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“Broodin’. It just isnae good for a bonny prince. Plays havoc wi’ the facial muscles, after a’.”
11
We spend the night curled together in front of the cozy fire, so familiar to us that it’s as if we never left. Finlay reads from the large selection of newspapers that Luke gets delivered here, many more so than at Lochkelvin — in fact, there are some titles that I’ve never even heard before. Titles in other languages, titles of small niche publications — everything fromJet-Setter’s GazettetoCommunism Tomorrow,with Benji’s new name and title emblazoned front and center on every single one.
I focus unseeingly on the muted TV. It’s here that I understand how Luke’s paranoia has manifested: there’s something so thoroughly menacing about the concept of 24-hour news. It’s wall-to-wall bleakness of Benji and Antiro propaganda, reported by breathless war-mongering presenters who encourage more eyeballs to keep watching. The more I stare at it, falling into a state of passive hypnosis, the more anxiety ricochets through my bloodstream and my breath grows shallow. Each urgent breaking update triggers a tangible fight-or-flight response against the enemy, and as I watch one of Benji’s condescending comrades give an exclusive interview, I end up thinking that these days I may even be tempted to choosefight.
Lochkelvin had spared us from all things technological, and more and more I’m starting to think they may have had a point.
Lying beside me on the sofa, our feet tangled together, Finlay lets out a sudden bark of laughter.
I stare at him blankly, having gorged myself on doom-scrolling ticker tape. Finlay’s laughter sounds misplaced. It seems like nothing in this world will ever be funny again.
Finlay shoots me a sympathetic glance, his lips still twitching. “Sassenach, turn that shite aff. That stuff’s fuckin’ Rohypnol. It’s makin’ ye glass-eyed.” He fluffs open his newspaper and says, with a mischievous grin, “Ye want somethin’ taereallyraise the spirits? Here’s a wee belated Christmas pressie.”
He hands me the paper he’s reading. At the top is the publication title,The New Statesman, and an image of a young bearded man, positioned behind a large black microphone at some kind of studio, his arms huffily crossed. He looks comically disapproving.
I look across to Finlay. “Who’s this?”
“Coupla parasites in the dead tree scrolls.” Finlay nods at me to keep reading. I skim the article, landing on what seems to be one particularly melodramatic passage:
Since that fateful interview, my dreams have transformed into a nightmarish abyss, suffused with the lingering echoes of Ms. Miller’s callousness. I’ve endured an unprecedented level of trauma in the intervening days as my mind experienced an excruciating descent into the depths of inhuman torment. I’m not ashamed to say that my already fragile mental state has been ruthlessly eroded as a direct result of her tactlessness. The stark reality of that interview, and the extent of her hatred toward everything Antiro, was so much more visceral than either I or my co-presenter could have predicted. We were attacked within the sanctity of our own personal space by a guest we had generously invited to our show. Now, we grapple with the darkest depression of our lives, grappling with its suffocating grip, as we attempt to claw our way back to sanity.
“I feel like they’ll be clawing back for a while,” I murmur, slightly disturbed, and Finlay laughs.
It’s the radio interview with the journalist — the one Rory and Finlay had so been looking forward to. The way this guy manipulates and exaggerates language perplexes me and my brows furrow. “They were attacked?” The way the presenter recounts it, it’s as if Nicola Miller launched herself at him and made an attempt on his life.
“Aye,” Finlay says easily, stretching himself out across the sofa, “I think she dared to ask him a question.”
Please keep us in your thoughts during this tumultuous period, dear listeners. Please hold us in the sacred chambers of your mind. Our humble radio station stands as a bastion of radical change within the very heart of this grand revolution. If you’re able to donate to help us keep the lights on, please do spare a few coins. Let’s keep the flickering flames of our righteous cause ablaze! We did what we could on the day but the extent of Ms. Miller’s abhorrent prejudice toward Antiro shook the very foundation of our souls. We felt unsafe in our own studio. Nevertheless, in the face of such adversity, we remain steadfast in our pursuit of inspiring you, noble listeners, during these treacherous times. Let us kindle the fires of truth, rallying behind our indomitable champion, the valiant King James, as we challenge the tyrants who seek to oppress us all.
It seems to me they’re more unstable than unsafe. Or maybe very very stable, thoroughly manipulative, and know exactly what they’re doing.
A detailed transcript of the interview follows, and I study it intently, looking for signs of some kind of vicious freak attack. From his words, I half-expect a scream of terror to have been transcribed. But as I read, the transcript of the interview renders the presenter’s account utterly meaningless. The only thing I can see he lost was his dignity in being cross-examined by a woman so whip-smart and reasonable, a woman unwilling to sacrifice logic for emotion. She even refuses to call Benji anything other than Benjamin:
PRESENTER: Wow, Nicola. Just wow. You’re actually going out of your way to deliberately offend. By Benjamin, you’re referring to King James, correct? I’m giving you a second chance to make this perfectly clear to our listeners.
His meltdown occurs when she lays out the bare facts of the case, to which the presenters have no comeback; they end up repeating the lie about Antiro not being involved in Sophia Milton’s death until they sound like malfunctioning robots. It’s astonishing. Not one single fact exists in their argument, yet they have a whole lot of faith in their moral superiority. Their self-righteousness is mighty enough that an evangelical preacher would flush with embarrassment about overdoing it.
My favorite part is when Nicola describes Benji’s coronation as pulling society a hundred squares back and congratulating themselves for moving forward two.
“She kicked their asses,” I murmur in awe, still reading raptly.
“Aye. I’ve decided my fetish is Scottish women handin’ stuck-up Englishmen their arses — aside from you, obviously.”
“I try to hand Rory his ass every day,” I say, and Finlay laughs.
I read every word of the article and end up thinking that the newspaper had had another, hidden agenda when they’d sought to interview this Antiro presenter and publish the transcript beside his Shakespearean level of histrionics — to make him look a fool. Can it be, I wonder distantly. Is the pro-Benji house of cards already collapsing?
“So they invited her on their radio show,” I murmur, “then kicked off in the press about what a mean bully she supposedly was… because they couldn’t answer any of her questions?”
“Concerns about integrity, censorship and legality are a’ just Antiro bigotry, of course,” Finlay says, taking the newspaper back. “It can be difficult tae believe we’ve been gifted political opponents who are quite such utter fuds.”
“I don’t know. This feels like a trap.” The fire pops beside us, and as I turn to look at it, I realize just how deep the manipulation runs. “What she said didn’t matter. It’s the narrative they would have pushed no matter what. And by offering up their fictional account of the truth, they’re still trying to have her silenced. All they want is to make her look bad in the eyes of the public, and they’re throwing everything at her to make it stick.”
“True. It’s a’ over the papers whit a ragin’ cow she’s meant tae have been. Designed tae have folk splutterin’ over their mornin’ Cornflakes. At least this one’s daein’ their best under the new press regulations by actually printin’ the whole interview and giein’ readers the option tae judge for themselves. But ye’re right. They’re still callin’ for her tae be shut doon while makin’ themselves look like poor wee victims.” He tosses the paper aside, his gangling arms sprawling against the back of the sofa. “Authoritarianism wrapped in virtue — somethin’ tae watch oot for.”
I switch off the TV and we curl up together on the sofa in silence, watching the flickering flames. As I recall our Antiro bonfire in the Lochkelvin grounds, Finlay kisses the top of my head. It’s soothing, this sweet little taste of domesticity, like we can pretend everything’s fine if we don’t invite the news. That this cozy bubble of bliss is normality and not the eye of a powerful storm.
