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Luke returns the hug with a tiny, breathless laugh, his cheek pressed against my messy hair. He stoops to embrace all of me, drawing me tight against his body in a hold that assures me he never wants to let me go.
“We’ll be together again,” he promises, and we both observe our threaded fingers like art. “It’s the only thought keeping me going.”
* * *
By the time we leave the apartment, the dead body has vanished along with the heavily bloodstained carpet, which appears to have been ripped up and tossed. Finlay and I take our suitcases of clothes and books; MacKechnie and Luke’s suitcases are filled with knives, bullets, and various disguises. A cab takes a freshly showered Finlay and me to the Beaumont. I don’t see what becomes of Luke and MacKechnie, who wait indoors until we leave. They’d informed us they’d be sneaking out the back and walking on foot for the initial portion of their journey.
MacKechnie said nothing about where they were heading, only that it wasaway. Luke seemed used to this behavior and still trusts him wholeheartedly, and although I suppose I do, too, I can’t help but feel Luke’s dependence on another person for his wellbeing makes him highly vulnerable indeed.
Visiting our old friend the Beaumont, the marker of our blossoming relationship and the ultimate highlight of our time in Edinburgh over the summer months, we don’t have the penthouse suite like before. It’s fine, because the first thing Finlay and I do when we’re alone in one of the luxury hotel’s more modest offerings, is collapse into the small single bed, entwining our legs together, and kissing each other soundly. We come back to each other after a night of chaos, finding solace in teeth and tongues. We take up very little space, each of us trying to meld into the other. We strip, tossing our clothes to the floor, and lie on our sides, facing each other and occupying less than half of the narrow bed.
“Mental night,” Finlay murmurs, his head propped on his hand, his elbow planted on the mattress. He’s wide awake as the first rays of sunlight permeate the drawn curtain. “Dunno how we’ll ever get tae sleep. Ye know school starts back the morra?”
“Are we still taking your car?” I ask, remembering what the intruder had said.
Finlay shrugs. “Whit choice have we got? I’ll check it over. I still think the wee prick was pullin’ my leg — how could he have tracked my car a’ the way from Lochkelvin?”
“Don’t,” I say, and Finlay raises an eyebrow. “Don’t call him a prick.”
“Well, hewasa prick.”
“And now he’s dead,” I murmur, feeling uncomfortable.
“Sassenach…” Finlay strokes my cheek with a gentle finger, a small gesture that brings a flood of warmth. “I’m no’ ever gonnae lie. I’m no’ gonnae call sinners saints or losers winners, no matter whit Antiro thinks.”
I roll onto my back, mainly to avoid Finlay’s penetrating gaze. “But what ifwe’rethe sinners?” My lips shape the words, so soft I’m not convinced I even speak them. It’s something that’s been playing on my mind for a while. To half of the country, we’re in the wrong. And tonight… tonight I can’t even deny it. “The things we did, Fin…” I worry my lip. “We overstepped the mark.”
“No,” Finlay answers bluntly. “Oversteppin’is puttin’ on an explosive device and threatenin’ tae detonate because o’ someone ye dinnae like.” His matter-of-factness make me wonder where the other Finlay went, the one who’d been shaken to his core at the man’s brutal demise, the one who’d clutched the dead body in his arms until Luke had ordered him to be dropped. Maybe Finlay, too, has become a lust-drunk, vengeful creature of the forest following our reunion. “This is why ye need tae stand up accordin’ tae principles, no’ groups or politicians who encourage ye intae this sort o’ mess.Principles.”
“I think it’s kinda rich to talk about principles after tonight…”
“No. It’s the only thing that matters. He had his, we had oors. They conflicted. Take Antiro — the group he represented, the group plenty across the country thinks represents them. Initially, an anti-royal pressure group. Simple. Noo? Who the fuck knows. They cannae even define ‘royal’ any mair wi’oot tyin’ themselves in knots. So when people in power change groups tae suit their agenda, or they’re hijacked by extremists like that lad tonight, then others in the same group end up havin’ tae defend the kind o’ pricks who think nothin’ o blowin’ up a prince or killin’ his maw. All the while championin’ some charlatan puppet who calls himself king.” Finlay shakes his head in despair. “A’ that just tae prevent yerself from bein’ shunned by the popular group — and it’s no’ as if protestin’ wi’ the popular group is ever usually the right thing, anyway, otherwise there wouldnae need tae be protests at a’. Groupthink. It’s pack mentality by any other name.”
