Stephen Leather - The Double Tap

Allan grinned, showing a small gap between his top two front teeth. ‘Mike, we’ve only just started,’ he said, patting him on the back. His huge hand felt like a shovel between Cramer’s shoulders. ‘Train Hard, Fight Easy, that’s the Training Wing’s motto.’

Allan asked Cramer to fire another clip into a second target and this time he managed to get all thirteen shots within the bullseye. Allan nodded his approval. ‘Better,’ he said. ‘You always use the double tap?’

‘Pretty much.’

Allan took the Browning from Cramer and removed the clip. ‘We’ve started teaching our recruits sustained firepower as part of our close quarter battle training. Let’s see you empty the clip as quickly as possible.’

‘Into one target?’

‘Sure. You never know whether the terrorist has a remote control on him or a hidden weapon. Two shots might not be enough to take him out instantly.’

Cramer raised an eyebrow. ‘You reckon? I’ve never had a problem.’

‘I’ve seen a guy try to crawl away with two slugs in his chest. More than enough time to detonate a bomb.’ He loaded another clip into the Browning and handed it back. ‘This time, grip tighter with your left hand and relax your right. That’ll help control the recoil and allow your trigger finger to be more flexible.’

Cramer took the gun, frowning. ‘You know what I’m going up against, right?’

Allan nodded. ‘Sure. Bear with me, Mike, we’ll get there eventually.’ Cramer stood in front of the middle target as Allan took a stopwatch out of his back pocket. ‘When you’re ready,’ he said.

Cramer steadied his breathing, steadied his arm, and fired thirteen times, pulling the trigger as fast as he could. When he finished, his trigger finger was aching and his wrist felt as if it had been broken. He ejected the clip and looked at Allan.

‘Five point two seconds,’ said Allan.

Cramer waved his right hand, trying to restore the circulation to his trigger finger. ‘Is that good?’

Allan shrugged. ‘With practice, you should get down to below three seconds.’

‘I don’t see the point.’

‘The point? You’re going to have a guy coming at you, eight, maybe nine feet away from you with a loaded gun in his hand. His adrenalin’s going to be up, he’s going to be moving towards you, you’re going to have to pull out your weapon, aim and fire in one, maybe two, seconds. With the best will in the world your aim is going to be all over the place. One shot might not cut it. Even two. You’re going to have to keep firing until the guy’s dead to have any hope of beating the clock.’

Cramer smiled thinly. In the old days SAS troopers who died in action were listed on plaques on the Regimental Clock Tower. When the SAS barracks and headquarters were rebuilt in 1984, the plaques were moved to outside the Regimental Chapel, but beating the clock still meant staying alive. Cramer realised that Allan wasn’t aware of the irony of his statement — that Cramer stood absolutely no chance of beating the clock.

Allan walked up to the target. ‘Your accuracy went to pot. Look at this.’

Cramer joined him by the cardboard target. He was right. One of the shots had hit the target in the head, and while most were still in the heart area, there was a much bigger spread than before. ‘Yeah, I see what you mean,’ Cramer said. At least three of the shots weren’t stoppers. ‘So we’re going to keep practising, right?’

Allan shook his head. ‘You’ll be practising, I’ll be watching.’

Cramer went back to the table and picked up a fresh clip. On the floor there stood a stack of boxes containing fresh rounds. Hundreds and hundreds of rounds.

Davie Quinn carried the tray of drinks over to the table and put it down in front of his brother. He handed one of the pints of Harp lager to Paulie and placed the glasses in front of the two bleached blondes. They’d been drinking with the girls for the best part of a couple of hours and Davie was having trouble remembering their names. ‘And Malibu and pineapple juice for the ladies,’ he said, sliding the tray behind his chair with a flourish.

‘Thanks,’ said the taller of the two blondes, a typist who Davie seemed to remember was called Noreen. Her friend, he was reasonably sure, was Laura, and she was unemployed, like most of the girls Davie knew. Davie and Paulie had met the girls three pubs ago, and they’d been happy to tag along with the brothers, so long as they didn’t have to buy their own drinks. The girls were pretty enough and good fun, and it looked as if they’d be happy to go the whole way. Laura certainly was, she’d allowed Davie to put his hand halfway up her skirt and once, when Noreen had gone to the Ladies and Paulie was at the bar buying another round of drinks, she’d stuck her tongue in his mouth and damn near suffocated him. She gave him a beaming smile and raised her glass to her lips. Davie winked at Paulie, encouraging him to try to enjoy himself.

Davie had taken his brother out in an attempt to cheer him up. They’d walked for the best part of four hours before hitching a ride with a delivery van which was heading for Belfast. They were cold, wet and miserable and the driver had taken pity on them, offering to share his flask of chicken soup. The man had been curious as to why they were hitching without any bags and Davie had spun him a story about having a row with their girlfriends, adding that the girls had dumped them outside a country pub and taken the car. The man had laughed uproariously at that, showing a mouthful of nicotine-stained teeth.

They’d waited in until early evening, but Pat O’Riordan hadn’t got in contact. Davie decided there was nothing to be gained by staying at home so he’d persuaded his younger brother to go out for a drink. Just a quick one, that had been the original plan, but then they’d met the girls.

Paulie was nursing his lager, his head down as if in prayer. Davie decided that Paulie had had enough to drink and that it would soon be time to call it a night. Laura put down her glass. There was a greasy smear of lipstick around the rim that matched the colour of her fingernails. Davie couldn’t take his eyes off the nails, they were the longest he’d ever seen and he kept imagining how they’d feel scraping along his back. ‘You ready to go soon?’ asked Laura, brushing her long, blonde hair behind her ears.

‘Go where?’ asked Davie.

‘My parents are down South. Visiting my uncle in Cork.’

‘Really?’ Davie couldn’t believe his luck.

‘Yeah, they won’t be back until tomorrow night.’ Her leg pressed against his under the table.

Davie sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whichever saint was watching over him that night. ‘Come on, Paulie, drink up,’ he said.

Paulie didn’t look up. ‘He’s pissed, bless him,’ said Noreen.

A can rattled by Davie’s ear and he looked around. A teenager with red hair and a straggly moustache was holding the can and he pushed it forward, almost under Davie’s nose. ‘For the Cause,’ he said. Davie shoved his hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a fifty pence piece. He dropped it into the can and the teenager waved it in front of Paulie. Paulie struggled to focus on it. ‘For the Cause,’ the teenager repeated.

‘Fuck off, we’ve done our bit for the Cause today,’ said Paulie.

The teenager rattled the can again. There was a paper tricolour on it, orange, white and green, and the letters IRA stencilled on it with black ink.

‘I said fuck off. We already gave.’ Paulie sat up, his eyes bloodshot and watery. ‘We almost died for the Cause today, we almost fucking died.’

Realising he wasn’t going to get a donation from Paulie, the teenager moved to another table. A thin man in his early twenties, wearing faded jeans and a black leather motorcycle jacket, dropped several coins into the can without looking up. ‘What do you mean, you almost died?’ asked Noreen, her curiosity piqued.