Angel Touch (26 page)

Ahead, on a right-hand bend, was the farm, but it had been a long time since a chicken had shat in that yard.

A discreet wooden sign said: ‘EXHILARATOR ACTION COURSE – APPOINTMENT ONLY – ALL VISITORS REPORT TO HEADQUARTERS.' There was a white wooden-arrow sign below it, pointing to the farmhouse, and that had ‘HQ' stencilled on it in Ministry of Defence style.

I pulled into the farmyard and bounced the BMW over the cobbles to where half a dozen cars were parked in front of the farmhouse, a long, low stone building probably about a century old. Its oak front door was propped open by what looked like a Howitzer shell, and there was another arrow sign saying ‘HQ' hung over it, pointing inside.

I parked the BMW by reversing between a Mercedes and a sleek Volvo 410 until I was pointing directly towards the yard entrance (Rule No 277). Bringing the Bob Marley had been a good idea; there wasn't a cheaper car in the yard, it seemed, except maybe the white Vauxhall Astra with the shirt-button wheels, a car Duncan the Drunken, in a rare lucid moment, had described as a jet-propelled tennis shoe. I bet myself that was Sorley's, as I'd had him pegged as the boy racer type and I was glad the insurance companies were uprating them. Next to it was a red Porsche 944 with a bumper sticker that read: ‘My other car's a Porsche as well.' How gross. That one I wanted to be Cawthorne's.

We dismounted from the BMW and Werewolf slipped on a pair of gold-rimmed shades, which reminded me to put on the plain glass Yuppie specs I'd borrowed from Fly. I thought we both looked pretty good: rich enough to have all the trappings, oiky enough to want to come on an Action Man course. I unloaded our holdalls from the boot. Mine advertised Marlboro; Werewolf's had a discreet gold plate in one corner saying Mappin & Webb. I wondered if Sorrel had missed it yet.

The holdalls contained only towels, shampoo and the ‘action footwear' we'd bought yesterday. Except mine, that is. I'd stuffed an Olympus Trip camera into one of my Reeboks and some spare film into the other. I was using the very fast, 12-shot per roll film that estate agents use to make houses look good in the rain. If you didn't mind a grainy look, you could slam it through any of the while-u-wait colour processing shops and get reasonable black-and-white prints in an hour. Proper black-and-white processing takes weeks these days, unless you have your own darkroom, and sometimes the photokiosks think they've cocked it up when the pictures come out sepia, and so they don't charge.

As I locked the BMW, Werewolf turned slowly through a circle, scanning the farm's outbuildings with his shades. I asked him what was the matter.

‘Just checking for snipers,' he answered, and for a second or two he had me doing it as well.

‘Come on,' I said, jerking my head towards the HQ sign. ‘Let's be careless in there.'

The interior of the farmhouse had been opened out into a reception office, though it still had the original stone floor and a pretty impressive fireplace in the middle of one wall. The effect was somewhat marred, though, in that the fireplace didn't have a grate or anything, but was filled with what I hoped was a model of a two-inch mortar. And then I began to notice that the pictures on the walls were all prints of cavalry regiments, and a hat-stand in a corner wasn't really a hat-stand but another empty shell case with a clutch of regimental flags standing in it.

The desk that was the focus of the room was probably authentic War Office surplus stock. It even had a 1940s bakelite telephone that seemed to work, but the typewriter was state of the art and so, probably, was the young lady behind it.

Werewolf and I presented our suits to her. I wondered if we should salute.

‘Yes, gentlemen?'

‘The name is Maclean. We have a booking for the ten o'clock shoot.'

She consulted a large desk diary.

‘Ah yes. That will be £115, inclusive of VAT. Would you like a receipt?'

‘No,' I said. ‘That won't be necessary.'

I could almost hear Werewolf's eyebrows go up as I counted out the cash. I'd decided to pay cash rather than use the PKB Amex card as that would have given the game away as to why we were there. Paying cash had the added benefit of leaving no record of our visit except a pencilled telephone booking under two untraceable names.

