Page 89 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

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By the time we walk back to the apartment, the air shifts. Instead of happy tourists snapping pics of the castle, people are dashing away from the city streets. No one speaks, and if they do, it’s in hushed whispers. There’s a heaviness to the atmosphere, an anticipation, as though someone’s about to drop a lit match.

As we make our way across the busy thoroughfare of North Bridge, the sun beams with dark light. The glass train station roof is tinted with glitter, catching the rays of the dipping sun like sparks. There’s the muffled sound of a commotion nearby. And as we round the corner toward the station exit, we see it: a large gathered crowd, mainly of students, drinking and chanting and laughing uproariously.Fuck the Royals. They stomp in time, thunderous thuds of their boots, causing miniature earthquakes, the sound of which must be heard halfway across the city.

I glance at Finlay, growing uneasy. “What’s happened?”

He quickly steers me away from the demonstration, though he’d fit in perfectly from the way they all dress. Scruffy, passionate, so bored they’re hungry for someone to attack. I crane my neck to take it in. There are placards I can’t read. Whatever it is, it seems incredibly last minute, and there’s a sinking sensation in my heart as I deduce exactly what’s happened.

“We are Antiro!” someone yells through a megaphone, and there’s another round of aggressive stomping. “Antiro!Antiro!Antiro!Fuck the Royals!Antiro!”

Finlay meets my gaze, grim-faced and serious. He places an arm around my shoulders, as though trying to shield me from the worst of it. “This can only mean one thing.”

I push away Finlay’s protective arm, watching in fascination as more people join the protest. They’re wearing scarves that cover the lower half of their faces and black beanies that hide their foreheads.

As I stop and stare, Finlay ends up dragging me by the hand. “Sassenach, don’t. Ye know whit they’re like.”

I do. I remember Benji. At that moment, I also remember Rory’s damning words at the dance —the worst are full of passionate intensity.

When a lit bottle arcs through the air, we hurry back to the apartment. Flames and cheers erupt. The streets rapidly empty. Emergency vehicles rush in the distance, sirens blaring and tires squealing.

Our little neighborhood remains a pocket of peace but it’s only a corner away from the madness.

“Where the hell have you been?” Rory growls the instant we arrive, slamming the door behind us and fastidiously double-locking it. “Those fucking idiots have captured every major city.”

He glares at Finlay, as though he should have thought better than to let me come with him.

“Are you hurt?” Rory asks me sharply.

“No,” I say, moving through to the living room in a bid to look out the window. “They were just chanting and throwing bottles.”

“I mean, there was also a fire, sassenach,” Finlay murmurs with a raised eyebrow as he slides off his jacket.

“Fuck,” Rory snaps, grabbing his blond hair. “We need to stay put. It’s going to get violent.”

The living room is already occupied by Danny and Luke. Danny is curled in an armchair with a plump tartan cushion between his arms, glancing between Luke and the oversized TV with covert amazement. Luke sits as though frozen, his back rigid-straight and his feet firmly on the floor. There isn’t a single flicker of emotion on his face, though his dark eyes drink in every flashing image on TV.

“Whit’s happened?” Finlay asks Rory in a low, urgent tone. “Tell me.”

But it quickly becomes apparent. On the large TV is rolling news coverage of angry protesters, of police officers kettling them behind barriers, of fights breaking out between them, and of police standing back and simply observing. It’s spliced with archive footage of the Royal family, of Luke’s mother and — my heart tightens — of a younger Becca. They’re on a red carpet, Sophia Milton radiant and statuesque in a gown shimmering with jewels as she offers a perfectly mysterious smile to the wall of paparazzi. Becca, who must be about fourteen in the footage, wears a smart violet dress, her thick dreadlocks piled at the crown of her head, standing almost shyly beside her mother. And then it cuts to more recent footage of Luke, alone during a formal TV interview, his chin pointed and an unmistakable air of self-confidence about him.

The inherent confidence is missing now, I note.

Along the bottom of the screen reads the words ‘Fury erupts as Buckingham Palace denies illegitimacy claims.’

“He did it?” Finlay asks, stunned, staring numbly at the screen. “He sent it oot?Already?”

“Only to every house in the country, including his own.” Rory tosses an official-looking white envelope in our direction. At the bottom edge, it reads:Important information about your monarchy – please read and retain. “I imagine my father wanted it released as soon as I left. Unfortunately for him, his attempt’s been hampered by the slowness of the postal service.”

Finlay snatches up the envelope, opening it and scanning the contents of the thick letter inside. “It’s the dossier,” he breathes. “My dossier. Word for fucking word.”

I feel sick as I watch Finlay read it. Mass-produced, a copy now possessed by every household in the country. We knew it was coming but now it’s real.

I’d held the original in my hands.

I could have had it burned. I could have ripped it up. I could have said no.

Finlay’s arm drops uselessly by his side, the letter falling to the floor. He casts a tentative glance over at Luke. “I didnae mean for any o’ this tae happen,” he whispers.

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