Heads You Win

by Jeffrey Archer

  Half the audience rose to hail their standard-bearer, while the other half remained in the seats, but even some of them joined in the applause.

  Munro waited for Sasha to return to his seat and the applause to die down before he said, “I call on Ms. Hunter to respond.”

  Sasha looked across at Fiona to see that she was furiously crossing out whole paragraphs of her prepared speech. Finally she rose and walked slowly toward the lectern. She smiled nervously down at the audience.

  “My name is Fiona Hunter, and I have had the privilege of representing you as your Member of Parliament for the past three years. I hope you will feel that I have proved worthy of your support.” She looked up, to receive a smattering of applause from her most ardent supporters.

  “I was born and brought up in Merrifield. England is my homeland, always has been and always will be,” a line she immediately realized she should have left out. She quickly turned the page, and then another. Sasha could only wonder how often the words “carpetbagger,” “interloper,” “outsider,” even “immigrant,” had been removed from her script.

  Fiona stumbled on, talking about her father, Cambridge, and the Union, all too aware that by allowing her rival to go first, she had given him the opportunity to steal her best lines. When the buzzer went to warn Fiona that she had thirty seconds left, she quickly turned to the last page of her speech and said, “I can only hope you will give this local girl a second chance to carry on serving you.”

  She returned quickly to her seat, but the applause had faded away long before she’d sat down.

  No one could have been in any doubt who had won the first round, but the bell was about to go for the second, and Sasha knew he couldn’t let his concentration lapse for even a moment.

  “The candidates will now take your questions,” said Munro. “Please keep them brief and to the point.”

  A dozen hands immediately shot up. Munro pointed to a woman seated in the fifth row.

  “How do the two candidates feel about Roxton’s playing fields being sold off by the council to be replaced by a supermarket?”

  Fiona was on her feet even before Munro could say who should respond first.

  “I learned to play hockey and tennis on those playing fields,” she began, “which is why I raised the issue in the House, at Prime Minister’s Questions. I condemned the proposal then, and I will continue to do so if I am reelected. Let us hope that is something else Mr. Karpenko and I have in common, although it seems unlikely, as it was the Labour council that granted planning permission for the supermarket in the first place.”

  This time she was rewarded with prolonged applause.

  Sasha waited for complete silence before he responded. “It is correct that Ms. Hunter spoke against the council’s proposal to build a supermarket on the site of Roxton playing fields, when she raised the subject in the House of Commons. But what she didn’t mention is that she is the PPS to the Shadow Minister for Rural Affairs, who has never once supported her. Why not? Possibly because the shadow minister would have pointed out to Ms. Hunter that an even bigger sports center is being built three miles down the road at Blandford, with facilities for football, rugby, cricket, hockey, tennis, and a swimming pool, thanks to a Labour government. If I am elected as your member, I will back the council on this issue, as they have had the common sense not to allow arbitrary political boundaries to influence their better judgment. Be assured, I will always support what I believe to be in the best interests of the citizens of Merrifield. Perhaps Ms. Hunter should be elected not to Parliament, but as President of the Not in My Back Yard society. Forgive me if I try to consider the bigger picture.”

  When Sasha sat down, the audience was still applauding.

  Munro next selected a tall, elegant man, dressed in tweed and wearing a striped tie.

  “What do the Conservatives feel about the defense cuts proposed by Mr. Healey when he visited the constituency two weeks ago?”

  Fiona smiled, but then Major Bennett had been well primed before he put his question.

  “Perhaps you should answer this one first, Mr. Karpenko,” suggested Munro.

  “Defense cuts are a contentious issue for any government,” said Sasha. “However, if we are to build more schools, universities, hospitals, and, yes, even sports facilities, either cuts must be made or taxes raised, which is never an easy choice. But it is one that can’t be sidestepped. I can only promise that as your representative, I would always weigh up the arguments for any cuts in the defense budget, before coming to a decision.” He sat down to a smattering of applause.

  “If you could win a battle simply by blowing hot air on your opponents, clearly Mr. Karpenko would be commander in chief of the armed forces,” said Fiona. She had to wait for the laughter and applause to die down before she could continue. “Haven’t two world wars taught us that we can never allow ourselves to lower our guard? No, the defense of the realm should always be the first priority for any MP, and it always will be for me if you send me back to Westminster.”

  Fiona basked in the prolonged applause before returning to her seat, leaving Sasha in no doubt who had won that round. The next question came from a woman seated near the back.

  “How long are we going to have to wait for the Roxton bypass to be given the green light?”

  Sasha realized this was another planted question, as a smile reappeared on Fiona’s face, and she didn’t even need to glance at her notes.

  “The bypass would get the go-ahead tomorrow,” said Fiona, “if planning permission wasn’t being held up by the current Labour government, which as I don’t have to remind you is under Socialist control. I wonder why. Perhaps Mr. Karpenko will enlighten us. But if the Conservatives are elected, I can assure you the bypass will be a priority.”

  Fiona smiled triumphantly at Sasha as she sat down to even warmer applause than before. But then she knew, if the bypass went ahead, the local council estate would be leveled to make way for it, which would turn Merrifield into a safe Conservative seat once again. She also knew that Sasha couldn’t admit that was the real reason he was backing the council on this issue.

