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“Off you pop,” he says, still with that cheery tone, and the dark shape by his eye crinkles. When nobody moves, still too busy staring agog at him, Hodgson barks, “Do youwantme to send you to Baxter?”
Eventually, we shuffle away, for appearance’s sake, because we have no intention of splitting off into our rooms. This is the most we’ve been allowed to speak together outside of our nightly politics class and we plan on taking full advantage. Rory watches, hawk-like, as Hodgson descends the staircase. We immediately regroup.
“Did you see that?” Rory murmurs, looking startled. “On his face?”
“Whit the fuck’s he thinkin’?”
“It can’t be real,” Danny breathes. “Who gets a tattoo at his age?”
“But didn’t you see it? What it was?” I glance between them, but they’d been too far from Hodgson to pick out the symbol in the low light. “It was the Antiro logo.”
* * *
Rory had laughed. He had laughed and laughed, and after he’d finished laughing, though still through a pair of smirking lips, he’d promised to grab his phone and record more evidence of Hodgson being unfit to teach. This time he wouldn’t even have to say anything to provoke him, just take a video of this new, embarrassing facial tattoo and show it to the rest of the world. On the staircase, he’d formulated a plan, that this is the only good reason we should attend Dunhaven — or rather, leave Lochkelvin. That there would be a signal outside of Lochkelvin’s communication dead zone and space to upload his videos online.
A class has never been canceled like this before, and although it gives us the unexpected bonus of more study time, it also leaves a feeling of unease. The unease doesn’t lessen at dinner, which is served more quickly than I can ever remember, with food dished out and cleared within fifteen minutes. I meet Rory’s suspicious gaze across the tables. The suspicion grows when we’re hurried to our rooms without pudding and the main entrance door is clunked solidly shut like a drawbridge, triple-locked in a way I haven’t seen since the aftermath of the talent show attack.
I pick my way through the excited groups of chattering lower years toward Rory. Separation be damned — most of the teachers haven’t turned up, and for once, Baxter clearly has other things on her mind from the way she flits and flies around the dining hall.
“What’s going on?”
Rory’s brows are lowered in concentration, watching everyone ascend the staircase and troop to their rooms. “I don’t know. The teachers know something’s happening. We’re either being trapped or protected, but things have fallen so far that I can’t tell which.”
“Maybe it’s both.”
“Not impossible,” Rory acknowledges grimly. “Trap some, protect others.” He glances around and in the commotion manages to catch Finlay’s arm, tugging him close and out of the crowd.
Finlay looks worried as he’s drawn from the ruckus. “Why the hell are we havin’ a lockdoon?”
“You should know — you were in Edinburgh — did you hear anything?”
Off-guard, Finlay rubs the back of his head. “No’ any mair than whit I’ve telt ye. Besides, we dinnae know if this is anythin’ tae dae wi’ Antiro.”
“Of course it is,” Rory mutters, and gestures to the plinth across from us at the entrance hall. The magnificent golden lion remains, scowling and roaring at thin air. “What else would it be?”
Finlay’s shoulders sag at the idea of Rory’s evidence. He ignores the statue. “Look, I spoke tae the Antiro protesters at the flat, tried tae be as impartial as possible. They didnae gie me anythin’ but the gospel. If they said anythin’ useful, it went beyond me.” He pauses, racking his brain. “Although…”
“What?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. It’s nothin’.”
“What?”
“Well… one of them I got speaking to, a high-heid yin in the regional Antiro branch, kept sayin’ this thing about this date. I didnae understand it at the time but — well, maybe you can make sense o’ it. They said they were keepin’ their eye out for crystal night.”
“Crystal night?” I repeat, frowning. “Are you sure you heard right?”
Finlay nods, equally at a loss. “I thought it was, like, a stripper or somethin’.”
But Rory’s face has paled tremendously, to the point I think he’s about to keel over. “Didnoneof you listen to Luke? Have neither of you everopeneda history book?”
“Aye, okay, Big Brain. Whit the fuck?”
“Crystal night —Kristallnacht,” Rory hisses. He drags us both by the wrist and into the small passageway where, once upon a time, his thumbs had steadily pressed against the delicate bones of my feet after dancing. “The night when the Nazis attacked Jews.”
Finlay licks his lips, disconcerted. “I mean, I dinnae know that much about the war but I’m fairly certain it lasted longer than a night.”
“It wasn’t the war, it was before the war. Kristallnacht was when Nazis targeted Jews — their homes, properties, businesses. It’s called Crystal Night — the night of the broken glass — after the number of broken windows.”
