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The man licks his lips. “Is this a set-up?” he murmurs, dark eyes darting like mad between me and Finlay. “We don’t stock it, all right? We don’t know anyone that does. Okay? Now leave us alone.”
“A set-up?” Finlay asks, ignoring the man’s words and pushing forward. “What do you mean?”
“N-nothing.” But the man in front of us is practically trembling with fear. I watch a bead of sweat form at the line of his short black hair and drip steadily past his earlobe.
“Look,” I say, taking pity on him. “We’re not going to hurt you.”
“Aye, we’re no’ gonnae dae ye in.”
“We’re just… curious.”
The man shakes his head furiously as if trying to dislodge our voices. “No. I know their tactics. We don’t sell it. Good day.”
“Whosetactics?” Finlay asks.
“We’ll pay,” I insist, wondering if money will sweeten him up. “Any info at all…” I place a ten-pound note from my inner blazer pocket onto the counter, and the man stares down at it uncomprehendingly. It must be several times the value of The Daily Toot. Ten pounds is a lot for me, but it’s also likely nothing to a shopkeeper, and so I add, a touch desperate, “And this is just the start.”
“Whitever she put doon, I’ll gie ye ten times as much,” Finlay drawls.
The man’s wide eyes flicker across to Finlay, and then to me again. “You have him on your money,” he whispers, his lips scarcely moving, eyes brimming with terror. “These… were recalled. This is the old currency. We do not speak of them.”
I stare down at the banknote I’d casually handed over. I see nothing unusual about it. It’s the same as it’s always been: Luke’s father, handsome and noble in profile, beside an image of a Scottish landmark, this one the Forth Bridge in Edinburgh.
“Sorry, what?”
“Banned,” the shopkeeper breathes, pointing to the face on the banknote. “Forever.”
We do not speak of them.
A chill slides down my spine. Money with Luke’s family on it, at some stage, without us knowing about it, has been outlawed. We’d never once read about it in the newspapers. I glance at Finlay, unsettled. I’m starting to think we’re not even being told half the shit that’s going on outside Lochkelvin.
“Ye’re sayin’ the money’s been… replaced?”
“Sent to the king and destroyed,” the man says, nodding, before inserting, “As is good and proper.”
I goggle at him, hoping to God I’ve picked him up wrong. “People are sending their money… to Benji?”
The man casts his gaze upward, as though searching for comfort and strength on a higher plane. “No, no. This must be a trick. Coming in here, asking about banned newspapers, with your banned money, calling our rightful king by the banned name…” He shakes his head adamantly. “I am aware there are patrols, mystery shoppers… I have told you all I know, which is nothing, and assume I have passed your test, inshallah.” He doesn’t look at the banknote or even touch it as he gestures for me to take it back. I do so, slipping it sullenly into my pocket.
“Patrols by who?” Finlay asks, the frown clear in his voice. “Antiro?”
“A pleasant day to you, lady… gent…” The man steps out from around the counter and over to us. He seems to have regained his confidence, perhaps certain now that we can’t be anything other than a political test. He uses his arms to usher us toward the door. “Thank you for dropping by and reminding us of the standards we must keep. Help yourself to a Mars Bar.”
“We’re vegan,” Finlay points out.
“I’m sorry, we don’t have anything gluten-free.” The man opens the door and practically pushes us out of it. “So long,” he says with a small wave, and then quickly locks it behind us, flipping the sign inside from open to closed and drawing down the blind.
“Well,” Finlay sighs, sounding slightly stunned, as we return to the rain again. “That was weird.”
Next door is a brightly lit café with comfortingly chipped Formica tables. It’s lunchtime and we’re starving, so before we debrief, I grab a seat at one of the peeling plastic tables and watch as Finlay orders something for both of us. My nose feels bright red from the cold and puddles have already formed beneath my shoes. I want nothing more than to return to my room and change out of my clinging tights.
Under the bright strip lights, I inspect the banknote I’d offered to the shopkeeper without a second thought, not realizing its specialness. Where everyone sees a traitor in the face of an older man, I only see Luke and the nobility of his face. It’s in the studious line of his father’s brow, in the intelligent height of the forehead beneath his minimalist crown. His eyes, deep and soulful, crinkle at the edges, as if sharing a private joke with the photographer who captured his image.
“Got us a Coke.” Finlay places two large drinks in front of me, followed by a giant portion of fries in paper wrapping. “Wisnae sure whit ye wanted tae drink. I know I need a’ the fuckin’ sugar efter that heidache. And a large chips tae share — salt and vinegar, no’ salt and sauce, hope that’s a’ right. Ye just cannae take the West oot the boy…”
I take a deep sip from the paper straw and close my eyes, letting the rush of sugar assault me. When I open them again, Finlay’s wearing a puzzled expression.
“What?” I ask.