  “I’m in no doubt,” he began, “that Roxton needs a bypass. The only thing under discussion is where the route should be.”

  “Not in your back yard!” shouted Fiona, to cheers and catcalls.

  “I can promise you,” said Sasha, “that as your member I would do everything in my power to speed the process up.”

  The applause, or lack of it, made it clear to everyone in the hall that Fiona had won another round.

  Munro finally gave in and pointed to an elderly woman who had jumped up and raised her hand at every opportunity.

  “What plans do the candidates have for raising the old-age pension?”

  “Every Conservative administration has raised the old-age pension in line with inflation,” said Fiona. “The Labour government has always failed to do so, possibly because under their stewardship, inflation has risen on average by fourteen percent per year. So I say to anyone of pensionable age, if you hope to maintain, or improve, your standard of living, make sure you vote Conservative. Actually, I would say the same to anyone below pensionable age as well, because we’ll all get there eventually.” This suggestion brought a loud cheer from the Tory supporters, who clearly felt their candidate had come fighting back after her earlier setback, and was now ahead on points.

  “I sometimes wish,” said Sasha, when he rose to reply, “that Ms. Hunter would, just for once, take a long-term view and look beyond next week’s election. The present average life expectancy in this country is seventy-three. By the year 2000, it will be eighty-one, and by 2020, when I will be sixty-eight, and eligible for the state pension myself, it is predicted to be eighty-seven. No government—of whatever color—will have the resources to keep raising the old-age pension year on year. Hasn’t the time come for Members of Parliament to tell the truth about such difficult and important issues as this, and not to spout platitudes, in th
e hope that they will scrape home at the next election? I’m an economist by profession, not a lawyer like Ms. Hunter. I will always tell you the facts, while she will always tell you what she thinks you want to hear.”

  When he sat down, the applause suggested that there was no clear-cut winner of that round.

  “There’s time for just one more question,” said Munro, pointing to a young man seated on the aisle.

  “Do either of you think Merrifield United will ever win the FA Cup?”

  The whole room burst into laughter.

  “I’ve been a supporter of ‘The Merries’ since I was a child,” said Fiona, “and my father left me his season ticket in his will. But for fear of being told by my opponent that I’m only seeking cheap votes, I’ll admit that I think it’s unlikely we’ll win the cup, but I live in hope.”

  Sasha took her place. “It was a magnificent achievement for Merrifield to reach the third round of the cup last year,” he said. “Joey Butler’s goal against Arsenal was a joy to behold, and no one could have been surprised when the Gunners offered him a contract. I was equally delighted that the board decided to use their cup windfall to build a new all-weather stand. But if I’m fortunate enough to become your member, don’t be surprised if you still find me standing on the terraces cheering on the home team.”

  The young man who’d asked the question didn’t hide whom he’d be voting for, and Sasha felt the contest was back on an equal footing. Everything now rested on their closing remarks.

  “As Mr. Karpenko spoke first at the opening of these proceedings,” said Munro, “I shall call on Ms. Hunter to make her closing statement.”

  Fiona put aside her notes and looked directly at the audience.

  “It seems I’m not allowed to mention the fact that I’m a local girl and that my opponent doesn’t come from this neck of the woods. I also mustn’t remind you that I beat Mr. Karpenko for the presidency of the Cambridge Union, and I beat him again at the by-election following my father’s death. And when winning this constituency became a tougher proposition for my party, I didn’t run away. But I can tell you, if Mr. Karpenko loses this election, you will never see him again. He will go off in search of a safe seat, whereas you know for certain that I’ll be here for the rest of my life. The choice is yours.”

  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.

  He couldn’t be sure how much time had passed before a nurse finally emerged from the delivery room, gave him a warm smile, and said, “Congratulations, Mr. Karpenko, it’s a girl.”

  “And my wife?”

  “She’s fine. Exhausted, and will need to rest, but you can go and see them both for a few minutes.” Sasha followed her into the room, where Charlie was tenderly holding her newborn child. A wrinkled little thing with unfocused blue eyes stared up at him. He hugged Charlie, thanked whatever gods there were for this miracle, and gazed down at his daughter as if she was the first child that had ever been born.

  “Pity this didn’t happen a week ago,” said Charlie.

  “Why, my darling?”

  “Imagine how many more votes you might have got if you could have told the audience at the debate that your daughter was born in the constituency.”

  Sasha laughed as a nurse placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “We should let your wife rest.”

  “Of course,” said Sasha, as another nurse gently lifted the baby from her arms and placed her in a cot.

  Sasha reluctantly left the room, although Charlie had already fallen asleep. Once he was back out in the corridor, he stopped to stare at his daughter through the window in the door. He waved at her; stupid really, because he knew she couldn’t see him. He turned and began to walk toward the stairs, and for the first time in hours, his thoughts returned to what was going on at the town hall. He ran along the corridor and down the steps, wondering if he’d be able to find a taxi at that time of night. He walked across the lobby and was just about to push the door open when a voice behind him said, “Mr. Karpenko?”

  He turned around to see a nurse standing behind the reception desk. “Congratulations,” she said.

  “Thank you. I couldn’t be more delighted that it’s a girl.”