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“I can’t believe this,” Danny whispers, eyes round and bright. “We were there!”
“We have to remember, of course, not to center ultra-royalism or their baseless conspiracies in our discussion,” one of them advises solemnly. “We concentrate only on the positives of Antiro, in case we distress our listeners.”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“At the end of the day, this is a privileged little girl at an elite academy. Apparently, sheisa member of Antiro, but you know what, I reckon she could be a plant to make Antiro look bad. Maybe she’s got military connections? These rich demented schools usually do. She might be MI5. It could be an inside job.”
“You know, I was thinking exactly that. NorealAntiro member would repeat that old claim that’s been debunked a thousand times. This little girl thinks the Queen was shot in the head!” The man gives a small, nervous titter. “I mean, really! It’s desperate stuff.”
“So what,” Danny asks, bewildered, above the trio of sneered voices. “She spends all her time screeching her head off about the greatness of Antiro — and they still think she’s not good enough for them?”
“No one is. It’s how cults work.” Rory looks utterly delighted at having gotten his own way. “They’re going to tear themselves apart from the inside.”
“Little girl,” I echo, the patronizing comment making me recoil. When they say it, it sounds sleazy. “She thinks she’s so right, and they’re just laughing at her.” It’s fleeting, but I feel a small stab of pity for Arabella. Not pure enough, not saying the right words, and making Antiro look bad despite her blood running as red as theAon their flag.
She worships that flag and all that it stands for. She loves it so much, and wants to see it at all times, that she keeps bringing it closer and closer, craving its seductive beauty. She brings it close enough for the rest of the world to fade away until all she sees is the letterA. Ultimately, Arabella’s turned her beloved flag into a fashionable blindfold, obscuring her vision and blocking out that which is in front of her face.
What’s the next stage for the flag, I wonder, delicately fingering my throat. Noose?
“—and our disinformation correspondent has already combed through the video, confirming it to be genuine. That’s likely a blow to Lochkelvin, who don’t exactly come out of all this smelling of roses.” The speaker can scarcely keep the glee from his voice.
“What’s a disinformation correspondent?” Danny asks.
Rory folds his arms over his chest. “A propagandist, I believe.”
“Still though, this is interesting to see. We rarely get insight into old bygone places like Lochkelvin, so it’s no wonder this video is doing the rounds online.” I catch Rory’s small smirk. All these men sound the same. I can’t keep track of who’s speaking.
“The bit where she’s arguing with a book… oh, man. I’m cringing just thinking about it. I mean, the memes this clip has spawned are as crazy as her delusional arse. She really is doing us no favors at all.”
“Yeah, if this is the standard of education at Lochkelvin, why are we letting them run our entire government? Incompetents like her couldn’t even run a bath.”
“Also, look at the state of her,” one of them sneers, and again my hackles rise. “How many badges is she even wearing? Does she think it’s the Brownies or something? God, doesn’t she look like the most annoying little bitch? She’s got that swotty head girl look right down, yuck. Bet she’s always raising her hand in class.”
“Yeah, little girl… I know where she could stick her hand — if ya know what I’m sayin’.”
My stomach twists sickly, and my eyes feel very round like I haven’t blinked for ages. “These men are horrific,” I whisper. They must be, what, twice the age of Arabella? And making inappropriate comments about her looks? No, I don’t want to hear any of this.
“Oh my God, Jim, you dog! She believes in ultra-royalist conspiracies! She’s still inschool!” I blink, not missing the order of these objections. “At least wait till she’s at St. Camford to ruin her, haha.”
“Mate, if she’s head girl, that means she’s basically legal.”
“That’s his rule, ladies and gents, as long as they’rebasicallylegal, hahaha.”
“You can just tell she’s gonna be some snotty head of the student union — ‘Vote for me, vote for me!’”
“Whydidwe give women the vote, by the way?”
“‘Cause men back then had no spine. Women kept jumping in front of horses and nagging their overworked husbands — deranged behavior.”
I feel like I’m losing brain cells listening to these dipshits talk. I don’t know whether to be offended or embarrassed for them. I reason to myself that I can only be offended if I valued their opinions in the first place, and so I grimace at the radio instead.
“Ugh, our side needs to distance itself from this crazy cow pronto. Looking at her face is making my flesh crawl. Why couldn’t some fittie be representing our side, like Pippa Borthwick. Granted, she’s another posho, but her tits are banging and at least she’s up for a laugh.”
“Mate, you know Pippa Borthwick paid like a hundred grand for those tits.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“It was in The Daily Toot.”
