Page 117 of Playing to Win

Andrew took a step back, his heart plummeting. “Wasted?”

“All those weeknights at your place last week, last month, watching films and fucking, living in a fantasy world. I ate oysters on the half shell in a castle while my people were starving. I flew first class to see a Broadway show while my people hadn’t the electricity for their kids to watchTeletubbies.”

“Okay, now you’re being dramatic.”

“You’re fucking right I am. This country’s future just went down the drain, and you’re telling me, ‘Buck up, old chap, you gave it your all.’” He clawed at his right arm, scraping the scars beneath the thistle leaves. “Like I’m to get a trophy for participation.”

“Colin, please.” Andrew reached for him.

“Don’t touch me!” Colin backed away. “I never want to see you again.”

Panic shot through Andrew. “What? Why?”

“Because I fuckin’ hate you.” Colin met his eyes long enough to stamp home the truth. Then he went to the front door and yanked it open so hard, it banged into his foot.

Andrew looked at the others, who were staring at him in horror. “For God’s sake, someone go with him!”

“I’ll go,” Katie said, just as Robert said, “I will.” They both handed off their beer bottles and found their jackets.

“Take this. It’s cold out.” Andrew pulled Colin’s hoodie from the coat rack, trying not to cry at its familiar feel and scent. “And thank you.”

“He’s our friend,” she said. “More importantly, he’s a Warrior.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT

COLINHADEXPECTEDto find a funeral in George Square. Instead, he found a party.

It was the same scene as every other night this week, only bigger, more frenetic. Saltires waved, bagpipes played, people sang and chanted and laughed. It was like he’d stepped into a parallel universe where Yes had won. Where there was still hope.

A familiar voice called his name. He turned to see Katie and Robert sauntering toward him, hands in their jacket pockets. Colin’s hoodie was tucked under Katie’s arm. “Thought you might get cold,” she said as she gave it to him.

Robert gaped at the crowd in George Square. “Why are they celebrating?”

“They must not know we’re doomed,” Colin said.

“Most surreal party ever.” Katie stepped into the street. “C’mon, it’s still history.”

The three of them wandered through the jam-packed square, seeing familiar faces they’d come to know and love this last week. Like the old hippie who’d dyed blue the left half of his long white beard. Like the elfin blond lass who wore a Saltire like a superhero cape, but who was so short, she kept tripping on it when she danced.

They stopped beside a grassy area where a group of uni students sat in a circle, two of them playing guitars. They were singing “Flower of Scotland,” the song Scots had belted out as their athletes won gold medals at the Commonwealth Games. The song that would have been an independent country’s national anthem.

“How will people ever sing this again?” Robert said. “It’s a lie.”

Colin wanted to run, far enough he wouldn’t hear the verse about rising, being that nation that once stood against a bigger, greater army. Yet it felt wrong to turn his back.

So the Warriors stood in mournful silence while the happy students crooned the song at the top of their voices. Then the three of them moved on, finding a space to sit at the edge of another grassy area, facing the cenotaph war memorial. Colin pulled out his phone to check Twitter.

“Oh God.” He stared at the screen like it was the headlight of an oncoming train. “Clackmannanshire results expected any minute.”

“Where is that again?” Katie asked.

“Near Fife, but that’s not important. Clackmannanshire is a, what do you call it—a bellwether. Next to Dundee it’s the council area most likely to vote Yes.” He looked at her. “If we’ve lost Clacks, we’ve lost Scotland.”

Robert held up his own phone. “Someone’s reporting that the Yes campaigners there don’t look happy.”

Colin felt sick. “Here it comes, the first kick in the stomach.”

Katie reached out and took his hand, then took Robert’s as well.

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