Heads You Win

Half the audience rose to cheer her, while the other half remained seated, waiting to see if their champion still had any arrows left in his quiver.

Sasha only had a few moments in which to consider how to counter such a brilliant and simple message, although he had no doubt that if Fiona lost, she would also be looking for a safe seat elsewhere. But he couldn’t say that, because he couldn’t prove it. The packed hall waited in anticipation, one half willing him to succeed, the other half hoping he would stumble.

“Like my father,” he began, “I’ve always believed in democracy, despite being raised in a totalitarian state. So I’m happy to let the voters of Merrifield decide which of us they consider best qualified to represent them in the House of Commons. I only ask that you make that choice based on which candidate you consider will do the better job, and not simply on who has lived here the longest. Naturally I believe that person is me. But if living in Merrifield is proof of commitment, I want you all to know that last week I completed the purchase of a house in Farndale Avenue, and that like Ms. Hunter, I look forward to spending the rest of my life in this constituency.”

Chester Munro waited for the applause to die down before thanking both candidates. “And I’d also like to thank you, the audience,” he said, but was interrupted by a young woman who appeared from the wings and handed him a slip of paper. He unfolded it and considered the contents before announcing, “I know you will all be fascinated to learn that a TV poll taken immediately following this debate shows Ms. Hunter’s support on forty-two percent and Mr. Karpenko also on forty-two percent. The remaining sixteen percent are either undecided or will vote for other parties.”

The two candidates rose from their places, walked slowly toward each other, and shook hands. They both accepted that the debate had ended in a draw, and they now only had a week left in which to knock out their opponent.

* * *

Sasha didn’t seem to stand still for a moment during the next seven days, while Alf continually reminded him that the final outcome might be decided by only a handful of votes. He didn’t doubt that Fiona would be having the same message hammered home.

On election day, Sasha rose at two in the morning, quite unable to sleep. He’d read all the papers by the time he came down for breakfast. By six o’clock he was back outside Merrifield station imploring the commuters to VOTE KARPENKO—TODAY.

Once the polls opened at seven, he dashed from committee room to committee room in a gallant attempt to thank his legion of dedicated workers, who were refusing to take even a minute off until the last vote had been cast.

“Let’s go and have a drink with the rest of the team,” he said to Charlie at 10 p.m., after the BBC announced that the polls had closed, and counting was about to begin all over the country.

They walked slowly up the high street to cries of good luck, good-bye, and even, haven’t I seen you somewhere before? When they arrived at the Roxton Arms, Alf and the team were already standing at the bar placing their orders.

“And the drinks are on you for a change,” said Alf, “now that we’re unbribable.”

The rest of the team cheered.

“The two of you couldn’t possibly have done more,” said Audrey Campion as she handed Charlie a tomato juice and Sasha a pint—his first for three weeks.

“Agreed,” said Alf. “However, I suggest we all have something to eat before we go across to the town hall and follow the count, as it’s unlikely there’ll be a result much before two.”

“Care to predict that result?” asked Sasha.

“Predictions are for gamblers and fools,” said Alf. “The electorate have made their decision. All we can do is wait to find out if they’ve made the right one. So whatever you say now won’t make a blind bit of difference.”

“I’d close the cottage hospital, start building the bypass, and cut defense spending by at least ten percent,” said Sasha.

Everyone laughed except Charlie, who stumbled forward and clung on to the bar.

“What’s the matter?” said Sasha, placing an arm around her.

“What do you think’s wrong, idiot?” said Audrey.

“And you’ve got no one to blame but yourself,” said Alf, “because you did implore the Almighty to wait until after the election.”

“Stop chattering, Alf,” said Audrey, “and ring the hospital. Tell them there’s a woman on the way who’s about to give birth. Michael, go and fetch a taxi.”

Alf scuttled off to the phone at the other end of the bar while Sasha and Audrey supported Charlie as she made her way slowly out of the pub. Michael had already flagged down a passing cab and instructed the driver exactly where he had to go long before Charlie clambered into the back seat.

“Hold on, darling,” said Sasha as the taxi moved off. “We don’t have far to go,” he added, suddenly thankful that the cottage hospital hadn’t yet been closed.

Headlights on full, the driver wove in and out of the late night traffic. Alf must have done his job, because when the cab pulled up outside the hospital entrance, two orderlies and a doctor were waiting for them. The doctor helped Charlie from the car while Sasha took out his wallet to pay the fare.

“Have this one on me, guv,” said the cabbie. “It’ll make up for the fact that I forgot to vote.”

Sasha thanked him, but cursed him at the same time as Charlie was eased into a wheelchair. If he lost by one vote … He held his wife’s hand while the doctor calmly asked her a series of questions. One of the orderlies wheeled her down an empty corridor to the delivery room, where an obstetrics team were waiting. Sasha only let go of her hand when she disappeared inside.

He began to pace up and down the corridor, beratin

g himself for having pushed Charlie so hard during the last few days of the campaign. Alf was right, a child’s life was more important than any damned election.