Eliza looks flawless in her wax jacket, tight trousers and elegant riding boots. Hair tied back into a sweeping red ponytail, the gun tucked into her shoulder like it was made just to accessorise her awesomeness. She calmly strikes clay after clay like it’s nothing.
My brother, Fraser, is hovering a little to one side, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, shouldershunched, and looking nearly as miserable as me. When he does shoot, at least he hits the stupid clays on occasion.
And there’s Roman.
Roman, who has never shot anything in his life, has taken to it like a duck to fucking water.
Annoyingly so.
Dressed in borrowed outerwear of my Dad’s, looking like he’s stepped straight off the cover of Horse and Hound magazine. There’s a faint smile on his mouth as he watches Eliza, and a streak of jealousy flits through me. Of course, he’s smiling at her, she looks equally cover-ready while I feel like a bog troll in the background.
Roman looks like he belongs here more than I do.
‘Pull,’ Eliza says.
The clay shoots into the air, a flash of orange against pale blue. Roman tracks it, smooth and steady, and fires.
Crack.
It explodes into a hail of shards.
Eliza smiles approvingly. ‘Good work, for an Englishman.’
Roman looks bloody delighted with himself. ‘This is very satisfying.’
‘Beginner’s luck,’ I mutter.
‘You’re just jealous because you suck at this,’ Eliza says. She’s not wrong. It’s a stupid way to spend a morning.
Roman and Eliza take turns, getting competitive.Fraser takes a few more shots before stepping aside and shoving me forward.
I take the gun with a sigh, set my stance, and try to convince myself if Roman can do it, I should be able to.
‘Pull.’
The clay flies.
I fire.
The clay zips through the air, utterly unaffected by me. Like all of the contract kills I’ve tried and failed at. It’s like I don’t even exist.
I try again.
And I fail again.
‘Relax,’ Eliza says. ‘You’re overthinking it, you need to get out of your head.’
As if it’s that easy to just not think. Like I haven’t tried it before.
I adjust my footing, shift my weight, and lift the gun. My boot slides in the mud as my centre of gravity shifts. I windmill my free hand while dropping the gun and nearly catch myself, but it’s too late. My other foot slips, and I go over like a pensioner on an ice rink.
Down with a squelch.
I land on my arse with a wet splat, a sound that echoes far too loudly in the open air. Cold seeps through my jeans, and mud coats everything.
There’s silence until Eliza bursts into laughter. ‘Oh, Maggie.’
Fraser’s mouth twitches despite his attempt to stay a sullen youth.
