Angel Touch (27 page)

There was some desultory laughter and a few heads turned to the back of the room. I didn't have to. The voice told me it was Cawthorne as much as if he'd said ‘spade bitch.'

‘Unfortunately, Farmer Fisher used the pillbox for other purposes after the war, notably as a toilet for his farmworkers. Consequently, it has been closed off and is out of bounds as far as the Exhilarator goes.'

Cawthorne walked to the front as he spoke. He wore the same khaki overalls as we all did, but he had a major's crown on each shoulder. He was more modest than I'd given him credit for.

Without meaning to, I found myself avoiding his eyes, slumping down in my chair and concentrating on the back of the one in front. Werewolf stayed upright, but then he'd never been as close to him as I had.

Cawthorne reached the overhead projector and turned to address us, one hand on the holster on his right hip.

‘A word about your weapons, gentlemen,' he smarmed; then he went for the quick draw and levelled a long-barrelled pistol at all of us.

I was impressed. A guy on the front row broke wind. Werewolf whispered: ‘He's faster when he moves.'

‘This, gentlemen, is what we call the Equalizer,' Cawthorne said, turning the gun from side to side. ‘It has been specially designed for the Exhilarator course.'

The handgun was a big one, or so I suppose, being no authority on these things. Put it this way: it looked like something Clint Eastwood wouldn't have minded finding on his Christmas tree. It had a six-inch barrel, but a solid cylinder underneath it almost as long, so that from the business end it looked like an over-and-under shotgun with the lower barrel blocked off.

‘It's a double-action revolver, which means you have to pull back the hammer to cock it before firing.' He broke the gun in half and showed us the cylinder filled with six red-plastic capsules. ‘It fires paint capsules by compressed carbon dioxide in the tube under the barrel. Accuracy is about 30 yards and we have tried to make the guns as noisy as possible, though they still sound more like airguns than the real thing, I'm afraid. You will be issued with 24 paint balls and a spare CO
2
cylinder, although one is usually enough. You will be issued with a weapons belt and goggles or, for those wearing glasses, a visor for face protection.'

I sank even lower into my seat when he mentioned glasses, but he didn't seem to be looking at me.

‘If you are hit on the torso, from head to knees but excluding the arms, that is a hit and you must return here for a penalty of five minutes. Other than that, as the Sergeant says, there are no rules. Out there, it's war!'

 

We trooped out and back into the changing-room, where ‘Private' Boyd had opened a fire door on to what ‘Sergeant' Waters had called the Paddock. It was supposed to be like going Over the Top, but it felt more like a gang of reluctant schoolboys setting out on a cross-country run with only the prospect of a quick smoke round the back of the bike sheds to sustain them.

I palmed the Olympus Trip into my overalls while pretending to tidy my sports bag and new suit. Then Ms Boyd called us to order and get in line for ‘weapons issue.'

I shuffled along behind Werewolf and whispered to him, ‘Head for the Wood to the right and wait for me somewhere near that big conifer.'

‘Which one's the conifer?' he said out of the corner of his beard.

‘The green one.'

‘That narrows it down.'

The procedure was that Private Boyd handed us each a belt complete with pistol holster and ammo pouches, and then Sergeant Waters launched each of us through the door with a pat on the shoulder, telling us we had one minute's start. Werewolf and I were numbers three and four in the queue, and the Sergeant had to tap his watch a couple of times as Werewolf seemed to be requiring more help than the rest of us from Private Boyd in getting his belt on.

What he appeared to be doing was chatting her up. In reality, he was allowing the guy second in the queue to get a good head start
while
chatting her up.

Taking his time, he moved over to the door and paused. He was the only one of the game players not to have fooled around quick-drawing our paint guns as soon as we had got them. He just stood there with hands on hips until Waters raised a hand to tap him on the shoulder.

Werewolf looked him in the eyes and Waters thought the better of it, saying weakly: ‘Go.' And Werewolf went, running hard towards the wood.

One of the first two out had peeled off to the left towards the Orchard. The other had gone for the Wood but had entered well away from the large conifer Werewolf headed for. He'd just about made it by the time Private Boyd had strapped my gun belt on and issued me with a plastic face visor that fitted with adjustable straps at the back.

Then Waters hit me on the shoulder and I was off across the paddock, concentrating on the spot where Werewolf had suddenly vanished into the trees.

It was the sort of distance that Olympic sprinters can cover in less than a minute on their lap of honour. My time would be impressive only if clocked by sundial, but I was pleased with it, though I could have done with a couple of gym sessions to get in shape. I promised myself I'd never smoke again, and I didn't often do that twice in a morning.

I didn't so much take cover in the underbrush, I collided with it. I'd forgotten just how many sharp edges there were in the countryside. Then I felt my sleeve being tugged downwards and my feet swept from under me, and suddenly I was lying next to Werewolf.

‘I thought you were going to walk all over me, yer clumsy shite.'

‘Rubbish. I was coming straight for you,' I panted, misting up the inside of my face visor.

Werewolf had opted for clear plastic goggles, but he had already dispensed with them, tying them to his belt. He had remembered to bring a pair of gloves, unlike me. I'd also forgotten how many nasty stinging things there were in the country.

‘It's a jungle out here,' I said to myself.

‘Now what?' asked Werewolf.

He parted some ferns so we could look back across the Paddock to the changing-rooms, where the next toy soldier had just launched himself towards the Orchard.

‘Can you keep them busy for an hour or so? Make them think there are two of us out here?'

‘No problem. Give us yer gun and ammo.'

I unbuckled my belt. ‘What colour ammo did you draw?'

‘Yellow.'

‘I'm red, so that should give you a fair spread. If Patterson struts his stuff, he'll request a rider from Airborne just before eleven, so if anything is coming through, it should be before eleven-fifteen.'

