Stephen Leather: The Long shot

“Cool,” said Preston. As he walked over to the computerised console which controlled the lighting system, two men arrived carrying nylon holdalls. They were both in their late twenties, well groomed and tanned as if just back from a Mediterranean holiday. One of them dropped his holdall on the floor.

“You in charge?” he called over to Cramer.

“Sure am,” answered Cramer. “Which team are you?”

“We’re the Bayswater Blasters. Is the other side here yet?”

“You’re the first,” said Cramer. “You’re due to start at nine-thirty, right?”

Five more young men arrived, all dressed casually in jeans and sweatshirts. “They here, Simon?” one of them shouted.

“No, you sure they said they’re still on?” the man in glasses replied.

“Sure. I spoke to their captain on Wednesday.”

“Why don’t you get changed while you’re waiting?” Cramer suggested. “Have you guys played here before?”

They all shook their heads so Cramer showed them where the changing room was and gave them photocopied maps of the arena. When they reappeared ten minutes later there was still no sign of their opponents. Cramer watched them as they waited by the main entrance. They were wearing camouflage outfits and military-style boots and carrying futuristic paintball helmets and facemasks. They were all equipped with neck protectors, padded gloves and special vests to hold extra paintballs and had clearly spent a lot of money on their gear. Their weapons were also expensive. Their leader, the one called Simon, was carrying a Tippmann Pneumatics 68 Special semi-automatic which had been fitted with a twenty-ounce carbon dioxide constant-air cylinder and a large capacity bulk loader which would hold up to two hundred rounds. It would pack a punch, Cramer knew, and the TASO red dot sight meant it would be accurate, too, though he also knew from experience that most players who used semi-automatics just kept firing blindly until they hit something, relying on brute force rather than skill. The ‘spray and pray’ method.

Cramer looked at his watch. It was nine-forty. He went over to Simon and asked him if they wanted to start.

“Our opponents still aren’t here,” he said.

“You’ve booked it for the next two hours whether they come or not,” said Cramer.

“Yeah, but there’s no point without someone to fight, is there?”

“You could divide into two teams.”

Simon gave Cramer a withering look. “You can count, right? There are seven of us.”

Cramer raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, okay, I just didn’t want you to waste your money, that’s all.”

Preston walked over, doing his impersonation of a Brooklyn pimp. “They ready?” he asked.

“No, we’re not ready,” snapped Simon.

Cramer explained that the opposition hadn’t turned up.

“Bummer,” said Preston.

Simon looked at his watch, a rugged stainless steel diving model, and made tut-tutting noises. Preston tugged at the peak of his baseball cap. “You could split into two teams,” he suggested. He nodded at Cramer. “Mike here could give you a game, that’d make it four a side.”

Simon narrowed his eyes. “We’re a team,” he said slowly as if addressing an imbecile. “We train together, we have a system, we can’t just divide into two and expect to function. It just won’t work.”

“I’ll take you on,” said Cramer, quietly.

“What do you mean?” said Simon.

“I mean I’ll give you a game. I’ll take you all on.”

Several of the men laughed. Simon looked Cramer up and down. The man in front of him was in his late thirties, a little over six feet and wiry rather than muscled, and looked as if he might be able to handle himself in a fight. But his deep-set eyes were watery and reddened, the cheeks crisscrossed with the broken veins of a heavy drinker and there was a strong smell of whisky about him that wasn’t masked by the mint-flavoured gum he was chewing. Simon shook his head. “What? You against the seven of us? I don’t think so,” he said.

“Come on, Simon, give the guy a chance,” shouted one of his team-mates.

“I tell you what,” said Cramer, “I’ll show you a new game. No enemy flags to capture, no teams. You go where you want to go, I’ll come in and get you. I call it Hide and Kill.”

“You against the seven of us?” Simon repeated.

“What, you don’t think that’s fair?” said Cramer. “How about if I tie one arm behind my back?”

Several of the team began laughing and Simon’s cheeks reddened. “Okay, you’re on,” he said. “I tell you what, why don’t we make it a bit more interesting? Why don’t we have a bet on the side?”

Cramer chewed his gum and looked at the younger man. “How much were you thinking of?”

Simon shrugged. “How does fifty pounds sound?”

“Sounds fine to me.”

Simon nodded. “Okay, so what are the rules?”

“No rules, no umpires. Everything is allowed.”

“Headshots?”

“Headshots, physical contact, whatever.”

Simon smiled. “Okay, Mr Cramer, you have yourself a game.”

“Why don’t you guys study the maps while I change,” said Cramer, as he turned to go back to the office. Preston followed him. He closed the door behind them and leant with his back against it.

“Jesus, Mike, have you got fifty pounds?”

Cramer opened his locker and pulled out a pair of paint-splattered blue overalls. “No,” he said. He pulled on the overalls and took a pair of plastic goggles from the top shelf.

“Do you wanna borrow my helmet?”

“No.”

“Aw, come on, Mike. Their semi-automatics pack a real wallop, and you’ve told them that they can go for headshots.”

Cramer went over to his desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. He took a couple of swigs from the bottle of Famous Grouse and put it back. There was no point in offering any to Preston, he drank only imported American beers. At the back of the drawer was his paintgun, an old single-shot Splatmaster. He took it out.

“You have got to be joking,” said Preston, banging the back of his head against the door. “At least use one of my guns.”

Cramer zipped up his overalls and slid the goggles on. He checked the bolt action of the gun and that it had a full twelve-gram carbon dioxide cartridge. “This’ll do just fine, Charlie.”

Preston opened the door for him and they walked together back to the Bayswater Blasters who were fastening their gloves and neck protectors.

“Ready?” asked Cramer.

Simon raised his eyebrows when he saw Cramer’s gun. “You’re going to use that?” he said. He lifted his own gun, with its skeleton stock and laser sight. “Against these?”

Cramer winked. “Wanna raise the bet?”

Simon shook his head in amazement. “We’re ready.”

“Okay, there are four floors above here, you go up and pick your positions. I’ll give you two minutes.”

Simon put the helmet on and slipped the goggles down so that his whole head was covered. He turned to his team and signalled for them to move out. Cramer sighted down his gun at the back of the man’s head and tightened his finger on the trigger. “Bang,” he said, quietly.

“What lighting system do you want?” Preston asked him.

“Bare minimum,” said Cramer. “Just enough so they don’t fall and hurt themselves. And use the red lights, it’ll screw up their laser sights.”

Preston smiled. “Be gentle with them, Mike.”

Cramer stood at the bottom of the stairwell and waited a full ten minutes before moving up to the first level. The stairs opened out into a large bare room off which led three doorways. Once he was satisfied that the room was clear he stood with his back against a wall for another five minutes, waiting for his eyes to get used to the gloom. There was no point in rushing. He wanted them to be over-eager because that way they’d be careless. He heard a footfall from somewhere above him and muffled voices. Cramer smiled. They had no patience, these game-players. Amateurs. He began to clear the first level, moving silently from room to room, his gun at the ready. There were twelve rooms on the first floor, linked by doorways but no doors. Several had furniture in, old tables and sofas, armchairs with the stuffing oozing from torn leather like purulent wounds.