PAINTBALL
by
Nathan Hamlett
�All set for tomorrow, girls?�
Davis was staring down at me, a malevolent grin painted across his pitted face. The sleeves of his white Dunhill shirt were rolled at half-mast to reveal a pair of hairy tattooed wrists, sitting on his hips. His groin was level with my face and I caught a whiff of stale urine.
I looked up from my VDU.
�Sure.�
�What about your girlfriend?�
Stephen gave me a withering look from across the desk and then addressed Davis.
�I can barely contain my excitement.�
Davis stood momentarily silent, taken aback by Stephen�s tone.
�Glad to hear it,� he said and swaggered off.
�Remind me why we�re doing this,� Stephen said.
Stephen didn�t understand, or rather he didn�t care for the concept of staying on side or �sucking up�, as he called it. He was a talented broker, nicknamed �Golden Boy� by upper management; and at twenty-four he was already tipped to leapfrog Davis, whose own career had stalled; but, like most naturally gifted people, Stephen couldn�t see what all the fuss was about.
I, on the other hand, was pushing thirty and going to have to work bloody hard and grovel a lot harder to even reach Davis�s level; and if that meant going to some stupid paintball game with the tosser and his pals from the territorial army then so be it.
I knew that Stephen was appalled by what he perceived as my spinelessness, but I was equally appalled by his apparent lack of ambition.
Persuading him to come on the weekend hadn�t been too difficult. Davis had insisted that the weekend was going to be of great professional use to his underlings; we�d sat and listened while he gushed out the usual clich�s about teamwork, assertiveness and forward thinking. But it was really just an opportunity for the office males to discard their Paul Smith suits and Tim Little shoes for a day, without having to look over their shoulders in case the fashion police were in attendance. An opportunity to don the green and khaki of the warrior class, let the stench of BO permeate through ever-present wall of Christian Dior, and play at being real men for a day. I knew that Stephen would not be able to resist such a spectacle.
**********
That evening I stood pinned against the bar in the heaving mass of testosterone and pretentiousness that was �Highlights�, nonchalantly waving a fifty-pound note in the direction of the barmaid, Gaynor.
Gaynor was a twenty-two year old Australian, who made it a point of principle to wear as little as possible no matter what the weather. Today her nipples were trying to carve their way through a bright yellow vest that clung to her pert little breasts and toned stomach before stopping off at her midriff to reveal a sparkling belly-button ring. Her jeans were slung strategically low to exhibit her Calvin Klein hipsters from the back and a tattoo of a sunflower on her left hip from the front. Her flawless face was framed by straight shoulder length blonde hair that contrasted with her dark eyebrows and bronzed skin to make her totally irresistible.
�Yeah mate, what can I get you?� said the barman, who for some reason felt that it was necessary that he also wear a midriff-exposing tight top.
I looked desperately in the direction of Gaynor and then back at the spikey-haired muppet in front of me.
�Four pints of Carling, two Fosters and a JD and coke.�
He stood there with his arms crossed, and pouted at me. I wondered how any self-respecting man could bear to leave the house looking like that.
�Please.� I mumbled.
**********
Davis downed the JD and coke in one and started on his pint. He always ordered a short and a pint when it was someone else�s round as if he was throwing down some sort of booze-drinking gauntlet. Phillips, a wiry administrator from personnel, would occasionally try to keep up for a few rounds before caving in or throwing up; the rest of us had more sense, and just allowed Davis his swagger and perceived superiority, as he banged drink after drink down his neck and became more and more obnoxious.
�The T.A. teaches you to be tough,� he was saying. �You boys might find it hard going tomorrow, but stick with me, you�ll be fine.�
Roy Bailey and Peter Wilkins were both stood there in their Etro striped shirts like a pair of nodding dogs. I was stood there in my Gieves & Hawkes striped shirt nodding right along with them. I caught Stephen out of the corner of my eye, a wry smile across his face.
Four hours later and I was reeling. Our party had set up camp along the bar and I was slumped across it serenading Gaynor. She seemed suitably unimpressed as she went about her business.
�You�re out of your league there, Andrew.� Stephen had appeared from nowhere, and now had his hand on my shoulder.
My tie was half undone, my shirttails were hanging out and I�d forgotten where I�d left my jacket. I looked up at the unruffled six foot two figure beside me. He was like Gaynor: blonde, flawless, beautiful.
�You reckon?� My own voice sounded loud and tinny in my ears.
�She�s already given me her number, mate.�
I felt like he�d just kicked me in the balls.
�Nice one,� I said and raised the warm dregs of my pint into the air. �Here�s to you.�
I looked down at the bottle of lemon J2O in Stephen�s hand.