I took off the stupid visor and placed it behind the conifer.

‘Leave the belt here and head back around eleven-thirty. Okay?'

‘Sure.' Werewolf checked over both pistols. Expertly. No comment.

‘I'm going over there.' I pointed to the field Waters had told us was out of bounds. ‘And circle round to the farm buildings to see what I can see.'

‘If you're caught back there, what do you say?' Werewolf asked with what he thought was an air of innocence.

‘Er ... that I'm a casualty?'

‘Good thinking, man.' He levelled his pistol at me. ‘So I'd better shoot you, hadn't I?'

‘You're starting to enjoy this, you bastard, aren't you?'

 

Let's just say Werewolf shot me in the ‘lower stomach' and leave it there. I know it didn't hurt, the paint pellet hitting and exploding with no more than a mild flick. It was the surprise and indignity of watching the yellow stain spread that made me wince.

I left Werewolf with a withering look and headed for the edge of the road, cutting back deeper into the trees so I couldn't be seen from the farmhouse when I reached the fenced-off field.

The fence was a four-strand barbed-wire job, and beyond it were rows of green plants about four feet high. Ideal cover running all the way to the farmhouse and the road.

Behind me, I heard two more shots. As Cawthorne had said, they were like airguns going off. Then there was a howl of protest, something like ‘Hey, that's not fair!'

I dropped down and crawled to the front of the wood to have a look.

The guy with the hedgehog pullover, the one called Jenkins, was standing in the Paddock about 20 feet from the conifer where Werewolf had been hiding. He had both a yellow and a red stain across his chest and he was turning around with his arms out, appealing for a referee; then he turned and trudged back to the farmhouse for his time penalty.

It's a man's life.

I doubled back and picked a spot to vault the fence, using a post as a grip. I thought I did it quite well until I heard the khaki overalls rip. There was a horizontal tear four inches long just behind my right knee. People paid 60 quid for denims like that in the King's Road.

The field was laid out in strips about two feet apart, and only after pushing into the crop did I realise that the plants were trained up a trellis of almost invisible wires and that I was in a hop field – a ‘beer field', as Duncan would have called it. Perfect cover. So perfect, I had to keep parting the hop bines and leaves to see how close I was to the farmhouse.

As I drew level with the back of the farm, I could see Jenkins remonstrating with Cawthorne and Waters. He was pointing at his chest, which had gone a bright shade of orange. Against the wall of the changing-room extension, Private Boyd leant against the door with her head bowed, trying to control the giggles.

I would never have a better diversion, I thought; then it did get better. Another player came out of the wood and began to jog across the Paddock. Even from this distance, it was clear he'd been hit several times in the chest and there was also red paint all over his visor. Werewolf seemed to be conducting some sort of slaughter out there. It was getting more like a grousemoor by the minute.

While the Exhilarator high command were busy dealing with another unhappy customer, I ruined some more perfectly good hops – I'm probably personally responsible for the rise in the price of a pint – and pushed through to the fence. I came over it below the farmhouse and hugged the side wall, like I've seen them do in the movies, until I could peer round into the farmyard.

Apart from the parked cars, it was deserted. There were two outbuildings across the yard; one looked like a converted barn and the other had at one time styed pigs. I was looking for a 4 x 4 vehicle, and either building could have housed this year's import quota.

I decided to go for the barn, and struck lucky twice in a row. For starters it wasn't locked, and for seconds it was obviously the farm garage.

Lined up, and obviously well serviced, were a small tractor, a ride-on lawn-mower, a small white Citroen AX with French number plates (presumably to impress the odd Frog estate agent) and, at the end of the line, a blue Shogun four-wheel with metallic paint job.

Duncan had guessed right about it being a Shogun, the smaller, two-door version. They were good little motors. I'd even driven one once – a mad, bass guitarist friend of mine, who'd hit the minor big league with a couple of records, had bought three of them to race around the M25 orbital motorway. (He'd also had each one stencilled ‘tora' across the back door, so that in formation on the three-lane motorway they read: ‘Tora! Tora! Tora!')

I went straight to the hood of the Shogun, digging the Olympus out of the front of my overalls and trying to guess if there was enough light in the barn. I need not have worried. The front of the jeep was as clean as if it had just come off the boat from Japan. There was no sign that it had ever had a front cow-catcher roll bar fitted.

I took a couple of pictures anyway, not knowing what possible good they would do, then kicked the Shogun in the driver's door just for the hell of it.

Petty, but pleasurable.

Then I heard the slap-slap-slap of rubber-soled feet coming across the yard and did what any ice-cool undercover dude would do; I went into freeze-frame, rabbit-in-headlight shock. The one thing I didn't have to worry about was losing control of my bodily functions. Thanks to Werewolf, it looked as if I'd done that already.

Instantly, I just
knew
that the barn had closed-circuit TV and kicking a company vehicle was a firing squad offence. Come on,
think.
Barns were supposed to have hay in them – they did in the movies – where the hero could hide while the baddies, with a total disregard for blood poisoning or spread of HIV, jabbed a pitchfork in and out like a demented barman trying to get the last maraschino out of the bottle.

I glanced around. The last time this barn had hay in it, Henry VIII took a tenth part in tax. Henry also had a go at stopping hops being used in good old English ale. Why do I know such stuff? Why did I have to think of it then? Sometimes I worry me. This wasn't a game.

But hang about, it was. What if I was ‘discovered'? I was hiding, working my way round to the Orchard to try for the pennant in there. Okay, so I didn't have my gun. Would they notice? Risk it. Hadn't Cawthorne himself said there were no other rules? Where did it say I couldn't go unarmed if I wanted to? If you're daft enough to pay good money to have paint shot into your crotch, you're daft enough to do anything.