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“Amazing! It’s such a wonderful career path full of incredible opportunity,” she enthuses, even though I’ve heard the exact opposite from pretty much everyone else. “You know we actually train journalists in-house before they’re, ah,unleashedon our newspapers?”
“Oh?”
“As owners of some of the most popular titles in the Western world, we holdphenomenalsway in many different sectors. Therefore we encourage our new journalists to use their special collaborator powers to help guide policy-makers and politicians into choosing the best, most progressive outcomes for the country as a whole. We have the power and influence to enforce change, not just across the media landscape, but to bend everything around it.”
I stare at her, wondering if she even hears what she’s saying beyond the fumes of narcissism. “You set up… training?”
“Exactly.” She beams. “Training — not just for journalists, but for everyone we interact with. Our trained journalists in turn help to train our politicians into better human beings. We teach the skillsandmake the world a better place.”
It happens abruptly. I don’t know where it comes from but this enormous wave ofragecrashes over me. I gaze at this woman with her immaculate pin-up-girl hair, her face as cosmetically enhanced as an Old Hollywood movie star, and I know that these are the ones amplifying Benji for big bucks. This is the intersection of power: the overlap between politics and the media and consultancy, where corruption flourishes freely in secret backroom meetings and people are made to believe in whatever bullshit for however many bags of cash.
“Doesn’t this kind of political influencing violate a journalist’s code of conduct?” My tone is icy even though the rest of me has turned molten-hot. The dog’s ears prick like triangular satellite dishes. “Swaying politicians, or whatever it is you do… doesn’t that conflict ethically? Because it sounds to me like you’re instructing impressionable journalists, who are new to the industry, not to report the bare facts of a story, but to push an agenda instead.”
“There is an aspect ofpersuasion, certainly,” she notes carefully, and seems to have picked up on the chill of my voice. “But I would never go so far as to say we breach our ethical standards. Definitely not.”
“No, I suppose that would involvehavingethics in the first place,” I snap, and several of the conversations at the tables near me instantly die.
“Chi-chi, come here,” the woman murmurs in a careful voice to her dog, who waddles obligingly between her boots and curls underneath the table. Cagily, she continues, “I don’t know what you’re referring to but we simply give our journalists pointers on how best to navigate being a good citizen with their newfound influence.”
“No, you don’t. You indoctrinate new journalists at the start of their career to sing the gospel of Benjamin Moncrieff.” As I spell it out, the woman’s made-up eyes flare wide like the opening of a pale blue flower. Oh, dear. I said the no-no name. “And you wonder why no one buys newspapers anymore? You aren’t creating journalists. You’re making activists, lobbyists! It’s funny that this ‘training’ exists solely to brainwash. Why are you so scared of being impartial? Why are you so scared of free thought? Offacts?”
“You’re welcome to apply for our traineeship and see for yourself what it’s like,” she demurs in a cool tone that suggests I’m anything but.
“No, thank you. My newspaper of choice is The Daily Toot.”
I may as well have said I prefer shitting out forks. But that’s as much as I’m able to spit out before I’m hauled across the now-silent hall by a surprisingly strong arm. Baxter’s face is tense and seething. My vision is too blurry to absorb much of the spinning room, but I see Finlay’s wide green eyes, and the moment he jolts forward as if to follow, before being stopped by Baxter’s forbidding palm.
The instant we’re out of the hall, Baxter mutters, “I have had it up toherewith you.” It genuinely sounds like she’s reached the end of her tether with me. The kindly, welcoming assistant from earlier looks shocked as I’m dragged toward the coat racks. “For just once in your selfish life, can you behave? Pretend to be a normal, decent student?” At my silence, she barks, “Take your blazer and stay out there.”
Through the front window, the rain is still flooding down from the sky, heavy enough that the idea of being out in the cold makes me wince.
“Is this humiliating for you?Good. Reflect on the humiliation you’ve causedmeand the shame you’ve brought to Lochkelvin. And for once in your life, stop being so selfish!”
45
Even in the frozen January air, my face is red-hot.
How is it fair? You’re told growing up to be noble and stand up for what you believe in, for what you think is right. What they don’t tell you is that other people shape and control the very definition of beliefs. Beliefs can be made-up bullshit, a fabrication of falsehoods, an orthodoxy established long before you have a say. It’s the powerful, like Sentinel Media Group, who sway and dictate agendas. Defying top-down propagandists like them means being shunned, facing rejection, and enduring punishment by community loudmouths so easily convinced by the spotless integrity of the media.
The desire to run is overwhelming.
I grab my opposing forearms, trying to rub myself warm beneath the short roof shelter above the doorway. The guttering must be broken because cold rain falls in a steady stream in front of me like a heavy crystal curtain, and I press myself deeper into the doorway to keep myself from it. I wish I could do something with my hands, my fingers.
Never in my life have I had the desire to smoke before, but I get the sense that the twitchiness currently leaping through my system is the perfect scenario for taking it up. I claw at my blazer sleeves instead. Am I really expected to juststayhere, like a dog waiting for its owner?
Behind me, the door opens from inside, and from the heavy footsteps, I don’t even have to look to identify who it is.
“You’re a wee fuckin’ rockstar, you know that?” Finlay’s words are warm and low and serious, sizzling heat into the pit of my belly.
“Tell that to Baxter,” I mutter, scowling through the dense rain.
“Fuck Baxter.” Finlay wraps his arms around me from behind, planting a warm, roughened kiss on my cheek, his stubble scratching my skin. I sag against him, noting all the built-up tension blissfully seeping away from me, dissolving in the firm cradle of Finlay’s chest and arms. “It’s better tae be a wild lion on yer ain than travelin’ wi’ the clueless herd. They’ll see it one day. Ye’ll be a’ right, lass.”
I wish I could believe him. Even now when I’m able to breathe again, to catch this small moment of peace in Finlay’s arms, I’m hyper-aware of the whole world pressing in, ready to sabotage my bliss. I’ve never felt less like a lion. Is this trauma? Have I made myself traumatized by listening to the news, by becoming so obsessed with it? I’ve made it personal, and every lurid headline is an attack against my very principles.
“May as well be a lion. It’s not as if the herd ever accepted me.”
Finlay kisses the top of my damp head. “Then I’d take it as a compliment, frankly. So many folk in thrall tae so much shite.”