The receptionist took my money and locked it in a drawer of the desk, then stood up. She was taller than me, which isn't saying a lot. Her jet-black hair had been precision-cut into a circular mop, shaved high at the back and fringed at the front, about half an inch above eye level. She wore one-piece khaki overalls buttoned to the throat, complete with epaulettes and button-down breast pockets, the left one of which had a name tag saying ‘Boyd.' It was a good job she wasn't called Ramsbottom or anything like that, as the material wouldn't have stretched far enough.

‘Have you played the Exhilarator before, gentlemen?' she asked.

‘No, not this particular game,' I said quickly, before Werewolf could smart-mouth her. She'd almost certainly heard them all before.

‘We tend not to use the word “game,” sir. Sergeant Waters will be briefing combatants today. There are only six of you this morning. That will be at ten sharp.' She looked at a Swatch watch that she wore upside down on her right wrist. It was a quarter to ten. ‘So you've time to get changed. Please follow me.'

She led us to an unmarked oak door that opened into a short corridor, obviously a modern extension to the farmhouse. We trooped after her, watching the sway of her buttocks through the khaki coveralls.

‘I dig the action footwear,' whispered Werewolf.

So did I. Ms Boyd was wearing bright red trainers that were certainly against regulations for any decent regiment of the line, despite what one hears about the Guards these days.

‘The library,' she said, indicating a door to her left, ‘where the briefing takes place.'

The next door had a universal woman sign on it, which presumably meant the Ladies changing-rooms, then another door had ‘no entry' in military style print and a padlock and hasp.

‘That's the armoury where we stock our equipment,' said Ms Boyd. ‘Weapons issue is immediately after briefing.'

We had reached the last door.

‘And this is the male changing-room.'

Ms Boyd opened the door and took a pace inside.

It was like the changing-rooms of a thousand football clubs, or schools for that matter. Rows of benches with wire baskets underneath for shoes, clothes pegs above, and at the end, a bank of showers and toilet cubicles. Down one wall were full-length metal lockers with keys in their locks on the end of long, thin chains so they looked like dog-tags.

Oh yes, and there were two naked men in the room.

Well, only one was really half naked. He was wearing a long, woolly pullover with hedgehogs all over it; nothing else. His companion was zipping up a pair of the khaki overalls.

The man in just the pullover put his hands on his hips and faced us in all his glory.

‘Really, Sandy, you ought to knock or you never know what you'll find,' he said in a plummy voice.

‘Don't fret, Mr Jenkins, I never let the little things in life bother me,' said Ms Boyd, totally unfazed. ‘Everything's in the lockers,' she said to us, ‘so get changed and come to the library.'

The door closed and she was probably back at her desk before Jenkins moved, having abandoned his search for a good come-back. It was probably as well. He would have been fighting out of his class.

 

The library turned out to be a small lecture room with about 20 hard chairs facing an overhead projector and screen. There were bookshelves along one wall, with titles ranging from John Keegan's
Six Armies in Normandy
and Richard Holmes's
Firing Line
,
which I'd read, to anonymous pulp volumes called
A Social History of the Hand Grenade
or similar, which I'd no intention of reading.

There was a coffee machine and a pile of styrofoam cups, and we helped ourselves.

Dead on 10.00, there were six of us on chairs and ‘Sergeant' Waters standing by the overhead. We were all dressed in the regulation-issue khaki overalls, but Waters had three stripes on his sleeves in case we didn't know what a sergeant was. He also wore metal-frame square glasses because someone had told him he looked tough in them. In fact, they made him look like a schoolboy showing off his Cadet uniform to a schoolgirl who was really more into sending her underwear to Prince or Dave Lee Roth. Or maybe both, if she had spares.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,' he addressed us.

‘Bring back the receptionist,' whispered Werewolf.

