Page 17 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

“It’s alsomyhouse, and you can’t just ask a new question when you don’t like the answer.En garde.”

“I think ye’re a coward,” Finlay mutters harshly as he moves into his defined fencing stance, and suddenly I’m swept back into my first term at Lochkelvin, with Danny saying the exact thing to Rory in the same bitter, defeated tone.

Another series of beeps is followed by another clash of swords, but this time Rory, perturbed by losing, capably wins this bout, his sword an extension of a gracefully straightened arm, its point buried in the crook of Finlay’s elbow.

“Why’d your mother throw you out?”

I hold back my gasp at this sharply tossed comment. It’s so callous and unsympathetic, so painfully Rory. But Finlay doesn’t falter, answering with automatic bluntness, “Her PA moved in. He disnae like me and I dinnae like his weird fringe views that are tryin’ tae destroy oor pairty fae the inside, but ma maw enjoys sex mair than looking oot for me. Naturally, I had tae go.”

“So it wasn’t the alcohol?”

“One can’t just ask a new question when one doesn’t like the answer,” Finlay mimics in a high-pitched, aristocratically English voice that sounds reminiscent of Luke. He lifts his sword to his face. “En garde.”

There’s a flurry of fighting, the clang of metal, and then the buzzer rings for Rory again.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Been drunk since the ball,” Finlay grunts, and again I suppress a gasp. “Ever since I figured oot whit yemade me dae.”

Conversations from that night filter through my head —a nudge to Finlay, the right word in his ear, and he’ll make sure to take my ideas and call them his… it’s so easy to lie back and let Finlay think he’s brilliant, with that brilliant, beautiful mind of his, and then watch chaos unfold…

“Ye take and ye take and ye take. Ye take good ideas. Ye take hope and innocence and energy and ye dash them, ye corrupt them around yer faither’s precious agenda.” It’s a vicious spit of defiance, and even under Finlay’s mask I can hear his harsh breath. “I wish ye’d wake up, Ro-ro, I honestly dae, and realize how much Daddy Munro takes and takes fromyou.”

I sense rather than see Rory’s dark scowl at this parting shot. “En garde.”

This time, the fight lasts longer. Neither side wants to give up the point, and there’s some impressive footwork in the way they leap and lunge across the piste. Swords parry in the air, pushed aside by the more dominant, until finally the point of one jabs into Rory’s side.

“How long had ye planned it? D’ye hate Luke this much?”

Rory’s sigh is long and tired, like the weight of the world has suddenly been thrust onto his shoulders. “One question only. And no, I don’t hate Luke. Of course I don’t.”

“Thenwhy?”

“Why are you asking me? You’re the one who happily went along with the plan when youdidn’tthink I was pulling strings.”

This shuts Finlay up, but not before he grinds out, “At least I have regrets. Ye dinnae seem to gie a flying fuck about whit ye’ve just done. How can ye even face Luke after this?”

“One question, and I believe I answered it satisfactorily.” At this, Finlay barks an indignant laugh. “En garde.”

Rory wastes no time in attacking Finlay, a bright clang of metal before the tip of his sword pierces Finlay in the chest.

“Yes or no — do you believe the United Kingdom should be ruled by a monarchy?”

“I dinnae believe in theUnited Kingdom,” Finlay spits. “‘United’ - how? Coercive control by bully-boy England disnae a union make. ‘Kingdom’ - there widnae have been a king until Luke came o’ age, but half the voters said naw tae him and it turns oot he isnae even legitimate, anyway.”

“Then you agree,” Rory bites out tersely, “that whatever you think of him as a person, Luke is not fit for the role of king. That the monarchy should be dismantled right now, before Luke comes of age.”

“I dinnae agree wi’ the monarchy, naw. I also dinnae agree wi yer da making mad power grabs. But you knew aw this. It’s why ye tricked me intae helping Benji.”

“I never tricked you. You tricked yourself into believing you were doing something noble. Lefties are all the same.”

“You betrayed me.”

“Quit with the histrionics.En garde.”

There’s a flash of swords in the air, so severe that I swear I see sparks colliding between the raw metal edges. Finlay wins the point by lunging as far forward as possible, slamming his feet onto the piste as though to intimidate Rory.

“It’s three-aw, by the way,” Finlay gloats, easing back into an upright position. “How’s it feel, knowin’ I can catch ye in yer rich-boy sport when I’m half-drunk andconsiderablyworse for wear?”

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