Cramer hit the light switches and the fluorescent lights above the practice area flickered into life. “Okay, can you check the arena lights program? We’re going to use number six, we were having trouble with the searchlight on number five yesterday so I want to see if it’s the programming or the light that’s not right.”

“Cool,” said Preston. As he walked over to the computerised console which controlled the lighting system, two men arrived carrying nylon holdalls. They were both in their late twenties, well groomed and tanned as if just back from a Mediterranean holiday. One of them dropped his holdall on the floor.

“You in charge?” he called over to Cramer.

“Sure am,” answered Cramer. “Which team are you?”

“We’re the Bayswater Blasters. Is the other side here yet?”

“You’re the first,” said Cramer. “You’re due to start at nine-thirty, right?”

Five more young men arrived, all dressed casually in jeans and sweatshirts. “They here, Simon?” one of them shouted.

“No, you sure they said they’re still on?” the man in glasses replied.

“Sure. I spoke to their captain on Wednesday.”

“Why don’t you get changed while you’re waiting?” Cramer suggested. “Have you guys played here before?”

They all shook their heads so Cramer showed them where the changing room was and gave them photocopied maps of the arena. When they reappeared ten minutes later there was still no sign of their opponents. Cramer watched them as they waited by the main entrance. They were wearing camouflage outfits and military-style boots and carrying futuristic paintball helmets and facemasks. They were all equipped with neck protectors, padded gloves and special vests to hold extra paintballs and had clearly spent a lot of money on their gear. Their weapons were also expensive. Their leader, the one called Simon, was carrying a Tippmann Pneumatics 68 Special semi-automatic which had been fitted with a twenty-ounce carbon dioxide constant-air cylinder and a large capacity bulk loader which would hold up to two hundred rounds. It would pack a punch, Cramer knew, and the TASO red dot sight meant it would be accurate, too, though he also knew from experience that most players who used semi-automatics just kept firing blindly until they hit something, relying on brute force rather than skill. The ‘spray and pray’ method.

Cramer looked at his watch. It was nine-forty. He went over to Simon and asked him if they wanted to start.

“Our opponents still aren’t here,” he said.

“You’ve booked it for the next two hours whether they come or not,” said Cramer.

“Yeah, but there’s no point without someone to fight, is there?”

“You could divide into two teams.”

Simon gave Cramer a withering look. “You can count, right? There are seven of us.”

Cramer raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, okay, I just didn’t want you to waste your money, that’s all.”

Preston walked over, doing his impersonation of a Brooklyn pimp. “They ready?” he asked.

“No, we’re not ready,” snapped Simon.