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“Then it’s a good thing I’m not obliged to you,” Rory counters with a flare of temper, a fledgling spark of spirit as he gazes darkly at Finlay. “You can’t stop me, Fin. They can bully me all they want. I know the risks when I hit back.”
“I’m no’ havin’ ye hurt for some political stunt! Show me how tae get up there andI’lldae it. She can take a’ her pent-up rage oot on me.”
“No.” One word and it’s the end of the discussion. Finlay kicks at the stone floor with an agitated growl.
“She’s not going to break me, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Rory tells him quietly, a slight sneer at the mere idea. “I’m still the commander of this school, and oh, they want me to break so badly, to make me conform and fall in line behind Benji like the rest… but I’ve been defiant all my life. I’m not going to obey their orders out of fear. I’ve refused to retract my words even at the worst of the beatings. I just take their punishment and walk straight out the door.”
“You’re crazy,” I whisper wonderingly, planting soft kisses across the red marks etched into his hands. These scars, emblems of his supposed wrongdoing, bring questions to mind: what is it that drives a man to this kind of divine sacrifice, and would I be even half as resolute in truth-telling at the point of torture?
“No, little saint.Theyare.”
This is also true, I think to myself. But Rory must have some kind of death wish to be charging into the heart of Lochkelvin, deliberately pissing off Baxter, when he knows what physical pain will come to him.
“So why are they ragin’ about Scotland?” Finlay eventually asks, his arms across his chest, his expression dark and glowering. “You said they hate us? Whit’ve we done noo?”
“You know why,” Rory says. “Because Scotland’s not far enough up his arse. It doesn’t want the monarchy at all and they see Benji for the chancer he is. Plus, Antiro’s desperate to get Nicola Miller arrested.”
“Forwhat?” I ask, stunned. I don’t want my new media heroine to be dragged down by their bullshit.
Rory shrugs. “Asking too many questions? Making them look like idiots? Writing stuff that’s dangerously close to journalism? The Scottish Parliament’s been agitating, going directly against Westminster’s authority, because she’s Scottish so they don’t have the power to have her arrested, which makes Antiro’s campaign against her look unhinged. So if Antiro can’t keep Scotland in line, then the rest of their plans fall apart. Keeping Scotland is key to keeping their game going.” Rory smirks slightly. “For a bunch of so-called rebels, they don’t do so well when the rebellion’s againstthem.”
There’s a small hint of pride on Finlay’s face, something I haven’t seen in a long time. There’s been so very little to be proud of lately that I find his reaction heartwarming.
“So Benji’s changed the flag at the first sign of dissent?” I say, incredulous. “How petty can you get?”
“A man who’s patently never heard of the Overton window. I’m sure ostracizing the Scots will encourage them back on board the Benji train,” Rory notes dryly. “If this is his level of political understanding, I wonder how many swings of the Overton window it’ll take for the world to righten? Backlash after backlash… One of them must be the ultimate.”
Finlay’s stroking his chin, deep in thought. “It’s proof, though, isn’t it, that Scottish politics is night and day from down south.”
“Ah, not quite, my little separatist. Apparently, your mother’s been a loud and proud asset for Antiro,” Rory remarks, and Finlay’s gaze shutters slightly. “No bigger fan in Scotland than her, it seems. Her and her acolytes.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Finlay mutters, and he wipes his large pale hand down his drawn face. “Woman’s a menace.”
“You should go,” Rory says quietly. “I don’t know when Baxter’ll come snooping.”
Finlay’s arms haven’t unfolded from his chest. “I’ll fuckin’ sit on that sink if I have to. But aye, ye’re right, Jessa can go.” He turns to me, apologetic. “I didnae want ye gettin’ hurt.”
“Don’t be an arse. Both of you can clear out.” Rory sighs, and then, hesitantly, asks, “But is Luke…?Howis Luke?”
I meet Finlay’s gaze. A frisson of wordlessness passes between us, and somehow the world seems dark enough at Lochkelvin without adding the full picture of Luke’s horror into the mix. “He’s copin’, aye,” Finlay states carefully. “But there was trouble at the flat — dealt wi’, obviously,” he says with a quick little handwave, the gesture somehow encapsulating the threat of murder and its follow-through, “but they’re on the move again.”
Rory instantly tenses. “What happened?”
“Nothin’ they couldnae handle,” Finlay answers, voice firm but words deliberately vague, as his gaze penetrates Rory.You don’t want to know, it seems to say.You don’t want to know how much the man we love is hated.
For whatever reason, perhaps the fatigue in his pale gray eyes, or the comforting desire to hear that at least one mission had been successful without being forced into the grisly details, Rory backs down.
As Finlay and I are about to leave Rory’s compact room after a flurry of hot, yearning kisses, Finlay declares from the door in an adamant tone, “That flagwillbe changin’.”
19
The flag changes. We see it in P.E., running across the frosted grounds and staring up at the sun-pierced sky. Finlay — and it must have been Finlay — has eschewed the Union flag entirely and put the bright blue saltire of Scotland center stage. He says nothing as we run, separated and therefore silenced by our instructor, but I don’t miss the quiet victory on Finlay’s face — or Rory’s, either, and that’s something new, given that it isn’t the Union flag fluttering freely. I have a feeling, though, that Rory prefers acts of open rebellion over his favored flag.
The flag lasts an hour at most. We watch, frowning, catching our breaths, as it’s wound down and bundled away, and gradually replaced with the bastardized version. Even from a color perspective, it looks awful and foreboding: the background to the two familiar crosses, now blacked-out and blank. Erasure is the punishment when you displease the new, self-appointed king.
Everything the chiefs do at Lochkelvin is separate now. Even breakfast, which we’d at least been able to enjoy together at our most punished, we’re split up and placed at separate tables. We aren’t allowed to sit with any other groups, although I’m close enough to Li and Arabella that I’m forced to stomach Arabella’s bitter whispers and vicious glaring. Li, it seems, tunes her out, and that’s new.
At least I’m facing Danny, who’s positioned at the other end of the hall at a table consisting mainly of younger students. Our eyes meet over the heads of students able to talk and laugh and gripe with each other, and he gives me a small, uncertain smile. I nod at him. He raises his spoon, and another, and another, taps the side of his head with them, and then lowers them slowly. I get it.Spoons. He can’t withstand this torture on top of everything else. I’d do anything to leap over the tables just so we could hold each other.
