Christopher Brookmyre - Parlabane 04 by My Enemy v1.0 Be Page B

we're here to judge,'
    'So if we're not the bestest of buddies by the end of it, I'll have proven my point?' Parlabane challenged.
    Glen laughed, Parlabane too.
    What else this weekend might offer. It didn't look promising through the minibus window. Their vehicle meandered slowly along a single-track road, its pace dictated less, she suspected, by the driver's desire to showcase their surroundings than by the tortuous bends and dips he was cautiously negotiating. They had disappeared under a canopy of greenery only yards past the gateway, the deciduous forest testament to the remoteness and historical isolation of the spot. Most tree life north of the central belt was planted conifers, vast acres of them in file and column like a Roman regiment. There was plenty of that too, only a mile or so south-west, but the borders of the McKinley estate were buffered by something darker and truly ancient. There was a stillness about it that was like a distant, estranged relative of tranquillity. This was the kind of woodland, she imagined, where the darkest tales, myths and metaphors had been born: treacherous pathways, primal temptation, ripe carnal fertility and bloody, carnivorous death. If any of Beatrix Potter's shower had ventured forth in here, their heads would have ended up on sticks. Maybe it was just the weather. They emerged from the trees to cross a 52
    bridge thirty or forty feet above a wide stream tumbling energetically over rocks, unwearied by the efforts of carving this deep V into the landscape these past few million years. It would surely have been a beautiful sight on a bright, clear day, as would the woods with the sun angling crystal beams through the foliage to the mossy floor. Under heavy clouds and swirling drizzle, there seemed a sense of harshness, even cruelty about the exposed isolation of the place, though this was probably exacerbated by the thought that she'd be spending a lot of time out in it. Such landscapes were really best admired through a double glazed window with a cold glass of Sauvignon Blanc in front and a warm fire behind.
    That would be happening at some point, of course, but she was not without trepidation about what might come first, what else this weekend might offer . Taking possession of her first paintgun did little to assuage her doubts, and that was before Campbell began his pep talk.
    Within moments of the UML man opening his mouth, she could sense Parlabane's glee. Having all checked in and discovered their accommodation to be of a reassuringly luxurious standard (diminished only by the sartorial suicide note lying across the duvet), they were mustered under order in a grand, high-ceilinged drawing room. There was a glorious fire blazing in the cavernous hearth, causing Emily to survey the room with much the same longing she imagined Eve regarded the garden as the gates closed forever behind her. Instead of a comfy chair and a menu, she was issued with 'the tools of teambuilding': equipment the efficacy of which looked at that stage in some doubt. Campbell stood before the fire, Baxter deferentially positioned a few feet behind and to the left. Campbell looked younger than his colleague, perhaps the youngest person in the room, but had been introduced by Baxter as 'the motivational genius UML head-hunted for this post from a shortlist of one'.
    'Good afternoon,' he began. 'And welcome to the UML Experience. I have to say, I envy you your position because you don't know what's in store, and I really wish I could be in your shoes. I feel like a parent waiting to see his children opening their Christmas presents.'
    'Well begun is half done,' one of Emily's primary teachers used to say, and from an 'enthusiastic pitch' point of view, she couldn't fault Campbell's opening gambit. Nonetheless, she'd wager that if old Mrs McQueen could have heard Campbell continue, she'd have changed her proverb to 'well begun is no guarantee that the rest won't be a complete fucking