Flo gave a nervous laugh. She looked taken aback, but at the same time slightly thrilled. ‘It should be the hen, really!’ she protested, as Greg beckoned, but she went and stood beside him anyway, blushing and covering her face in pantomime fear.
‘Right. So Flo here has kindly volunteered to help demonstrate the effects of a barrel full of shot at close quarters.’ He paused for a beat and then winked. ‘But don’t worry, she’s not gonna be on the business end. What I have here,’ he held up a large sheet of paper with a black outline on it, ‘is a paper target, more usually used for handgun target practice.’
He fished in his pocket, pulled out some tacks and pinned the target sheet to a nearby tree. The bark was blistered and pock-marked with wounds, and it wasn’t hard to guess what was about to happen next.
‘Everybody stand back please. Ear defenders on, Flo.’
‘I feel like a DJ!’ Flo said, grinning as she pulled the neon headphones over her ears.
‘Now, I’m loading the cartridge into the gun,’ he slid it into place, ‘and shutting the barrel as we demonstrated back at the centre. Flo, come up here, stand in front of me. Right, bring the gun up to your shoulder.’ He held it against her, steadying it in place. Flo gave a slightly hysterical titter.
‘Our Greg’s quite dishy, isn’t he?’ Tom whispered into my ear. ‘I wouldn’t mind having him correct my stance. Flo certainly looks like she’s not about to object.’
‘Hold it firm,’ Greg said. ‘Now, finger on the trigger.’ He held Flo’s hand in place, steadying the stock and barrel against her. ‘And gently squeeeeze the trigger. No sharp movements …’
There was a deafening crack, Flo gave a little squeak and staggered back against Greg’s chest, and the paper in front of us exploded into pieces.
‘Jesus!’ Tom said.
I’d seen target-shooting on American films – nice neat little holes, close to the bull’s-eye of the outlined figure. But this was something else. The shot had hit the paper full in the chest, and the whole middle section of the piece was virtually destroyed. As we watched, the legs fluttered free and drifted gently to the leafy ground.
‘Quite.’ Greg took the gun off Flo and walked across to stand close to us. Flo’s face, as she trotted beside him, was a mixture of alarm and excitement, her cheeks pink. I wasn’t sure if it was the thrill of the explosion or whether, as Tom had suggested, she had enjoyed Greg’s one-to-one attention.
‘As you can see,’ Greg continued, ‘this single shot at close quarters has done quite a bit of damage. If that was a person, it’s doubtful they’d make it as far as the reception centre, let alone the local hospital. So the moral of this is, ladies and gentlemen, respect your weapon. OK. Any questions?’
We all shook our heads, mutely. Only Flo was beaming. Nina looked distinctly grim. I remembered the gunshot wounds she’d treated with MSF, and wondered what she was thinking.
Greg nodded, once, as if satisfied, and we all trooped silently after him to face the trap.
17
‘THAT WAS SO much fun!’ Flo collapsed backwards onto the sofa and kicked off her boots. Her socks were pink and fluffy. She shook the snow out of her hair – it had started again on the drive back. ‘That was ace! Tom, you were a crack shot!’
Tom grinned and slumped back into an armchair. ‘I used to do a lot of archery as a teen. I guess the skills are similar.’
‘Archery?’ Nina eyed him disbelievingly. ‘As in, Robin Hood and his Merry Men? Did you have to wear tights?’
‘As in, the stuff they do at the Olympics,’ Tom said. He was obviously well used to teasing and it barely registered. ‘No tights involved. I used to do competitive fencing too. It’s very good for you. Very physical. I’m out of shape now.’
He flexed one bicep and looked at it with what was supposed to be a rueful expression, but the undertone of slight self-satisfaction rather showed through.
Nina made a sympathetic face. ‘God, yeah, it must be awful having pecs the size of a teen girl’s boobs and a six pack to match. I don’t know how Bruce puts up with it.’
‘Stop it, you two!’ Flo scolded.
Clare watched them from the far sofa, and I found myself watching her, remembering how she loved to observe, how she used to throw a remark out, like a pebble into a pond, and then back quietly away to watch the ripples as people scrapped it out. It was not an endearing habit, but it was one I could not condemn. I understood it too well. I, too, am happier watching than being watched.
Clare turned her head and caught me watching her watching Tom and Nina squabbling, and she smiled a small conspiratorial smile that said, I see you.
I looked away.
What had she hoped to accomplish by inviting me here? Nina saw it as an attempt to salve her conscience at my expense – the equivalent of an adulterous husband confessing to his wife.