‘As we are only six, this morning's shoot will be an exercise in individual pennants,' said Waters, flicking on the projector.

The screen lit up and showed two pennants crudely drawn on the acetate, one yellow and the other red. They looked like they could have been pinched from a golf course.

‘The object of the exercise is to secure one of these pennants and return it to base. For this exercise, home base will be the end of the changing-room block. For those unfamiliar with our operation here, this is the terrain.'

He changed overlays and a schematic map came on the screen. Waters produced a light pointer and began to explain the topography as if conducting a band.

The farm buildings formed three sides of a square in the south-eastern corner of the property, which was bounded to the right by a shaded area. Waters zapped his torch on it.

‘First, you should note this area, which runs the entire depth of the Exhilarator course. This is agricultural land leased to a local farmer and is out of bounds.'

He moved the pointer back to the HQ buildings.

‘Behind us, immediately outside, is what we refer to as the Paddock. It's open grass with not much cover, and it slopes down to the pond and the stream that bisect the two parts of the battle area.'

The stream was marked with a blue line, and what looked like a child's drawing of a ladder lay across it at one point. To either side, the map had crudely-drawn representations of trees.

‘This wooden bridge is the only link between the two wooded zones,' recited Waters. ‘It is the only permitted point of crossing of the stream; please bear that in mind.

‘The wooded zones are known as the Wood –' he waved his light wand – ‘to the north of the stream and, to the south and west of this building, the Orchard. Both are woodland offering good cover and truly exhilarating terrain.'

I exchanged eye contact with Werewolf's shades.

‘The Wood and The Orchard are today's combat zones.'

I wondered what they did at weekends. Invade Surrey?

‘The red and yellow pennants will be placed in the Wood and Orchard in ten-metre-square cleared areas. We do not tell you the location of these areas, nor do we tell you which pennant is in which combat zone. Your individual objective is to secure one of those pennants and return to base first. You will leave this HQ at one-minute intervals, and that is your minute of grace. For those 60 seconds, you are not a legitimate target, nor can you fire your own weapon. Questions?'

The guy in front of me – the hedgehog pullover flasher – put a hand up.

‘Which pennant do we go for? Or doesn't it matter?'

Sergeant Waters slapped his light torch against his thigh. I got the impression he liked doing that.

‘Good question, sir. When you are issued with ammunition pouches immediately after this briefing, you will draw either red or yellow paint shells. Red ammunition aims for red pennant and yellow for yellow. But remember, out there, you have five enemies. Only the first one back wins. There are no other rules. Next question?'

‘What happens when you hit somebody?' asked Werewolf.

Sergeant Waters blinked a couple of times. ‘Most people say “What happens when I'm hit,”‘ he said, then looked around to acknowledge the titters of nervous laughter.

Two guys in front of us turned to look at Werewolf, but he stared them down from behind his dark glasses.

‘If you are hit at all, you retire immediately to HQ for a penalty of five minutes. Myself, Private Boyd or one of the other staff will be here, and it is up to you to register with them. Your five minutes start only when you make yourself known. Understood?'

We all nodded, and there was some general chatter and talk of a ‘sin bin' nobody had expected. I studied the map, which was still on the screen. Behind the HQ building, to the right of what Waters called the Paddock but before you got to the Wood, was a small black circle quite close to the boundary fence. I raised my hand.

‘What's that, between the bottom edge of the wood and the fields?' I asked.

The answer came from behind us, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck go ping.

‘That is an authentic World War II pillbox, built in 1940 under the supervision of a man called Fisher who actually used to own this farm. I would like to say that Pegasus Farm was of vital strategic value to the war effort, but I cannot. The truth is Mr Fisher was a prominent member of the local Home Guard and he managed to persuade whoever it was in charge of building anti-invasion pillboxes that Fisher's Farm was worth defending. It also meant he only had to walk across the Paddock when he went on night duty.'