Be my enemy, or, fuck this for a game of soldiers

It was a junket, a freebie. A 'team-building' weekend in the highlands for lawyers, advertising execs, businessmen, even the head of a charity.

Oh, and a journalist, specially solicited for his renowned and voluble scepticism - Jack Parlabane.

Amid the flying paintballs and flowing Shiraz even the most cynical admit the organisers have pulled some surprises - stalkers in the forest, power cuts in the night, mass mobile phone thefts, disappearing staff, disappearing guests: there's nothing can bring out people's hidden strengths or break down inter-personal barriers quite like not having a clue what's going on and being scared out of your wits.

However, when the only vehicular access for thirty miles is cut off it seems that events are being orchestrated not just for pleasure ...And that's before they find the first body.

Thereafter, 'finding out who your colleagues really are' is not so much an end product as the key to reaching Monday morning alive.