�Why don�t you have a proper drink?�
�I don�t want to end up in the same state as you, mate.� He said and strolled off towards the gents.
I looked round to see the queer barman stood, arms crossed, looking at me with a smirk on his face.
�What the fuck are you looking at?� I said.
Gaynor came walking over.
�Could you please not speak to staff like that and could you please ask your friends to keep it down a bit.� She said, her accent suddenly grating.
Davis and his lackeys were singing the �Lager, Lager, Lager� section, from �Born Slippy� by Underworld. I walked over, put an arm around Phillips, and joined in.
**********
I was still well over the limit as I pulled my Lotus Esprit into the car park of Epping Extreme Paint Ball Gamesthe next morning.
Phillips and two other guys from personnel were stood by his BMW. They were all in Tommy Hilfiger jogging bottoms and bubble coats, their breath drawing shapes in the cold air as they chatted together. I walked over.
�Andrew, how are you feeling?� Phillips said in a tone that made me suspicious.
�Like my head�s going to explode.� I said, lighting up a Marlboro.
Phillips introduced his two companions. I didn�t catch their names but I noticed that they were both sporting heavily gelled hair and Cerruti 1881 aftershave; thankfully I had worn Joop For Men today.
There was a crunch of gravel as Stephen�s MG spun into the car park, red gravel leaping up to speckle the yellow paintwork, as he nestled it into the space next to mine. He hopped from the car and bounded over. He was wearing plain mustard-coloured combat trousers and a white long-sleeved sweater with a Nirvana t-shirt over the top. A Marlboro Light hung casually from the corner of his mouth.
�Hi lads,� he said, running a hand through his untended hair.
I avoided making eye contact with Stephen as Phillips introduced his two friends to him.
�Why are you all standing in the cold?� he said and started over towards the clubhouse. We trudged on behind him.
**********
There was a bar in the clubhouse, and Davis and six of his T.A. pals were sat at a table in full army-style combat gear, drinking pints of lager; Davis was foregoing his JD chasers for now.
I went to the bar and ordered a strong black coffee. Stephen joined me.
�So how did it go with Gaynor?� I said casually.
�I just took her home last night. I�m seeing her again later.�
�Did you shag her?�
I wasn�t looking at him but I could sense him tense up next to me.
�No� Look, I really like her�� he began.
�Yeah, well, she�s pretty tasty.� I said.
He didn�t say anything. I paid for my coffee and joined the others.
The table was swathed in a cloud of smoke, and Davis was holding court.
�The first rule of combat is watch your back.� The last three words of this erudite sentence were punctuated for emphasis. �Ain�t that right Andy? Andy fought in the Gulf didn�t you Andy?�
Andy was a giant no-necked tank of a man with a face that looked like it had been used as a battering ram.
�Too fookin� right,� he said through his smashed nose. �Out there it weren�t the towel-heads we had to worry about, it were the fookin� Yanks. Friendly fookin� fire they call it; there ain�t nothing fookin� friendly about it, I can tell you.�
Phillips laughed; Andy, Davis and the rest of the Territorial Army looked at him as if he was mad.
�There�s nowt funny about war,� Andy snorted.
�When we�re out there, keep this engaged,� Davis said, tapping the side of his head sagely.
Stephen was grinning to himself.
We spent another hour in the clubhouse bar listening to the wisdom of Andy and Davis and various tales from the vaults of T.A. folklore. I drank four cups of coffee and excused myself twice to go and throw-up in the gents, before the rest of our party had arrived and we made our way to the �barracks� to be kitted out.
**********
The sound of clicks and bangs filled the air as the T.A. boys fastened their ammo to their belts, gaffer taped knifes to their boots and relentlessly slammed the cartridges of their weapons as if they were in a war movie. One guy was actually wearing a bandana and chewing on an over-sized cigar whilst he peered assiduously down the barrel of his �gun�.
The rest of us civilians tentatively pawed at our paint ball guns, and nervously looked on at the T.A. boys. We�d all been given army combat jackets of various sizes and mine hung off me like a old sack, making me feel like a little kid wearing his mum�s coat.
�You all know what to do,� Davis was saying. �Capture the enemy�s flag and return it to your base. Piece of piss.�
�How about T.A. versus civvies? You�ll be with us Geoff,� Andy said to Davis.
�That�s seven v seven. Sounds fair enough.� Davis said, tossing a bunch of red armbands at Phillips.
It didn�t sound fair enough to me as I looked over at the T.A. boys smearing globs of black grease over their faces while, across the room, Bailey and Wilkins applied heavy-duty gel to their hair.
**********
Outside my hands were purple with cold and sloppy great drops of rain were slapping down on my face as the head official stood barking at us.
