Cramer went over to his desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. He took a couple of swigs from the bottle of Famous Grouse and put it back. There was no point in offering any to Preston, he drank only imported American beers. At the back of the drawer was his paintgun, an old single-shot Splatmaster. He took it out.

“You have got to be joking,” said Preston, banging the back of his head against the door. “At least use one of my guns.”

Cramer zipped up his overalls and slid the goggles on. He checked the bolt action of the gun and that it had a full twelve-gram carbon dioxide cartridge. “This’ll do just fine, Charlie.”

Preston opened the door for him and they walked together back to the Bayswater Blasters who were fastening their gloves and neck protectors.

“Ready?” asked Cramer.

Simon raised his eyebrows when he saw Cramer’s gun. “You’re going to use that?” he said. He lifted his own gun, with its skeleton stock and laser sight. “Against these?”

Cramer winked. “Wanna raise the bet?”

Simon shook his head in amazement. “We’re ready.”

“Okay, there are four floors above here, you go up and pick your positions. I’ll give you two minutes.”

Simon put the helmet on and slipped the goggles down so that his whole head was covered. He turned to his team and signalled for them to move out. Cramer sighted down his gun at the back of the man’s head and tightened his finger on the trigger. “Bang,” he said, quietly.

“What lighting system do you want?” Preston asked him.

“Bare minimum,” said Cramer. “Just enough so they don’t fall and hurt themselves. And use the red lights, it’ll screw up their laser sights.”

Preston smiled. “Be gentle with them, Mike.”

Cramer stood at the bottom of the stairwell and waited a full ten minutes before moving up to the first level. The stairs opened out into a large bare room off which led three doorways. Once he was satisfied that the room was clear he stood with his back against a wall for another five minutes, waiting for his eyes to get used to the gloom. There was no point in rushing. He wanted them to be over-eager because that way they’d be careless. He heard a footfall from somewhere above him and muffled voices. Cramer smiled. They had no patience, these game-players. Amateurs. He began to clear the first level, moving silently from room to room, his gun at the ready. There were twelve rooms on the first floor, linked by doorways but no doors. Several had furniture in, old tables and sofas, armchairs with the stuffing oozing from torn leather like purulent wounds.