Page 36 of New Angels

“No… That isnae it. That’s no’ whit I want at a’.” Finlay’s voice is a guarded murmur, and he sighs. “It’s about oor slow but steep rise tae riches — ye’ve seen where I came from versus where I am noo.” Finlay takes a deep breath before disclosing, “Turns oot she’s been acceptin’ bribes.” I stare at him, dumbstruck. “From property developers. Business tycoons. International conglomerates. Pharmacy. Lobby money.” He runs an agitated hand through his hair and blows out a frustrated breath. “Bein’ paid tae vote consistently against her constituents’ interests.” Looking bitter, Finlay spreads out his hands and adds in a wry tone, “And hence why we now live in a street referred tae as Millionaires Row. Corruption pays.”

I don’t know what to say. All I can do is blink at Finlay, reading the hurt on his face and in his voice.

“You know how I found oot?” he asks bitterly, and I shake my head. “That vegan chocolate we had on the island. I always thought it was weird as fuck, her sendin’ me that. Turns oot it was some food industry freebie she regifted ontae me, but she forgot tae remove theverypersonalized note in the box. The one thankin’ her for her continuous support, sayin’ they’re happy to maintain their professional relationship as long as she keeps daein’ whit they suggest.” He raises his hand, rubbing his fingers together in the universal gesture for money.

“I’m sorry…”

“Aye, well. So that’s me and my family. Corrupt as fuck. And if thatevercame oot… well, I’d probably be tarred by association, I guess. Naebody would trust me.” Finlay locks his serious gaze with mine, his eyes piercing and unwavering, and I get the impression he’s trying to convey something important. “Yet I find myself no’ giein’ the slightest fuck, because Iwantthe truth tae come oot so badly, instead o’ readin’ PR puff-pieces about my wonderful, hard-workin’ mother, because maist journalism involves idiots pastin’ press releases from fuckin’ lobby groups.”

He breathes heavily after this blistering rant, then gives me a critical once-over. “There. I gave ye a story for ye tae blow the whistle on. Dae wi’ it as ye will. Go start yer journalism career wi’ a bang.”

I’m astonished. Finlay kept this a secret… to help me. I’m so taken aback that I don’t respond for a long while. The more Finlay rants, the wilder and drunker he sounds, to the point I’m not sure I was supposed to have heard even half of what he divulged tonight.

“I wouldn’t want to hurt you or your family,” I state delicately.

“She already has,” Finlay snarls. “She’s a shite maw — you know that. I’ve telt ye plenty about her.” He pauses, flicking his sandwich crusts miserably across his plate. “Probably huvnae telt ye stuff like she’s never once hugged me. Never kissed me. Just ignores me.”

My heart breaks with every new piece of info Finlay deigns me worthy enough to share with.

“Never once told me she’s proud o’ me. Never asked my opinion on literally anythin’. She fuckin’hatesme, sassenach, I’m convinced o’ it. I came along — by accident — and ruined her political aspirations. Grew up hearin’ about how she’d have been First Minister by noo if I hadnae showed up —showed up, like I just appeared. The only time we were ever happy families was for photo ops, when she had tae come across as somethin’ other than a fuckin’ robot.”

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, thinking of my mom. She’d never ignored me. If anything, it had been the opposite: pressurizing to the point of pestering. Her dislike of me had only formed recently, after Dad’s death, and even then… at least I know her opinions have been warped by alcohol. To be sober and hate your child to the point of neglect… It’s brutal.

Finlay’s face is so miserable that I attempt to clutch at straws: “Maybe she’s a workaholic to provide a better future for you? It might be her way of showing love, improving living standards for her family?”

His baleful look feels more like a punch. “I’d rather have a decent mother than a fifty-room mansion. Her greed is beyond obscene, especially when half the country would be homeless wi’oot their next pay.” He shakes his head. “No one needs whit I have, sassenach. And I see that noo that I have you. Could be a penniless vagabond, but wi’ you by my side, I’d still be richer than a’ the folk in her inner circle put together.”

