The Network - Jason Elliot [50]
H shouts, ‘Moving now!’ and I aim the Browning. It leaps five times. Beyond the foresight, puffs of chalk burst from the quarry face. Then I hear H’s shout from behind me.
‘Move! Move! Move!’
I sprint away from the car, cowering instinctively as I see the muzzle flash erupting from H’s pistol ahead of me to the left. An uncomfortable feeling. A watery dip in the ground appears ahead of me and I fling myself into it, bring the weapon up and fire another five rounds in the direction of the car. Its blue shape seems to be floating pointlessly against the light wall of stone beyond, and I think for a moment of how much it resembles a beached whale.
Then I hear H shout again and run another fifteen yards as he covers me a second time. I dive and fire as H sprints to our final position, then hear the click of the firing pin as the weapon seems to die in my hands. I make the final sprint to the ridge of rubble. He has both hands on his weapon as I dive in beside him and slither round to face our imaginary enemies at the far end of the quarry.
H ducks below the rim of the ridge and rolls onto his back to check his pistol. The air reeks of cordite and there’s a high-pitched ringing in my ears, which resounds at every heartbeat.
‘Alright?’ asks H.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Right, make safe.’
I check and pocket the pistol. Then we stand up and look towards the quarry face. The place seems strangely still after all the noise and movement. H’s eyes are fixed firmly on his car.
‘I’m glad I wasn’t stuck in there,’ he says quietly.
‘We certainly got out alright,’ I say, thinking he’s referring to our escape from fictional bandits. I haven’t felt such exhilaration for years and have a strong urge to laugh out loud. The low gruff tone of H’s voice brings me back.
‘It’s not that,’ he says, still looking intently in the direction of his beloved Range Rover. I follow his gaze. The car looks perfectly intact, only the normally transparent rectangles of window have turned a different colour, as if painted in the same chalky rainwater that’s splashed all over our clothes and faces. Then I understand what he’s staring at, and feel myself biting my lower lip.
‘You arse,’ he says grimly. ‘You just shot my bloody windows out.’
It’s our final week of training. It changes pace and lasts longer. At dawn every day we drive to different deserted places for further shooting practice. The time I’m allowed to aim and fire decreases at each session. Then when H is satisfied that I’m shooting accurately enough, he gets me to sprint thirty yards to the firing position, which makes steadying the pistol more difficult. He wants the weapon to become an extension of my hand, he explains. He shows me a quick-draw technique and lets me keep the Browning in the spare room to practise. I need to be able to draw and fire in my sleep, he says.
Rain or shine, we run everywhere. Sometimes H sets the pace, his rhythm as steady as a mountaineer’s and indifferent to gradient or temperature, and at others he lets me lead, muttering encouragement when the going gets more challenging. He drags me up the cruel slope of Hay Bluff, and we run to the far end of the long plateau called the Cat’s Back, and then along the neighbouring plateau towards Lord Hereford’s Knob. We tackle the lung-searing flanks of Pen-y-Fan and Cribyn in freezing rain. He pushes me beyond my habitual reach but just short of despair.
In the afternoons we work on personal security issues relating to journeys: assessing threats and risks, keeping in touch and keeping to plans, access and escape, emergency routines, and the importance of pre-established safe havens and RV points. We talk through trusted methods of anti-surveillance when on foot: crossing open spaces, doubling back on a pretext and using a friend to observe one’s movements from afar.
On self-defence,