrewd, trying to discern the difference in him. “It’s not just Rory who can see it. Your behavior is…” He shakes his head, puzzled. “It’s almost, I’d say, manic.”
Finlay clutches his chest in mockery. “Et tu, Quiet One?” When nobody laughs, his shoulders sag. His whole frame seems to collapse in on itself as he turns to Rory. “For one night… I wanted us a’ — or fine,myself— tae have somethin’ good. No’ tae think, no’ tae dae anythin’ except justbe. Just somethin’. Because oot there?” He glances between all three of us, large green eyes filled with concern, and I realize then that this is him: the layers peeled and Finlay stripped back. “I’ve seen it. It’s chaos.”
“How?” Rory asks sharply.
“Everythin’.” I’ve never seen such a dismal expression on Finlay’s face. Lines score his forehead, his brows lowered into a long, dark streak. “There were protesters — I saw them — oot by the auld safe hoose. They’ve figured oot it was used by Luke. They stood there every day, chantin’.”
Rory’s face doesn’t change but he stands a little straighter, a little stiffer, against the wall, as if to keep his feet from slipping.
“I got a proper look at the city. Visited a few auld pals. Heard the news from folk on the ground. And it’s shite. It’s a’ wall-tae-wall shite, and they’re lappin’ it up.” He pauses, gesticulating around the classroom and appealing to Rory’s rationale. “Ootside these walls, Antiro iswinnin’.”
We’d suspected. Hell, we’d known. But hearing these words from Finlay is like witnessing an anvil clanging from the ceiling and crashing straight through the floor. My stomach makes a similar journey down to the soles of my shoes.
“And as fun and deservin’ as Belly’s demise is, it’s nothin’ compared tae the Royal Family. They’re done for. That’s it. That’s whit I’m hearin’. It’s an uprising, and Antiro keeps on risin’.” He runs a hand through his jet-black hair. “There’s this wall near the railway line. Used tae go doon there a’ the time. Skateboardin’ in the summer. Taggin’. Daft, stupid shite.Fuck Toriesand a’ that. But noo it’s just a’…” He rubs the back of his neck nervously, turning once more to Rory like his North Star. “It isnae anti-establishment. It’spro-Antiro. It’spro-Benji. It’s everythin’ thoughtless and shite in modern political discourse. And these are some o’ the maist politically astute people I thought I knew, yet Antiro’s still turned them intae followers and haters.”
Rory folds his arms. “Like what? I mean, I’m against mindless vandalism at the best of times but what exactly have they…scribbled?”
“There’s a huge mural tae Benji as this harmless wee cartoon figure. The words ‘OurTruth and Joy’beneath — boak. Candles colored like the Antiro flag — and that ugly fuckin’ flag is everywhere, I swear tae God. The uni, the main shopping bit, even thechurchesare flyin’ it. There’s one up Calton Hill, and I think some bastard even planted it up Arthur’s Seat. Then ye’ve got tags like ‘rest in peace tae a’ the deid truth warriors.’ Stuff like that. Real cult shit.” His frown deepens. “It’s toothless. No’ one word allowed against Antiro. That’s no’ whit graffiti used tae be.”
“They might have been painted by some corporation,” Danny suggests. “You never know.”
“Nah, I saw them dae it. My auld crew. We had a catch-up. And… the worst thing was… I was silent throughout. I had tae be. I couldnae speak. Couldnae tell them they were backin’ the wrang horse, or that they’d been fucked in the heid. Like, these were people I consideredfriends. Sharp, smart, politically minded. Noo they’re plasterin’ Waverley wi’ Antiro’s own propaganda.” He shakes his head and mutters through a sigh, “But it’s no’ just that. It’s… everythin’ else. Rumors about Antiro steppin’ up, targetin’ anyone showin’ hints o’ royalist sympathy. I didnae know how it’ll manifest but my auld gang seemed convinced it’d happen soon. I had tae get oot o’ there, I had tae warn ye.”
“And Luke?” Rory demands. “How isLuke?”
Finlay shrugs. “How d’ye expect him tae be? A’ he’s got is MacKechnie, and MacKechnie’s just one man.”
“One man with a cold, apparently,” Rory drawls, looking suitably unimpressed.
Here, Finlay looks awkward. “I-It wisnae just a cold. I… I was tryin’ tae play it doon a bit. I didnae want ye tae be worried.”
I watch as Rory’s eyes become icy slits. “What’s wrong with Mack?”
“I don’t know,” Finlay says, and he looks even more lost than before. “We thought it was the cold, but then it got worse and worse. Throwin’ up. Shiverin’. Maybe pneumonia or somethin’ — somethin’ God-awful. And obviously, we couldnae get a doctor. So we had tae take turns nursin’ him and hope for the best. I had tae watch him and watch over Luke at the same time. I was burnin’ the candle at baith ends.”
“And so you ran?”
Finlay shakes his head, adamant. “No. Never.”
“Can I take a single word you say seriously?” Rory snaps. “Quit damage-controlling. Quit giving me what you think I want to hear and tell the actual truth.”
“I didn’trun!” Finlay’s shouting, now stressed beyond belief, his arms raised, his voice raving. The mood has pivoted dramatically. “Mack was on the mend — he telt me tae go. I’d spent ages through there. And I had tae come back, I had tae tell you lot. Ye didnae understand how bleak it is through there. Keepin’ quiet, tryin’ no’ tae rouse suspicion, jumpin’ oot o’ my skin at every noise in that perfect wee street. And the absolute nothingness Luke has — nae access tae money, nae fixed address, nae workin’ phone, nae hope o’ legal representation. He’s wholly reliant on Mack. But they’re oot there. They’re on the ground. They’re listenin’. Every neighborhood.”
“Who?”
“Antiro!” Finlay drags an agitated palm down his face and speaks quickly: “They’ve got people keepin’ watch for any… transgressions. They’ve recruited volunteers. Deployed in every city. Chappin’ doors, peerin’ through windaes, letterboxes. The news disnae mention any o’ this but I promise ye, it’s a whole fuckin’ military operation, and Edinburgh, when I left, was willingly under siege.”
“Because they believe Luke’s still there,” Rory murmurs, understanding. “Or because they don’t want Scots rebelling?”
“Because Edinburgh was his last official sightin’, aye. Anythin’ else is a bonus.”
