Heads You Win

* * *

Sasha parked his Mini in Tynsdale Street, fifteen minutes before the appointed hour, crossed the road, and entered a soulless-looking red-brick building. The royal crest hung above the entrance, and might as well have read, ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE. He gave his name to the lady on the reception desk.

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“Mr. Dark is expecting you,” she said ominously. “His office is on the thirteenth floor.”

Where else? thought Sasha.

Even the lift seemed reluctant to make the upward journey, before disgorging its only visitor. Sasha stepped out into a gray pictureless corridor, and went in search of Mr. Dark’s office.

He knocked on the door and entered a room with no windows and a desk covered in red files. Behind the desk—first surprise—sat a man of his own age who greeted him with a warm smile—second surprise. He stood up, and shook hands with Sasha.

“Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Karpenko?”

An Englishman’s idea of putting you at ease before adding a teaspoonful of cyanide.

“No, thank you,” said Sasha, wanting the executioner to get on with his job.

“Can’t say I blame you,” said Dark, before sitting down. “I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Karpenko, so I’ll try not to waste too much of your time.” He opened the top file and studied the contents for a few moments, reminding himself of the salient points. “I’ve studied your tax returns for the past five years,” Dark continued, “and after a long chat to your bank manager, which you authorized”—Sasha nodded—“I think we may have found a solution to your problem.”

Sasha continued to stare at the man, wondering what the next surprise would be.

“You currently owe the Inland Revenue one hundred and twenty-six thousand pounds, which your company is clearly unable to pay at the present time. However, contrary to public opinion, we tax collectors get our kicks out of saving companies, not closing them. After all, it’s our only hope of getting any of our money back.”

Sasha wanted to laugh, but somehow resisted the temptation.

“With that in mind, Mr. Karpenko, we will allow you a year’s grace, during which time you will not have to pay any tax. After that, we will require you to return the full amount”—he checked the figure—“of one hundred twenty-six thousand pounds over a period of four years. However, if the company should make a profit during that time, every penny will come to the Inland Revenue.” He paused before looking across his desk at Sasha and adding firmly, “I accept that the next five years are not going to be easy for you and your family, but if you feel unable to accept this offer, we will be left with no choice but to take possession of all your assets, as the taxman is always paid in full before any other creditors.” He paused again, and looked up at his visitor. “You may wish to spend a few days considering your position, Mr. Karpenko, before you make a final decision.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Dark,” said Sasha. “I accept your terms, and am most grateful to you for giving me a second chance.”

“I applaud your decision. So many of my clients go bankrupt, and then open a new business the following day, not bothering about their debts, or anyone else’s problems.” Mr. Dark opened a second file and extracted another document. “Then all that is left for you to do, Mr. Karpenko, is to sign here, here, and here.” He even offered Sasha a biro.

“Thank you,” said Sasha, wondering if he was about to wake up.

Once Sasha had signed the agreement, Mr. Dark rose from behind his desk and shook hands with him for a second time.

“I have no politics, Mr. Karpenko,” said Dark as he accompanied Sasha out of the room and back down the corridor to the lift, “but if I lived in Merrifield, I would vote for you, and although I have only dined at Elena’s on one occasion, I enjoyed the experience immensely.”

“You must come again,” said Sasha, as the lift door opened and he stepped inside.

“Not until you’ve paid off your debt in full, Mr. Karpenko.”

The lift door closed.

* * *

Sasha’s prospects of retaining his seat didn’t improve following Mrs. Thatcher’s much vaunted triumph in the Falklands, and Michael Foot’s stubborn refusal to occupy the center ground.

But then he had a stroke of luck that can change the career of any politician. Sir Michael Forrester died of a heart attack, triggering a by-election in the neighboring constituency of Endlesby. The chance of representing a safe Tory seat for the rest of her life was too tempting for Fiona Hunter, and few people were surprised when she allowed her name to go forward as the prospective candidate. After all, she claimed, Endlesby was half of her old constituency.

Fiona won the by-election by over ten thousand votes, and returned to take her place on the green benches, where Sasha assumed their rivalry would continue. Sasha’s second piece of luck came when the Merrifield Conservative Association quarreled among themselves as to who should be their candidate at the next general election, and ended up selecting a local councilor who divided opinion even in his own party.

After the general election, Margaret Thatcher returned to the Commons with an overwhelming majority, despite being spurned by the voters of Merrifield, who decided to hold on to their member, if only by a majority of ninety-one. But as Alf pointed out to Sasha, it was Winston Churchill who said, “One is quite enough, dear boy.”

* * *

Neil Kinnock, the new leader of the Labour Party, invited Sasha to join the opposition front bench as a junior spokesman in the foreign affairs team, with special responsibilities for the Eastern Bloc countries.