Page 80 of Playing to Win

“And we provide seventeen hundred more in revenue. Arithmetic tells me we’re each owed five hundred quid a year.” He turned for the ground-floor corridor. “But I know that’s pocket change to you.”

Andrew hurried to catch up, dismayed he and Colin had started the day by bickering, especially after their week apart. “That extra revenue comes from oil, not taxes. Why should it be part of the equation?”

“Because if we were independent, we’d keep most of the oil money ourselves. We deserve it, because when there’s an oil spill, that black sludge won’t wash up on English shores, will it? It won’t kill English birds and fish.” Colin stopped suddenly, then tapped his palm against the wall, the lower half of which was painted a hideous 1970s tangerine. “I don’t want to fight just now.”

“You started it. I only asked—”

“I did start it. I’m sorry.” Colin rubbed his eye, then came over and gave Andrew a soft kiss. “C’mon, let’s make this fun.”

As they took the lift to the tenth floor, Colin started humming Major Lazer’s “Come On to Me,” a song they’d danced to in Edinburgh. That night seemed to belong to another lifetime, when they’d cared only about having fun. Before he’d had a taste of Colin, before he’d seen that tattoo on his back and realized the depth of this man’s wounds, Andrew would’ve been happy with just one night.

But here he was, more than a month on, following a radical revolutionary on his quixotic quest. A quest that now seemed impossibly possible.

As they headed down the hallway, Andrew wrinkled his nose at an unpleasant smell he couldn’t quite place. It reminded him of a swimming pool, but it wasn’t chlorine.

“We’ll take it in turns to make the contest fair,” Colin said. “I’ll go first so you can see how it’s done.” He stopped at the second door on the left, checking the flat’s number against the list on his clipboard. “There’s a script in your packet of materials, but I like to improvise.”

Colin knocked on the door. While he waited, he swayed in time to the song he was still singing under his breath. Andrew took a moment to glance at the canvassing script. The patter was straightforward and polite, but utterly devoid of charm.

The door opened to a middle-aged man in a too-small T-shirt. Colin smiled and said, “Hiya, mate. I’m Colin, this is Adam. We’re just out today having a chat with folk about—” The door was slammed in his face. “—the referendum. Cheers. Bye.”

Unfazed, Colin made another note and continued down the hall.

Andrew passed him, snatching the clipboard from his hand. “My turn.”

“You sure?”

“You told me not to be ‘feart,’ so yes, I’m sure.” Andrew found the next name and flat number on the sheet.

He knocked on the door, which opened almost immediately, revealing a woman in her late twenties. “Sorry,” she said, “I’m just now away to the—oh.” Her eyes met Andrew’s. He unleashed his highest wattage smile, and she let out an audible sigh. “Y-yes?”

“Ms. McAllister, how do you do.” Going full gentleman, Andrew introduced himself, apologized for interrupting her busy day, and asked after her well-being.

“I’m good.” She smoothed back her red-blond hair and shifted the blue baby blanket in her hands. “Call me Wendy.”

When Andrew gently probed Wendy for her stance on independence, she turned out to be a No-leaning undecided voter. A quick glance into her sparse flat showed she was frugal, voluntarily or not.

“Unemployment and income inequality are grave concerns,” Andrew said, “and yet Scotland is forced to spend millions of pounds every year on an outdated nuclear submarine missile system.”

Wendy nodded and frowned. “Aye, the Trident.”

“Precisely. An independent Scotland would scrap the Trident program.” He recited figures he’d learned from Colin about all the free childcare the Scottish government could supposedly provide with the money saved. Wendy mirrored Andrew’s posture as he spoke, nodding when he nodded and smiling when he smiled. This was criminally easy.

“So you see, Wendy,” Andrew readied his ridiculous catch phrase, “we need welfare, not warfare.”

They left the flat having bagged a new Yes voter.

“I’ve been perfecting my canvassing patter for months,” Colin said, “and now you swoop in and get it right the first fucking time.”

Andrew glowed inside at Colin’s praise, though the Tory in him wanted to retch at the words that had just poured out of his own mouth. “I was merely lucky to find such an open mind as Wendy’s.”

“You stole my Trident argument,” Colin said with a smirk.

“I borrowed it. You should be glad I won her over with the power of reason.”

“You won her over with the power of dimples.”

“I have dimples?” Andrew touched his own cheek. “Never noticed. It’s one-nil, by the way.”

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