�Armbands must not be removed. Eye protectors must not be removed. Flags must not be removed or hidden by defending soldiers. You will be disqualified if you disobey these rules. In case of an emergency shout �freeze� and wait for an official to arrive. Any questions? Good. Fall out.�
Davis, Andy and their band of brothers charged off into the woods, whilst the rest of us looked round at each other.
�The referee will show you to your base, Red Team.� The official said, and marched off.
The �base� was a two-storey wooden shack, deep in the undergrowth. A flight of rickety stairs led up to an even more rickety balcony that ran around the flag room.
In the downstairs room we huddled around a little table, waving our communal cigarette smoke away from the map as we tried to work out where the hell we were.
�We should have a couple of look-out guys upstairs so we can keep all the angles covered, and a couple downstairs. Yeah?� Stephen said. We all nodded.
�And the other three go and get their flag.� Phillips added helpfully.
�Who wants to go?� Stephen asked.
There was silence then I said, �I�ll do it.�
Stephen looked across at me.
�I�ll join you,� he said.
There was another long silence and then one of the personnel guys, James, volunteered.
�Let�s bust those mo-fos,� he added. Stephen and I exchanged a look.
Phillips had brought a quarter bottle of brandy along, and we sat passing it round and pulling on Marlboros in an attempt to infuse some warmth into our bodies.
After fifteen minutes a hooter announced the start of play, and the three of us dashed out into the woods. The rain was falling heavily now, drumming against the leaves, as we made our way through the undergrowth.
�Why don�t we just use the path?� the personnel guy asked.
Stephen glanced at me.
�Because we�re out in the open down there,� he replied.
The personnel guy was swearing and grousing as his Nike trainers were systematically destroyed by the mud and thorns; and although my feet were sliding about inside a pair of borrowed boots that were a couple of sizes too big for me, I was quite literally grateful not to be in his shoes, as we struggled to keep up with Stephen.
Suddenly Stephen�s hand was in the air. We crouched down behind him and he pointed ahead to where Davis, Andy and three others were tacitly charging along the mud-sodden path, their faces set in grim determination.
�Let�s take them,� said Personnel Man.
�Are you joking? They�ll eat us alive,� I spat out.
�Andrew�s right,� Stephen said. �Our job is to get the flag. Let the others defend. We can take advantage of them only having two men at their base.�
We waited for them to disappear and then followed the path in the direction of their base. After about five minutes Stephen pulled up and took out the map.
�We ought to have hit their base by now,� he said.
�Oh great,� said the personnel guy.
�It looks like there�s a bit of a clearing up ahead. Look, you two take cover and I�ll go and see if I can get our bearings.� With that Stephen took off along the path.
�There�s no way I�m going back up in those fucking thickets. Look at my trainers; they�re ruined,� said the personnel man, pushing a Marlboro into his mouth.
I started to walk up into the thickets.
�Oh fuck.� I heard him shout, and turned round to see him stood with one side of his body covered in bright yellow paint. Some of Davis�s team must have doubled back to attack us from behind.
I heard a couple of dull shots and two more balls of paint spread across his chest, splashing up into his face and covering his goggles.
�Hit the deck, soldier; dead men don�t stand up,� someone shouted.
More shots rained down on him as he lowered himself into the mud with as much grace as he could muster.
I threw myself into the bushes; thorny leaves rasped at my cheeks as I crawled through the mud. Then I got to my feet and started to run blindly through the thicket, until I reached a clearing.
I pulled up, wheezing steamy breath into the bitter air. Somewhere Davis was barking orders the same way he did at work, his voice echoing around the forest.
I turned around and cocked my paint-gun, ready to have them when they emerged from the undergrowth.
Suddenly a sharp stinging pain spread across my back. I turned around to see Bandana Man twenty feet away, cigar clenched between his teeth and a gun raised in each hand. He released another paintball into my chest, winding me. As I stood stunned and gasping for breath, my back was hit three more times sending me face down into the mud.
I lay there for about half a minute, catching my breath and spitting lumps of mud out of my mouth. I could hear them laughing, and rolled over to see Davis, Andy and Bandana Man standing over me. As Davis reached down and pulled me off the ground I noticed that they had all removed their armbands.
I recognized the nauseating tone of Davis�s phone, and he pulled it out from the pocket of his combat jacket. Andy smiled at me dangerously and tapped the side of his nose. Davis snapped the phone shut and turned to the others.
�That flash cunt has got our flag.�
His face carried a look that I had seen a couple of times before, when big deals had been fucked up at work or somebody had dared to question him; it was ugly, ruthless.
He turned on his heel and disappeared into the bushes followed by the other two.
My hands were brittle with cold and my lungs felt as though they were on fire, but I had to smile; Golden Boy had landed on his feet again. This was really going to hurt Davis.
