AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Finlay’s fingers drum on the steering wheel. He contemplates our grim gray surroundings with a faraway look.
“Before she turned tae the dark side, my maw used tae call oot this kind o’ shite. She’d refer tae hardcore activists as gold tops — after milk bottle tops. Because they’re white and fragile and belong in big houses. Ye think ye can get a fancy milk round in places like this? Dream the fuck on. And then she started courtin’ the gold tops for votes, because they have money and the poor dinnae, and political parties enjoy bein’ rich mair than barely solvent. Anyway, the point is, Antiro supporters are where they are because they have empty lives and dinnae struggle tae survive on a daily basis.”
It’s a cynical rush of a rant, and Finlay finishes it breathless and scowling. I barely understand half of it, his accent thickening as he grows more impassioned, but then Finlay’s rant seems mostly addressed to himself rather than me.
“Anyway,” Finlay says with a hopeless sigh, and finally the road in front of us clears. He kicks the car into gear and the sad gray town speeds past us in a blur. “That’s just, like, my opinion, man.”
“But — we’re at the heart of it. So aren’t we all… gold tops?”
“In Lochkelvin? Aye. Oh, aye. And how much o’ a class traitor d’ye think that makes me, comin’ fae a place like this?” There’s a humorless tilt to his mouth. “But Antiro has mair o’ them. It’s a solidly upper-middle-class movement because the middle-classes have this repressed need for violence. They fuckin’hungerfor it deep doon, somethin’ as real and raw as poverty tae tear them from their comfortable, phony lives. A bougie replica of legit strugglin’. Drawn tae oppression like flies around shite.” He raises his fingers on the wheel in an attempted placating gesture. “My opinion, again. But. Y’know. Fuck ‘em. They’re Antiro’s main demographic.” As we drive into the main artery of the highway, the speedometer increasing per second, Finlay adds, “They’ll fuck themselves in the end, anyway. Antiro’s aggression is already causin’ people tae run back intae royalist arms, since the middle-classes are fuckin’ whiny babies. Ye cannae encourage violence while claimin’ tae be non-violent. Disnae work like that, havin’ yer cakeandeatin’ it. People arenaethatthick. We have eyes, ears, and well-honed trust instincts built over millennia. Treatin’ normal people like fuckin’ numpties will be Antiro’s downfall and I cannae fuckin’ wait.”
“When?” I ask dryly because it can’t come soon enough.
Finlay shrugs, his eyes focused on the road ahead. “Whit they have noo isnae sustainable. It’s a hoose o’ cairds waitin’ tae topple. And when it does… it’ll take oot so many grifters in its wake, politicians o’ every stripe who bought intae this madness, people o’ influence who championed it as a personal agenda… I gie it a year before it a’ comes crashin’.”
“A year?” It sounds crushingly optimistic. But then the world can turn on the spin of a coin, and Benji’s rise to the top had been just as sudden.
“One thing I’ve learned from a’ this… political parties aren’t good or bad. Politicians aren’t good or bad.Peoplearen’t good or bad, and people make up parties and governments. So dinnae stick yer blind faith in any o’ them. Things take time tae ravel and unravel, tae knit together and pull apart, for ideas tae ascend and descend in this mad, hectic world. Time’s the only constant. And in this process of pullin’ together and creatin’ new political ideas, we can end up sharin’ the same page wi’ people we never expected tae. The maist dangerous person ye can have at the top is the one driven by pure idealism, and that’s Benji.”
“You’ve changed,” I note, wondering what it is about Finlay that’s different nowadays. He carries darkness inside him, a darkness and weariness that hadn’t been part of him the first time I met him. I remember he was one of the few last year who had been able to smile — but that had been before Antiro, before Benji. His innocence has shed like snakeskin somewhere along the line, in exchange for hard-earned wisdom.
“It’s the open-minded that need tae be in charge, no’ fanatics.” Finlay shrugs. “Let’s just say I’ve learned where’s best tae put my heart. No’ in other people’s ideas o’ political utopias, that’s for sure. In causes, no’ political parties, because they’re a’ the same power-hungry, money-driven beasts in the end. In quiet American girls who, for some reason, dare tae humor me? Aye.” He slants a glance at me, teasing out a grin. “Seems a mair worthy cause, maybe even the maist worthy.”
My heart gives a pleasant thrum.
With a tiny half-smile, Finlay nods at the sign ahead of us. It tells us Edinburgh is only ten miles away.
I lie back and listen to the music. When Edinburgh appears, I recognize it the moment I see it — its sandstone buildings and the peculiar layering of the city, like a pop-up book come to life. We turn down the corner where I saw Danny demolish a baguette, and it feels like the ghost of him is still feasting on it. My stomach squeezes in nervous anticipation as the car rocks over cobblestones, and we see the private parkland where the Book Festival had been held and protested, where books had been burned and Antiro symbols had captured the square like watchful eyes.
The car stops in front of the elegant Georgian apartment block I’ve grown to know so well, its entrance now dotted with security cameras instead of flowerpots. It’s not unlike the rest of the properties in this square, which seem more austere since the demonstration. The only difference is who exactly resides here and who the cameras are for.
I’m convinced I see the twitch of a pale curtain from the second floor.
“Ready?” Finlay asks as he cuts the engine. I nod, opening the car door and glancing up at the second-floor window. Finlay rings the front doorbell, peering into the security cameras. And then we wait.
10
“He’s… lively,” MacKechnie says by way of a greeting, nodding at us to enter. The door opens by the tiniest crevice, and Finlay and I squeeze through it awkwardly. “It’ll be good for him to have company. There are only so many lessons on World War Two that I can teach — and between you and me, I don’t believe making any mention ofwaris for the best. But still, he insists.”
Finlay shoots me a troubled look.
MacKechnie gestures at the wooden stand in the hallway, and we shrug off coats studded with dampness and sleet. “Edinburgh avoided the worst of the weather, then?” I try to sound upbeat but MacKechnie shakes his head.
“We had snow up to our knees at one point — not that either of us has been outside, of course, but from watching the security footage…”
“He hasnae been oot?Youhuvnae been oot?”
MacKechnie raises an eyebrow. “What do you believe a safe house isfor? You read the news, Mr. Fraser. You are aware that, under current restrictions, Mr. Milton resides in this country illegally and is much-desired by the authorities?” MacKechnie’s still a teacher at heart with that withering glare, and Finlay’s gaze slips to the floor. My lips twitch.
“Aye, sir.”
“Speaking of,” MacKechnie says briskly, pulling out some kind of portable body scanner. He sweeps it over Finlay with greater intent than necessary, and MacKechnie’s eyes narrow when it flashes red. “What’s in your sock?”
“My sgian-dubh.”
“And the sporran?”
Finlay sighs. “A dagger.”
