AllFreeNovel
Share Us
How can she be this offended by books? It’s deranged.
“No,” Finlay says, and the certainty in his voice seems to shock her. No? She doesn’t get toldno. “I’ve lived through Benji’s reign for a while noo, and I’ve seen how the wheels turn when it comes tae freedom o’ speech. I ken how ye play the game. Make a big song and dance about somethin’ innocuous.” Finlay gestures to Arabella beside her large stack of books. “The authority ye’re moanin’ the face aff gies ye a nice wee concession tae get ye aff its back — maybe a wee content label, like ye suggested for the shelves. Then, knowin’ they’ve stooped tae yer ain grubby level, and ye can smell weakness in anyone but yerselves, that’s when ye demandmairblatant censorship. So the authorities, wi’ their hands tied because o’ at least one outraged moron, gie in and remove whitever’s deemed offensive from the whole fuckin’ world. I’m sayin’nawtae that.”
Arabella gapes at him. “So then you’re a fascist?” she whispers nonsensically. “I always knew it. You want Lochkelvin to be hostile to free-thinkers, is that it?”
“I’m a fascist because Idon’twant books banned? Fascism must have really lowered its entry criteria.”
Rory gives a soft snort from down the aisle. I observe him, noting that, like me, he’s watching Arabella’s breakdown through a gap in the shelves — but also that he’s holding something.His phone. My eyes widen in realization. He’s recording this!
When Rory catches me watching him, he lifts a finger to his curled lips. A strange kind of glee swirls around my chest at the idea that this moment is being captured forever.
“If this is news to you,” Arabella sneers, “it’s high time you took a good, long look in the mirror and confronted the ugliness inside you. You’re a fascist because you want a vile dictatorship promoted at the expense of progress! There’s limited shelf space in here as it is, and to devote so much of it to a family that isn’t even relevant anymore is an absolute disgrace!”
“You are aware, right,” Finlay begins slowly, “that I’m no’ even for the monarchy — inanyo’ its guises? Ye seem tae have mistaken me for a flag-draped, crown-suckin’ member o’ the British establishment.”
“But it’s clear, isn’t it, that you’ve been hoodwinked by the Bonny Prince on a personal level. Whether you want to admit it or not, you went downthatparticular rabbit hole long ago.”
Finlay stares at her in astonishment. “I’ve been protestin’ royalty foryearsbefore it came wi’ its ain flag. Before I even met Luke. But obviously that’s auld news noo that yer fresh faces are here tae fuck everythin’ up, and I’ve been relegated tae the rapidly growin’ fascist community.”
Arabella makes a soft huffing sound as she contemplates this. “Okay, I hear you and your concerns are valid,” she says in the most dismissive, condescending tone I’ve ever heard in my life.
Through gritted teeth, Finlay manages, “Ta.”
“—but thatstilldoesn’t make this okay.” She gestures to the offending material on the table beside her. There must be around twenty books. It makes me wonder how all this unfolded before we arrived — did she carry lots of them in her arms, dumping them in front of the perplexed librarian, and then make several trips back and forth? The idea makes this situation seem even more comical.
“Why? Whit’s Benji gonna dae tae ye?”
“Benji—” The instant she says it, Arabella looks utterly shell-shocked. Uttering his old, unkingly name is a deep transgression under Antiro law, and I have to purse my lips from laughing too hard. She trips over her tongue, stammering, “B-Be-KingJamesis a tolerant and generous leader, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t make his path to greatness more welcoming by getting rid of material that offends his right to rule peacefully on the throne.” To Finlay, as though he’d provoked her into this, she screams, “It’s basic kindness!”
I don’t know where Finlay finds the energy to continue. I’d have checked out the instant Arabella raised her voice at me. But he powers through it, laughing softly to himself at the bizarreness of this argument while shaking his head. “My God, Belly, ye’ve got me genuinely upset about the surge o’ fascism.” With faux concern in his big green eyes, Finlay asks, “How many Panzer units are operatin’ from Lochkelvin, d’ye think?”