Pain was nagging through every fibre of my body, as I trudged back towards our base. Then I heard Davis�s voice saying:
�Here comes the cock-sucker�.
I looked down to see Stephen running along the path, the enemy�s yellow flag strapped across his back, billowing out behind him in the wind. Davis and his crew were in front of me, hidden from the road. None of them took aim as he approached them.
There was a sick feeling in my gut, a no-man�s land between repellence and fixation. I couldn�t shout out and warn him because I was officially dead; and that thought was very reassuring.
When they leapt out of the bushes, the butt of Davis�s paint-gun slammed into Stephen�s ribs and then flicked up into his face, knocking his goggles off into the mud. As he hit the ground Andy�s boot connected with his groin, and he lay there groaning while they pumped a few rounds of paint into his prostrate body.
Davis used the sole of his boot to roll Stephen over onto his back. I could see a large gash on Stephen�s forehead, where Davis had struck him.
�All right lads. I surrender. You win.� Stephen was trying to laugh as he pushed himself up onto his elbows.
�No prisoners in war, soldier,� Davis said. �Surrender is the act of a coward. You don�t want your mummy to know you�re a coward do you, soldier?�
Davis brought the sole of his boot up into Stephen�s chest and pushed him back onto the ground.
�What are you playing at, Davis?� Stephen said.
Davis had his boot on Stephen�s neck, pinning the back of his head to the ground.
�Unlucky, my son,� he said and pointed his paint-gun at Stephen�s face.
�Davis wait. Freeze. Freeze.� There was desperation in Stephen�s voice now, real panic.
I turned and walked away towards the clubhouse.
**********
The rest of my team was already sat in the bar when I arrived.
�They got the flag; took us by surprise,� Phillips said nonchalantly, and offered me a cigarette.
I sat down and reached into the packet, but my fingers were numb with cold and my hands were shaking uncontrollably. Phillips slipped a cigarette out of the carton, popped it into my mouth and lit it for me.
�What happened to Stephen?� he asked.
�Dunno. He went off and we never saw him again,� I said, nodding in the direction of James, for affirmation.
�Well he won�t stand a chance on his own,� said Bailey.
�Those guys are fucking animals,� said Wilkins.
I sat back in my chair and listened to the others talking a load of old shit about various supermodels they wanted to shag.
My eyes were on the window the whole time, until I finally saw them; first a bright yellow mass in the distance, effulgent against the rain; then Stephen�s limp figure, feet half stumbling, half dragging against the mud, as Davis and Andy effortlessly propped him up between them; Bandana Man sauntered behind them, billows of smoke pumping from the cigar in his mouth.
�Fuck.� Bailey and Wilkins both leapt to their feet, and made for the window.
The others followed them over, and then made their way outside.
I slowly got up and followed.
Outside, Davis was speaking to the head official.
�There was a bit of an accident,� he was saying.
We all stood dumbly around Stephen, who was laid out on the floor, shivering. Blood and paint had congealed to form an amber mask that now encrusted the whole of his face. Thick cracks ran along the brow and cheeks, and his hair stood on end, cartoon-like, matted with paint and flecked with blood giving him the appearance of a grotesque old clown.
I removed my combat jacket and draped it gently over him. His eyes were swollen and lachrymose, a pair of blind slits, but he knew that it was me leaning over him. His lips started to move like a couple of scarlet balloons, distended to bursting point, but no sound escaped. I leaned my ear closer to his mouth.
�I can�t see Gaynor looking like this, man. Would you go to the pub and tell her I can�t meet her tonight?� he said.
�Sure,� I replied.
**********
The T.A. boys were already laughing and joking by the time the ambulance arrived, but the rest of us stood in silence as Stephen was gently put in the back and taken away.
Davis was stood apart from his T.A. buddies, and us, his eyes fixed on Stephen the whole time. When the ambulance left, he turned round and met my gaze with cold black eyes. I broke the gaze, pretending that I hadn�t seen him, and then heard his strident tones as he joined in the celebrations with his T.A. friends.
Stephen phoned in his resignation the following week, and we never saw him again. The last thing I heard, he was working for one of the big German banks. Phillips reckons that he is in middle management now and tipped for the top, but I reckon that�s a load of crap.
We retired to the clubhouse bar to round off the day�s events, and by the time I left I was too shit-faced to be bothered about passing on Stephen�s message to Gaynor; she�d get the message when he didn�t turn up.
As I pulled out of my parking space, the wheels of my Lotus sent pellets of red gravel into the air splattering the bonnet of Stephen�s MG; I knew that there was a reason why I drove a black car, I thought to myself as I cranked the volume of my stereo up to full and bolted out onto the road.
� Nathan Hamlett
Reproduced with permission
