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Together we watch the rain. I pull Finlay’s arms tighter around me until my chest feels crushed. In a quiet, desperate voice, I ask, “Why are the people who tell the truth punished?”
“Because power,” Finlay answers simply into my ear. “There’s one truth, one fact, and that jeopardizes a’ those who get powerful on the backs o’ lies and manipulation.”
His words make sense. They’re what I’ve suspected, as I’ve tried to figure out life. “And yet we’re encouraged to become liars and con artists.”
“Aye. We’re to become heads of great institutions — but institutions are only people, and people areweak. They get too comfortable. Lions, on the other hand, are rare. Think o’ yer man, Galileo — he had a rough-as-fuck time o’ it. Bangs on about Earth orbitin’ the Sun. Ends up under hoose arrest for the rest o’ his life because it went against the dogma o’ the Church.”
“More liars and con artists.” I sigh. “The rivers of utter shit we need to pick through, that they operate, just to get to the one nugget of truth buried deep underneath, the one that they don’t want us to see…”
“Your mind’s on the lockdowns,” Finlay notes, planting a kiss on my temple. “Understandable. I’m the same.”
“I was thinking…” I turn toward Finlay fully, because I need to see his face. I need to see if he’ll judge me for what I’m about to say next, for my obsession and preoccupation with the news cartel who supply me. “We passed some stores on the way here. Maybe one of them sells The Daily Toot?”
To my relief, no signs of judgment cross Finlay’s handsome face. His green eyes light up instead. “Ye know, I was thinkin’ the same thing myself.” He shrugs. “It’s worth a shot.”
“Baxter’ll kill me if I leave.”
“I’ll go. Dinnae think she’s noticed I’ve fucked aff.”
“No, I want to come.”
Finlay gives me a scrutinizing look. “You know whit they’re hidin’… it could be…bad, aye?”
“I know. I’d put my life on it. The fact no one’s talking, everyone’s jumpy…”
“Ye’re no’ puttin’ yer life on anythin’,ever, sassenach.” His voice is fierce, protective. I take his hand in mine for comfort.
“But Antiro must have fucked up,” I whisper. “Theymusthave overstepped the mark somehow, else they’d be crowing about their victory.”
Finlay peers through the window beside us. It’s glossy and silver with condensation. “Cannae see a thing, but then they wullnae see us go.” He peels off his large black jacket and hands it to me. I raise a brow, feeling its weight. “Take it. It’s bucketin’ and ye only have yer blazer.”
I do as he says, grateful for the additional layer of warmth. Finlay shrugs off his blazer until his only protection from the slanting rain is his white school shirt, which soaks within seconds and clings like paste to his pale skin. He places his blazer overhead and jogs through the noisy curtain in front of us, getting splashed relentlessly. I begin to think the maniac enjoys it.
“C’mon!” he yells from the other side, holding his blazer aloft to protect himself from above. “I think I remember the way.”
It’s miserable. The whole town is empty and water-logged, and we dodge massive puddles and overflowing drains, zig-zagging our way across narrow roads. Cars slide through them, their wheels spraying yet more water everywhere. Finlay grabs me by the hand and together we dash down the old wet streets, my feet sodden, my school shoes squelching. Eventually, we find the street the coach had passed and dive into a small store with an illuminated sign readingAl-Hossain Newsagents.
The bell tinkles above the door, and for a blessed, breathless moment we revel in the heat and shelter of the shop, grinning at one another. It’s a typical convenience store, every section of wall and aisle space crammed with shelves of common produce. The man behind the counter is playing a noisy game on his phone, and there are no other customers.
“Here,” Finlay whispers, crouching down to a selection of newspapers divided into clear plastic boxes. I see some local newspapers, like The Dunhaven Digger, whose front page is about a hit-and-run near a primary school, and the Sentinel’s titles are well-stocked and feature Benji’s grinning face but nothing particularly new about him.
“Will there ever be new news in the news?” I murmur dryly, sick of seeing Benji’s beatific face beside a splatter of shallow, handsome headlines.
Unless my eyes are tricking me, there is no sign of The Daily Toot.
“D’you think it’s out of stock,” I ask Finlay, “or that it was never stocked in the first place?”
Finlay rises to his feet, baring his best game face. “Only one way tae find oot.”
“Don’t,” I say, standing up. “I’ll ask.” Sometimes guys can’t comprehend their own bulk and height, and don’t realize how intimidating they can come across to strangers. At least I’m small and can smile prettily. May as well join in with the patriarchy since, with men around, it seems like women are never going to be able to beat it.
I approach the counter with a pleasant smile. The guy reluctantly lowers his phone, continuing to glance in its direction. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, hi. I’m looking for a newspaper called The Daily Toot. I wonder if you sell it here?” I make sure to raise my voice at the end, trying to sound as innocent and sweet as possible.
These words are enough to break whatever spell the game holds. The man’s face shuts down completely. He glances nervously at Finlay behind me, and then toward the door. “Er, no. No, we don’t sell that… publication.”
“Oh?” I try my best to look heartbroken, contorting my face to resemble the saddest little human. “It’s just, we’re doing a project on the media at school… and it would really help us out. You don’t happen to know anywhere else in town that might sell it?”
