Although he could remember all manner of phone numbers from his Nan’s before she moved into a home, to the office fax which hadn’t been used in a decade, the one number he couldn’t recall was Helen’s.
It wasn’t just that he only ever called Helen’s mobile from his own, it was also that Helen had lost her phone or changed providers so many times that he couldn’t even begin to guess what it might be. Was there a double seven in there somewhere? He felt sure there was, and of course it would start with a zero, but other than that, he just kept drawing a blank.
Returning the receiver to its cradle, Phil scooped the coins out of the tray and headed back outside into the sunshine. One of the silver-painted mime artists, waved at him robotically, and Phil dug into his trouser pockets for the very same coins he had hoped to use talking to his fiancée, and dropped them into the silver hat at their feet.
Phil stepped through the revolving doors of the hotel into the air-conditioned cool of the lobby. He was boiling in his suit, and his head still ached and all he wanted was to go to bed for a couple of hours but as he came around the corner he walked straight into the boys and his father coming in the opposite direction.
‘Big man!’ bellowed Deano. ‘Where you been?’
‘I . . . er . . . I,’ Phil’s voice trailed off as he noticed that the boys were no longer in their suits but dressed in tracksuits and trainers. ‘What’s with the gear? Are we playing footie or something?’
‘Better than footie mate!’ chipped in Spencer. ‘Paintball.’
‘Paintball?’
Phil looked at Simon. He was lurking at the back next to Patrick and Reuben looking down at the floor but clearly paying attention to what was being said. ‘Is that really what we’re doing, Si?’
Obviously still smarting from their earlier encounter Simon nodded once but didn’t utter a syllable.
‘Mate,’ said Spencer excitedly. ‘We looked up the place at an internet café after we finished breakfast and it looks ace!’
‘He’s not wrong either!’ added Reuben. ‘This place is the business. Loads of different scenarios, a big full-on battle at the end and one hundred paintballs included in the price. It’s like everything you ever wanted back when you were a kid.’
Spencer did a little dance. ‘It’s true, fella,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I can’t wait! It’ll be like Black Hawk Down mashed with Saving Private Ryan . But don’t worry bro’ I’ve got your back! No man left behind!’
Phil thought hard even though Spencer hadn’t actually asked a question. Did he really want to spend a sweltering afternoon in a tracksuit running around some abandoned farm in some unknown location in Amsterdam with the mother of all hangovers? Phil had been paintballing many times and had always hated it on the grounds that, for reasons he could never quite fathom, he somehow managed to get shot in the first five minutes of the game. The thought of adding an unspecified number of assailants (many of whom would be suffering from raging hangovers), to what was already a pretty dangerous game, made him feel ill.
He looked at his dad. ‘You’re not doing it too, are you?’
His father let out an emphysemic chuckle. ‘I’d like to see the man who would be able to stop me!’
‘Fine,’ said Phil, ‘give me five and I’ll be right with you.’
The BattleZone Paintball Centre was everything Phil feared and more. Located on the outskirts of Amsterdam on several acres of wood and farmland, it was staffed by needlessly muscular English-speaking Dutch guys dressed like extras from a Chuck Norris film. There were life-sized posters of soldiers from every major Special Forces unit in the world on the walls in the main reception and painted on its front door were the words: ‘No guts, no glory.’ It was a solitary beacon in what passed for the Dutch countryside to British stag parties city wide to come, shoot and be merry, and could
It wasn’t just that he only ever called Helen’s mobile from his own, it was also that Helen had lost her phone or changed providers so many times that he couldn’t even begin to guess what it might be. Was there a double seven in there somewhere? He felt sure there was, and of course it would start with a zero, but other than that, he just kept drawing a blank.
Returning the receiver to its cradle, Phil scooped the coins out of the tray and headed back outside into the sunshine. One of the silver-painted mime artists, waved at him robotically, and Phil dug into his trouser pockets for the very same coins he had hoped to use talking to his fiancée, and dropped them into the silver hat at their feet.
Phil stepped through the revolving doors of the hotel into the air-conditioned cool of the lobby. He was boiling in his suit, and his head still ached and all he wanted was to go to bed for a couple of hours but as he came around the corner he walked straight into the boys and his father coming in the opposite direction.
‘Big man!’ bellowed Deano. ‘Where you been?’
‘I . . . er . . . I,’ Phil’s voice trailed off as he noticed that the boys were no longer in their suits but dressed in tracksuits and trainers. ‘What’s with the gear? Are we playing footie or something?’
‘Better than footie mate!’ chipped in Spencer. ‘Paintball.’
‘Paintball?’
Phil looked at Simon. He was lurking at the back next to Patrick and Reuben looking down at the floor but clearly paying attention to what was being said. ‘Is that really what we’re doing, Si?’
Obviously still smarting from their earlier encounter Simon nodded once but didn’t utter a syllable.
‘Mate,’ said Spencer excitedly. ‘We looked up the place at an internet café after we finished breakfast and it looks ace!’
‘He’s not wrong either!’ added Reuben. ‘This place is the business. Loads of different scenarios, a big full-on battle at the end and one hundred paintballs included in the price. It’s like everything you ever wanted back when you were a kid.’
Spencer did a little dance. ‘It’s true, fella,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I can’t wait! It’ll be like Black Hawk Down mashed with Saving Private Ryan . But don’t worry bro’ I’ve got your back! No man left behind!’
Phil thought hard even though Spencer hadn’t actually asked a question. Did he really want to spend a sweltering afternoon in a tracksuit running around some abandoned farm in some unknown location in Amsterdam with the mother of all hangovers? Phil had been paintballing many times and had always hated it on the grounds that, for reasons he could never quite fathom, he somehow managed to get shot in the first five minutes of the game. The thought of adding an unspecified number of assailants (many of whom would be suffering from raging hangovers), to what was already a pretty dangerous game, made him feel ill.
He looked at his dad. ‘You’re not doing it too, are you?’
His father let out an emphysemic chuckle. ‘I’d like to see the man who would be able to stop me!’
‘Fine,’ said Phil, ‘give me five and I’ll be right with you.’
The BattleZone Paintball Centre was everything Phil feared and more. Located on the outskirts of Amsterdam on several acres of wood and farmland, it was staffed by needlessly muscular English-speaking Dutch guys dressed like extras from a Chuck Norris film. There were life-sized posters of soldiers from every major Special Forces unit in the world on the walls in the main reception and painted on its front door were the words: ‘No guts, no glory.’ It was a solitary beacon in what passed for the Dutch countryside to British stag parties city wide to come, shoot and be merry, and could
Similar Books
