So, when Sean started paying particular attention to my every failing move, I thought I was finished. It had hardened my resolve not to let him beat me. I’d trained hard, pushed myself up onto a level of fitness I’d never managed to attain since. Because of Sean, or maybe for him, I’d begun to shine.
Perhaps that was what had marked me out as a worthy adversary, a suitable victim, and had ultimately sealed my fate.
***
In unarmed combat that afternoon we went through the drills of dealing with crowds. Two of us walked Blakemore down a line-up of the others. He played the visiting dignitary, smiling and shaking hands. Every now and again someone would try and grab him. When they did we had to deal with the problem, quickly and quietly, and keep him moving along to the next.
I was partnered up with Hofmann and together we slowly paraded Blakemore along the line. I was watching eyes and hands, waiting for the first sign of intent. Then a movement to one side caught my attention and I glanced towards the open doorway.
Gilby was standing there, leaning against the frame observing the class, with O’Neill beside him. As I looked, the Irishman seemed to nod in my direction, and Gilby fixed me with his battlefield stare.
It so unnerved me that I missed Romundstad make a lunge for Blakemore’s arm. With a small snort of irritation, Hofmann had to lean across and yank him away. Annoyed with myself, I concentrated on the job in hand. By the time we reached the end of the line and I looked back at the doorway, it was empty.
When we finished up there and headed for the outdoor range, the afternoon was already starting its toboggan run into evening. The rain had died, but the cold was thin and biting. My bones ached with the memories of old breaks.
As well as the SIGs, this time out O’Neill and Rebanks had also issued us with belted speed-draw holsters. We spent the first hour practising disengaging one from the other without making fools of ourselves. We were dry-firing to lessen the chances of shooting ourselves in the process. Probably a good job, too.
Rebanks then set up targets at only around six metres on the five-lane range. When we were given the command we had to draw and fire three shots. The first from the hip, and the second and third with the arm extended as we backed away from the source of danger.
Everyone was becoming a lot more relaxed around firearms now. As soon as they strapped on a holster, they suddenly became cowboys. There was plenty of swaggering and references to John Wayne. Even the encroaching darkness didn’t diminish the general air of confidence. It was enough to make me nervous.
As if to play on that, the rest of the instructors turned up in time for us to start live firing, so each of the open lanes was supervised. As though they were expecting something to go wrong.
The floodlights were on by this time, creating a pool of light around the firing positions. Our collective breath rose and mingled like smoke into the beams of the lights. Beyond them the trees suddenly seemed very still and very black.
“Keep your wits about you, people,” Rebanks shouted as we prepared for the first shoot. “Mr Lloyd, get your thumb out of your gun belt. You are not Wyatt fucking Earp.”
Declan dropped his hands to his sides, looking shamefaced.
“OK, when I give the signal you will draw and fire one group of three shots only, as you’ve been practising, then you will return your weapon to the holster.” Rebanks favoured us with a hard stare. “Is that clear to everyone? Good, so there’ll be no fuck-ups, then.”
He waved us into position and pulled his ear defenders into place. I checked the SIG was loose and easy in its holster, and waited for the signal to fire, my mouth suddenly dry. Rebanks was taking his time. Why are you dragging this out, man?
Out of the corner of my eye I saw him start to raise his arm, but his eyes weren’t on the targets, or on us. He was looking past me, over towards the small wooden shed that formed the range control centre. I started to turn my head, to see what he was looking it. I never got that far.
The floodlights clicked off, and the whole area was plunged into total darkness.
For a moment I was dumb with the shock of it. I kept my feet still, tried to get my bearings, but after the brightness of the lights, I could see nothing. My eyes had completely shut down in the blackout that followed.
I ripped my ear defenders off. Robbed of sight, I needed my hearing as sharp as I could make it.
“All right, all right,” Rebanks yelled, “don’t anybody panic, let’s just—”
The sound of the gunshots was terrifyingly loud. There were two of them, over to my right. I spun my head away, but the muzzle flash lasered across my retinas, burning in and destroying what little night vision I’d just managed to accrue.
“Who the fuck was that?” Rebanks shouted. “Nobody fires! Cease firing, cease firing!”
Then, as my ears began to put away the assault of the shots, other, quieter sounds came into focus. I heard moaning. My heartrate leapt.
Rebanks produced a torch and came rushing past me. “Who’s hit?” he demanded. “Who’s down?”
Other small lights sprang up across the range as the other instructors clicked on their torches. Next to me, Romundstad had got out his cigarette lighter. The flint sparked twice before it caught, and then I saw his anxious face behind the flickering flame.
The torches converged jerkily on a figure writhing on the ground a few metres away. It was the big Welshman, Craddock, his face contorted. Rebanks was on his knees alongside him. So was O’Neill, burrowing under Craddock’s jacket, yanking his shirt open. In the unsteady shafts of light that jumped onto him there seemed to be blood everywhere.
Rebanks was cursing steadily under his breath. “Somebody get me a first-aid kit here.”
Figgis arrived at a dead run with a canvas pack. He dived into it and ripped open a sterile field dressing.
It was at that point that Rebanks sat back on his heels and looked up at the shocked faces surrounding him.
“OK, Major,” he called, his voice calm, “that’ll do.”
The floodlights snapped back on with a suddenness that made us all blink. For a moment nobody moved, then the realisation slowly began to seep through the layers. We’d been had.
Craddock sat up and grinned at us, mopping the fake blood away from his stomach. “Hellfire, a little of that stuff goes a long way,” he remarked cheerfully as he examined his gore-stained clothing. “I hope it washes out. I was fond of this shirt.”
Figgis clapped him on the shoulder. “Oscar-winning stuff, lad,” he said, “although if you’d really been shot you’d have been screaming like a baby.”
Not necessarily, I thought. The last person I’d had to deal with who’d taken a bullet hadn’t made a sound, even though he’d had to run with it.
Rebanks climbed to his feet. His hands were streaked with what had looked for all the world like real blood. He glanced down at them and grinned too, more a baring of his teeth. “Let that be a lesson to all of you,” he said. “Don’t get cocky around weapons. They don’t suffer fools gladly, and they always have the last word. Just be thankful this was a simulation, not the real thing. OK, back to your positions and let’s go from the top.”
Just as I was about to shift back to my firing lane, Blakemore brushed past me and moved in close on Rebanks, Figgis and O’Neill. He looked the three of them up and down with an expression of distaste on his heavy set face.
When he spoke it was quietly, so that only the few people closest overheard, but I got the impression Blakemore didn’t care who was listening.