Page 33 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

“And contrary to popular wisdom,” Oscar Munro continues, his tone growing haughtier and more akin to Rory, “I do reach out to listen to other points of view, if only to cement the truth of my own beliefs. We live in an age of prescribed ideology and willful ignorance, and the only way to combat this is to appeal to all sides of a discussion. It is useful to have friends in different places.” He spins his whisky glass idly between his long, cultured fingers. “George MacDonald had a nice line on this,” he says, and then recites by heart, “‘It is amazing from what a mere fraction of a fact concerning him a man will dare judge the whole of another man’.”

I let the warm wisdom of old words wash over me, my eyes drifting to the rolled-up dossier beside his elbow.

“But… youareagainst the monarchy,” I say, almost a question. As I try to dig through the rhetoric to get to the heart of Oscar Munro, I’m starting to think he sees himself as some kind of political martyr. “You judge anyone who isn’t.”

He heaves a deep sigh and takes another sip of his whisky. “This is the problem with your generation,” he declares grandly, tossing the liquid back and slamming the glass tumbler down hard enough that I jump. “You assume you’re the true believers, the originators of a noble cause. You have your hashtags and your selfies and all sorts of flimsy, awareness-raising, ego-massaging nonsense. But while you work yourselves into a lather, do you ever actually do any hard work? Do you put in the miles to gain even a fraction of an inch? Attending committees, fundraising, negotiating with political enemies? No. You’re stubborn fools too lazy to earn your stripes. You’d rather stonewall progress for the sake of purity, so secure are you in your phony righteousness. You’d rather shriek heresy than build relations, think in black and white than anything remotely nuanced. You’d rather decimate the existing world than create anything new within it. Nowadays, activism is hatred, and I have no time for this blinkered populism.”

“Not unless it affects you, though, right?” I fire back, feeling attacked. “As far as I’m aware, you weren’t complaining when campaigners rallied to get you elected.”

He shrugs. “It’s not my problem if people would rather identify politically than healthily with themselves. Hypocrisy isn’t a sin, though no doubt your generation will soon attempt to make it so by stoning us all to death in the process.”

His dark eyes glint at me, examining my face. “In the olden days, activists were all about changing the world, about making it better for everyone. Naive, of course, but noble. Look around. Do you see that anywhere nowadays? What we have in politics is an onslaught of self-centeredness: the world must change to accommodateme, for I am the most special. It’s boringly solipsistic.” His mouth is a brutal, downturned grimace. “You call yourself an activist, don’t you?”

I stare at him.

“I’ve read your submission statement to Lochkelvin,” he explains. “You started a feminist book group at your high school. You were a passionate speaker, part of the debate team.” He gives me a searching look. “What happened?”

It’s as though the chair swallows me whole. My face grows warm, warmer than the heat that licks across the room from the fire. I’m engulfed by a roiling shame, a series of pictures flashing through my mind — of depression and death and wasted potential, tied neatly inside a red ribbon.

“I… haven’t been myself lately,” I murmur, not sure why I’m willing to admit this to Oscar Munro of all people. This is a man who Finlay detests, who’s caused a political scandal of death among his citizens because of his harsh austerity measures. But for some reason he has a listening ear and shares with me a strange, death-afflicted affinity. “A lot of things have happened and… I don’t really know who I am anymore.”

It feels like a cop-out and I hate myself for it, that I should present myself so weakly in front of the Prime Minister. Teenager feels sad? Big fucking deal. There’s an entire world out there that needs fixing and I need to get on it, I need to get back to normal and raise hell, I need to be a better and better human being, I need to improve and be part of progress…

I need to.

Ineed to.

I just don’t know who theIis anymore.

But Oscar Munro tilts his head to the side in thought. “I will always support periods of reflection. Moments of quiet can refine oneself, one’s ideas. Not enough people appreciate the properties of silence, or at least the importance of shutting up when their opinions haven’t been requested.”

I laugh slightly, and he pours me out a finger of whisky. The burn as it slides down the back of my throat is exquisite, a painful fire that tastes like earth.

“Most people don’t experience anything like what we have,” he continues, his voice slow and melodious, “not until some event comes along to cause their entire worldview to cave.”

“Rory seems…” I lick my lips, picturing Rory beside me, a blond eyebrow raised in anticipation. “Unaffected.”

Oscar Munro throws back his whisky and gives a small huff of laughter that stirs Captain Porthos from his doze. “My son is entirely the opposite of unaffected. The loss of his mother radiates from every pore.” The way he says this, there’s a thread of disappointment running through it.

“Tell me,” he adds suddenly. “What attracts you to him? I’m interested in what a girl like you might see in Rory.” An undercurrent of lasciviousness winds through the question.

“A girl like me?” I ask, dreading the answer that seemed to have been already unveiled by his tone.

“Well, it would be wholly improper to speculate on that matter,” Oscar Munro declares briskly. “But you are bright, spirited, not to mention attractive.” His eyes linger on my red-cheeked face. “On the other hand, my son is an enormous headache. Stubborn. Spoiled. Disobedient.Soft.”

The dislike and disappointment Oscar Munro has for his own son snaps off with each word, but it’s the latter wordsoftwhich is spat like venom.

I need that dossier, I realize with sudden sharpness. It feels urgent now – that a man who could read his son so badly wrong should be in charge of this political coup.

So I flatter him. I need to get that dossier, and flattery seems the only way to access it. “In truth, you were something to do with that,” I murmur, deliberately coy. “That Rory should have a father so strong, so capable, such an expert politician… I can’t deny it wasn’t part of the appeal. That Rory should turn out like you.”

This perks him up.

“Well, I could understand that,” he agrees without a shred of modesty. “Unfortunately my son shows little desire to follow in my footsteps, though admittedly they are a challenge to fill. But Munros are made for challenges and children ought not to fall far from their parents. Bloodlines are bloodlines, are they not?”

Bloodlines are bloodlines, except when they’re Luke’s.

He pours himself another measure of whisky, looking considerably more pleased with himself after my lies. “Before we met, did you expect us to be having civil discussions on activism and art and loss, to be drinking whisky and speaking openly?”

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