His frame visibly softens as he regards me, tension briefly leaving his body. “There’s honor in lookin’ after yer family, in the ones you love. Aye. But that isnae her motivation. She wants her name known tae the world. Claims tae be virtuous but is a notorious hypocrite. Either way, she wants tae go down in political history — and frankly, fuck it. Fuck the lot o’ it. At least bein’ a musician, creatin’ art, there’s honor in that. No’ suckin’ the dicks o’ big businesses like InterPan and Amark for a wee bit o’ monetary relief. It’s a shite way o’ life, sassenach.

“So aye, maybe I could become a politician,” he adds wryly, wrapping up his rant. “But the whole system would have tae change. Governance is a joke, everyone’s in someone’s pocket, especially the ones who protest their righteousness the maist. And the funny thing is, they’re a’ probably owned by the same people. The same names crop up every time — InterPan and Amark, top o’ the list, biggest companies in the world. Politics nowadays is nothin’ mair than theater: gie the people a wee bit o’ hope, lettin’ us think they’ll finally dae somethin’ on behalf o’ the ordinary punter, but they wullnae because it’s a’ controlled opposition and their overlords would forbid it. Every politician is a fucked-up marionette dancin’ tae the tune o’ their paymasters, while the public sits back and watches the show. And it’s the same fuckin’ show on every channel, because the channel… never… changes.” Finlay pauses, as if realizing how bleakly cynical he sounds. With his cheek slumped against his fist, he mutters, “Yeah. Happy new year and that, I guess,” and this, at least, makes my lips twitch.

“I think we should go to bed,” I suggest gently, reaching out to stroke his hand.

Finlay nods, suppressing a yawn, and swings his body away from the kitchen table. “Aye, ye’re right enough. Too much excitement for one day.” He rinses his plate under the tap and stands it upright on the rack to dry. “Still, though,” he adds, his gaze serious in my direction, “I wisnae jokin’ about you usin’ her for a story. As far as I’m concerned, she fuckin’ deserves it.”

“I know.” In all honesty, I have no idea how to break a story this big — and perhaps with fresh eyes in the morning, in the first light of a new year, Finlay will be in a slightly more forgiving mood. I offer him a small smile. “I’ll think about it.”

We switch off the kitchen lights and ascend the several flights of stairs in the dark. I take Finlay’s hand, leading him up them, until we reach our room. There are so many spare rooms on each floor that I wonder which floor is MacKechnie’s. Probably the one closest to Luke. I try to tamp down the brief, irrational flash of jealousy, wishing all three of us could just be together without all this hassle.

In the dark confines of our bedroom, Finlay and I undress each other layer by layer. He kisses each exposed area of skin as though it’s the first time seeing it, his mouth lingering seductively along my nape. We fall into bed, a blissful tangle of limbs, and Finlay’s tongue swipes hungrily at the hollow of my throat.

We sleep — and then I wake.

I jolt awake, my mind whirling with a disturbing dream, the only image I recall being me surrounded by spiders the size of hands. Every corner is thick with dust and woven white webs, the den of a large lethal-looking black spider. It’s one of those dreams after which the pitch of my pulse is set too high and too tight, and nausea settles like slime in my stomach. My heart is racing, my skin clammy. I sit upright, trying to catch my bearings, and realize Finlay’s wide awake beside me.

“What are you doing?” I mumble. “What time is it?”

“Back o’ three,” he answers quietly. “Had a bad dream.”

“Same. Spiders.”

“Luke was dead.”

15

Iswallow, reaching out to Finlay. His face is red and glitters with sweat, his black hair damp and plastered to his forehead. “I’m gonnae go downstairs tae see him. I dinnae care if he stabs me. I just need tae be wi’ him.”

I stare at Finlay in alarm. “Lukemight not stab you, but go down there and MacKechnie definitely will.”

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