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In the stillness of the night, as Finlay cradles me, I voice a deeply buried thought. “I think I want to be a journalist.”
They’re words carried by the soft breath of expelled air. I don’t even really know where these words have come from, but reading that transcript has crystallized something within me: the only thing I’m good at, and want to be better at, is telling the truth. And really, it’s all I want to do with my life.
Finlay cocks an eyebrow at me, looking intrigued. “A journalist?”
I nod slowly. “I mean, maybe it’s stupid. Because nowadays, if you’re a journalist like Nicola Miller, actually investigating an important story, you seem to be the one who ends up under investigation… But — I could do that. And in a world where I thought I couldn’t do anything, knowing there’s something out there for me, that might have my name on it…”
When I falter, Finlay nudges me with a quiet, “No, go on.”
I take a deep breath. I’ve been too busy knitting together the wounds of my past to concentrate on what lies ahead for me, and this is more than I’ve shared about my prospective future with anyone.
“It’s just… It’s not like I can make a decent career out of dancing,” I say with a small laugh, though in my heart I know nothing will make my veins sing in the same way as gliding gracefully through the air. “I’ve never felt connected to anything as much as that, or to the chiefs. But thetruth… it’s the one other thing I can hold onto. It’s what I understand, what I crave. The truth in all its beauty and gore. It’s captivating, because it’s real. Because it’s one of the scarcest resources we have right now. And when you’re… when you’re like me…” My voice grows quiet. There are long stretches of silence between each word. “When you keep giving in to bad thoughts about how you aren’t really made for this world, and the truth is there to remind you… that it’s just a lie inside your head… Then the truth can save you.” I stare mutely at the sparking fire and rub my stinging eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, realizing my cheeks are damp and have been for some time. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”
Finlay gazes at me with quiet appreciation. “They had tae cripple you,” he murmurs delicately, his thumb tracing my slick cheek, “otherwise ye’d be unstoppable. Ye see that, right?”
His words are kind, and I lean into his warm palm for more of his comfort. “If I had something to focus on, to uncover the truth, then I could… I could do that. Devote myself to it. Instead of thinking bad thoughts.” I glance down at the newspaper I’d been reading moments ago. “I want to tell the truth. Forever. That’s all I want to do with my life. I want to investigate and tell the truth.” I nod down at the paper. “Like her,” I say, referring to Nicola Murray. “But genuine journalists are persecuted nowadays, so… it’s not like anyone would even read what I wrote.”
“I know folk are busy usin’ Orwell as a life coach right noo,” Finlay remarks dryly, “but the truth, therealtruth… it’s always got an audience. I miss journalism. Proper journalism, like Nicola Miller. Journalists who inform the public and tell the truth even when itisnaeconvenient for them. Folk were better informed when things werenae blacked-oot or swept under the rug. When news was news and no’ a PR exercise. Journalism —realjournalism — is one o’ the maist important professions oot there, sassenach, and I think ye’d be mad no tae dae it. See where it goes.”
He rises from the sofa, planting a gentle kiss on top of my head and tucking a curl of hair behind my ear. “This calls for a celebration,” Finlay says as I wipe the last of my unwanted tears from my face. “And God knows we huvnae had much tae celebrate here so… how about we get utterly pished?” He opens the cupboards in the adjoining kitchen at random. “I bet he’s hidin’ the good stuff — aha!”
A bottle of whisky emerges from the back of a high cupboard, and immediately I shake my head. “No. Not that.”
Finlay looks faintly offended as he glances between me and the whisky. “Whit did we dae tae ye?”
Wrist. Grab. Brat.Even the flames of the fireplace begin to grow overwhelming, and I end up turning myself away from them in case I’m transported back to the Death Room.
“Nothing,” I say earnestly, trying to make Finlay understand I’m not trying to insult his country’s national drink. “Anything else, though.”
Finlay pulls out another bottle, chunky and dark green, and inspects the label with a wrinkled nose. “Some cheap-lookin’ Prosecco—”
“I’ll take it.”
He shrugs. I watch him pour a glass for me, an explosion of blond bubbles, and a finger of whisky for himself. I admire the outline of his back. His black hair is long enough now that it almost falls past his shoulders, a gloriously thick and shaggy mane. As he wrenches open the stopper of each bottle, his broad shoulders flex in the soft glow of the kitchen light. The large measure of whisky he pours for himself permeates through the air — sweeter and earthier than Oscar Munro’s preferred tipple.
Finlay hands me my glass, heavy with fizzing liquid. “Tae the future, and havin’ dreams worth followin’.”
Charmed by his toast, I incline my glass. “The future.”
I drink deeply — almost half my glass at once. Bubbles rush up my nose and warmth scatters down my spine. The instant it sits on my lips, its lightness makes my head feel like a worry-free cloud. It’s a mere placebo after the first sip, and yet the instant relief makes me understand why people… why my mom… could get addicted to this stuff.
Startled by this thought, I put down the glass for my own good. “And you?” I ask Finlay, who sips his whisky with no such niggling qualms. Most of it is already, cheerfully, gone. “What does the future look like for you? You making any resolutions?”
Finlay pulls the small glass away from his rose-pink lips. He leans back toward the whisky bottle on the kitchen counter behind him and tops up his tumbler. “Aye, keep bein’ fan-fuckin’-tastic,” he says through a grin bright with bravado. When he meets my gaze again, his mouth gives a conflicting twist. “I dunno,” he says in a peculiar, guarded tone. I raise an eyebrow, unconvinced.
“Oh, come on. I just blurted out my whole soul to youandcried. You owe me something.”
“Trust me, sassenach, it’s no’ that I dinnae want tae gie ye anythin’, it’s that… I genuinely dinnae know the answer any mair. How am I meant tae plan for the rest o’ my life when the world’s so fuckin’ fucked?” He takes a slow, deep drink, his bright green eyes briefly fluttering closed and the lines of tension easing from his face. “I’m reviewin’ a lot o’ the ideas I’ve been brought up wi’, and I’m findin’ them…” His lips give a humorless quirk. “I’m findin’ them wantin’.”
“Wanting?”
“Aye. It’d always been drummed intae us: St. Camford, then a career in politics. I suppose it’s a good thing Lochkelvin students aren’t interviewed for uni places because whit would I even say at an interview? ‘Why d’ye want tae apply tae St. Camford?’ I dinnae. ‘Whit are yer academic strengths?’ Nothin’. ‘Whit are yer long-term career goals?’ I have none.” Finlay shrugs, staring despondently into the fire. “So — I guess, right noo, I’m a drifter. A vagabond. A bard and a poet, caught at a crossroads. Music keeps me sane when politics insists on the opposite.”
“But you’re in the top thirty under thirty,” I murmur, “of, like, the best people ever born… or whatever.”
Finlay gives a sad laugh. “If that’s yer ain list, I’d be hopin’ for at least… top eight.” He glances down at his glass and swirls it absently. “I want independence for Scotland. I want Benji tae get the fuck oot. And I want Luke tae be safe and sound. And when ye start tae unpick those three things in the current chaos o’ oor world, sometimes it’s easier just tae walk away and say,‘Fuck it, I’m no’ cuntin’ around wi’ that shite, I’m gonnae go play guitar in the street.’ Simple work. Honest. Honorable.” His eyes flash with coy heat. “Or be yours and Rory’s concubine forevermore,” he adds nonchalantly. “Whitever.”
I swallow, the image of us already stark and sizzling inside my head. “Your priorities have shifted.”