“I don’t know,” I murmur, wondering what my principles are. Right now, I feel blackened with nihilism after tonight, a complete absence of principles and yet a childlike need to repent. Any other day, I might have claimed the truth as a principle — the importance of reaching into the heart of a matter and attempting to unravel a mystery. “I don’t know if I’m in a group.”
“Course ye are. Everyone’s got a collective identity o’ some kind, sassenach, whether it’s got a label or no’, whether ye shout about it like Belly or no’. Ye’re a chief for a start, and that enables ye tae have prestige within Lochkelvin. But the main one is the classic ‘Us’ and ‘Them’. Are ye wi’ ‘Us’ or against ‘Us’? Are ye wi’ ‘Them’ or against ‘Them’? It’s the prism coverin’ every political movement imaginable.”
This I can picture clearly.Us, angels united, againstThem, lying devils. It’s strange how automatically it degenerates into tribalism: through the lens Finlay describes, I start to consider Antiro supporters asThem, as lesser, like there must be something wrong with them for seeing the world in the flawed way they do. It troubles me, the kneejerk, visceral disdain behind this thought. I don’t wish to dehumanize or artificially elevate anyone,UsorThem.
“So that’s why principles should be the guiding light, instead of the beliefs of a group,” I say, mulling over Finlay’s words, “becauseThems can be more easily persuaded to becomeUs, and sometimes the people you think would beThems are actually one ofUs, whereas people affiliated with groups, or even political parties… they have different sets of biases and stick to who — not what — they know.”
“Aye,” Finlay says, sounding a little bit pleased as he leans forward to kiss my forehead. For a long time, I don’t think he’s going to say anything else, which disheartens me because I’ve decided there’s nothing as beautiful as Finlay mid-tirade, passionate and pure and burning to unpick the ways of the political world.
I watch him gaze, unseeing, at the gilt chandelier in the center of the room. It’s a smaller version of the one in the penthouse suite, but I don’t think that’s the reason Finlay’s staring at it so intently.
“I mean, you saw me,” Finlay eventually whispers, his voice husky, like he’s not sure he wants to bring it out in the open, “betrayin’ my own best pal, turnin’ intae a lyin’ fuckin’ heidcase. I dinnae think that was oot o’ any admirable principles.”
With a swallow, I stroke the soft skin of Finlay’s hand, noting the faded silver lines across his forearms. He still beats himself up for this, even after a night of explicit forgiveness from Luke.
“You’re free,” I remind him. “Stop it.”
Finlay shoots me a tired smile, one that doesn’t extend to his dull green eyes. “I’m thinkin’ how much o’ it was me, the real me. Because Lochkelvin teaches you this shite, the stuff tae keep us stayin’ on top o’ the political wheel. They make leaders, no’ followers. Anyone that gets anywhere in politics is a master o’ manipulation, o’ exploitin’ others… It’s how the political class functions… It disnae matter whit group they’re in, whit side they’re on, the nature o’ the beast and folk risin’ tae the top means they’re backstabbin’ each other on the way up and sellin’ their souls tae never be dragged back doon. Lochkelvin teaches us tae crave power. It teaches us tae be bullyin’ pricks.”
“Don’t you think good people crave power?”
Finlay shrugs. “There are few folks in power I can describe as decent human beings, unless maybe ye’re born intae it wi’ nae choice, like Luke. And if ye’re a good person at the top, then inevitably ye’re surrounded by bullies, so that makes me skeptical. I dunno, sassenach,” he adds with a disillusioned sigh, winding a lock of my hair around his forefinger. “The mair I think on this stuff, the mair I think maybe folk just werenae meant tae have power over others at a’.”
“Weneedgood people,” I say, with an urgent flap of fear at the idea of everyone, literally every person in the political world, being some kind of dark, self-involved megalomaniac. “Theyneedto be in power. Or at least crave power, not for themselves, but for the power to make things better. Because otherwise, voters are beholden to assholes.”