Rory’s grin turns shark-like. It’s good. Finlay advocates for himself well, he knows how to work a crowd, and all eyes in the library are bouncing between him and Arabella as they await the next burn.
“It’s not aboutfascism,” Arabella dismisses, after claiming everything she doesn’t like as fascism. “It’s about basic integrity. You know St. Camford got rid of their—” She clears her throat, as though the wordroyalgot lodged in it, “—section? Lochkelvin should aspire to be just as progressive, if not more so.”
“That’s yer problem. Ye think this is progress, and ye’re wrang. But aye, fine. Let’s chuck oot a’ the books we dinnae like. You start wi’ the royal stuff and I’ll burn yer copy o’ ‘Totalitarianism for Dummies.’”
Rory stifles another laugh, this time covering his whole mouth with his palm as he watches their argument through his screen.
“Make stupid jokes all you want, but as someone who doesn’t believe in royalty, I’m now under personal attack every time I step foot in this library. Look at this,” Arabella says, and picks up a book on the late Queen. The front cover features a radiant photo of Luke’s mother in a silken emerald gown, her hands elegantly clasped on her lap and a diamond crown positioned on her natural black hair. Below the sparkle of her jewels are faintly playful, Mona Lisa eyes. It isn’t difficult to see where Luke and Becca get their looks; their mother was a truly beautiful woman. The world seems dimmer without her starry presence lighting it up.
And then, placing her face behind the book, Arabella says in a high-pitched plummy voice: “Hi, I defrauded a gazillion pounds a year in taxpayers’ money while the rest of you all went hungry. I tried to stop the results of the referendum from happening because it didn’t befit me or my equally spoiled family. Everyone hates me, blah blah blah, but whaddaya know, looks like karma caught up with me in the end!”
No one laughs. The only sound is Arabella’s harsh, angry breathing.
Quietly, Finlay says, “That’s Luke’s mother. Becca’s mother. You werefriendswith Becca.”
“So?” Arabella snaps, looking further incensed that no one is laughing at her the way they’d done for Finlay. “Shegotwhat was coming to her! A shot to the head, andbang. Antiro was too kind. It was probably a quick death, and better than what elitist scum like her deserved.” A strange gasping noise follows these words. Finlay’s expression shutters at the thread of gleeful violence in Arabella’s tone, and I wonder if he too is transported to Edinburgh, to the man he’d held and mourned in his arms.
Arabella glances around at all the watching faces, searching for someone to back her up. Nobody does. “Our views in this library are no longer respected. We need positive learning environments, like at St. Camford, not regressive and backwards ones like in here!”
Her voice is elevated again, one long yell directed at Finlay, who withstands it tiredly as though this is a curious turn to his afternoon indeed.
“Aye, I’m no’ surprised St. Camford’s kowtowed tae a bunch o’ violent nutjobs,” he says, seemingly bored of this conversation and attempting to swerve past her. “Ye’ll fit right in, Belly.”
“Yes,” she hisses at his departing back. “I will, because I’ve gotallthe required grades — unlike you.” With a cruel smile, she snarks, “Still struggling with basic arithmetic, aren’t you?”
Finlay stops walking. I see his scowl. His grades in maths are light-years ahead of where they were, but he’s still not in the upper set like the rest of us. “Funny how folk think themselves educated and no’ indoctrinated,” he remarks lightly. He turns back to Arabella, unable to resist the urge to defend himself. “But aye. A nice cozy wee enclave for you and yer fellow bullies. Ye can prosper by avoidin’ a’ this nastiness — alternative views? Naw, no way. That’s no’ how things are done. St. Camford says no taethatsickness. I mean, God forbid yer views get challenged. Whit’ll happen tae ye then?” He pauses, inspecting Arabella carefully — her angry red face, the glossy eyes that seem on the perpetual verge of tears. “Ye break doon like this?”
