Bang: Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin (15 page)

“I’ll take your word for it.” I waved the envelope away.

“She did great,” Barry said, sliding the pictures into his desk drawer. “Came up with a whole fake identity for herself. A medical student studying psychology, at the same university as him. Even did some research into psychology so it looked like she knew what she was talking about. She did a damn good job.” He caught my expression. “Er, for a beginner.”

“So what does this mean, that Emma’s now part of the company? Did you print up a certificate for her? ‘This is to certify that Emma Bigtits is hereby awarded Relationship Assassin First Class’.”

“Look, I don’t expect you to be her greatest fan or anything, Scott, but give her a break, will ya?”

“What the hell for?” I found myself striding around again, glass crunching underfoot. “This isn’t going to work, Barry. I’m sorry, I can see what you were trying to do, but it’s bullshit. I don’t care how many blokes she’s flirted with in her old job, it doesn’t make her – ”

“It
is
going to work. Because we’re all going to pull together and
make
it work.”

There was iron in Barry’s voice now. “Think about it, Scott. When you come right down to it, aren’t men more likely to cheat on their partners than women? Aren’t they much more likely to have a fling with a stranger?”

“Well… yeah, but – ”

“So doesn’t it make sense to have a woman doing what you do?”

God damn it, no. It made no sense at all.

“But… I mean… look, of course men are easier to seduce than women. But aren’t our clients more likely to be men? It’s not usually the wives who need a reason to get rid of their husbands.”

“Wrong.” Barry shook his head hard. “You’re dead wrong. There are plenty of rich women out there who’d love to get rid of the men in their lives. The client list at VenusVisions proves that. I spoke to the management there and they said plenty of their clients were disappointed if the husband or boyfriend actually resisted one of their girls. They were waiting for him to fall, you see, they were counting on it. Jesus, if a woman’s got to the point where she’s paying an agency to put some serious temptation in her fella’s path and have him under surveillance, well, not exactly a loving relationship, is it? Either she’s never going to trust him or she wants shot of him. The wife can get half of everything in a divorce, you know. All they need’s a reason. And the proof. You know how it works.”

Yes. I knew how it worked for
me
.

I bent down and picked up Sam Fox, shaking off shards of glass and putting her back in her proper place on the filing cabinet. I felt sick, drained. Like I’d just given a pint of blood. Yes, that’s exactly how it felt – like there was less of me.

“So Emma’s signed up with Infidelity.”

Barry smiled. “Yep. She’s already called it a day with VenusVisions. They were pretty understanding about it. In fact, they – ”

“What about me?”

“What
about
you? It’s business as usual, nothing’s changed. This doesn’t really affect you one way or the other.”

“Doesn’t affect me!” Another flare of anger. I strode over to Barry, pointing at my own face. “Doesn’t this look like I’ve been affected?”

“It’s not as bad as – ”

“How am I supposed to seduce women looking like Freddy Krueger! That bitch messed up my face, man, she’s bloody ruined me!”

“God, but you’re a drama queen sometimes, Scott,” Barry sighed. “She gave you a few scars, big deal. It’s not that bad. You shouldn’t have messed with her, you know. That girl can really look after herself, she does martial arts and self-defence and the whole thing. She’s not just fit for looks.”

I gingerly touched the side of my face, bruised and grazed. The memory of what happened in the alley made me flush. I still couldn’t believe it. She kicked the hell out of me.

“So in future, you’ll know not to muck about with Emma’s cases,” Barry added.

“As long as she stops mucking about with mine! I don’t want her anywhere near me Barry, all right? If you feel you have to have her on your books, fine, you do what you like. But I’m telling you, if she comes anywhere near me again…”

“…I’ll put you down like a dog.”

“…I just won’t have it. I’m not having my job screwed up by anyone, especially not…”

“Especially not an amateur.”

“…a woman,” I finished weakly.

Barry laughed. “You’re a bit of a misogynist for somebody who spends their days romancing the ladies, aren’t you? Don’t worry, Emma won’t get in your way. You’ll never know she’s there. I’ll take care of the whole thing.”

Good old Barry, taking care of everything.

“Now get going,” Barry said, his old gruff self again. “I’ve got stuff to do. Like find something to put over these windows.”

“Look, sorry about that…”

“Ahh, don’t bother me. We only rent this shithole. Although if we don’t start making some serious money soon, I don’t know how we’re going to pay the rent, since they went and hiked it up. That reminds me – now that you’re free, stay by your phone. Don’t go leaving town or anything. I’m expecting Larry to give the nod any day now. You be ready.”

I nodded. Couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I left Barry picking an alphabet of plastic keys off the floor and wandered out of the office. Back down the flight of stairs where I’d first bumped into Emma. Before I knew what she was.

The Relationship Assassin Mark II.

That’s exactly what she is, I thought, stomping down the steps. She’s the upgrade, the T-1000 model. Efficient. Unstoppable. Perfect in every way. Superior to the old, redundant version. The
male
version.

Me.

I couldn’t believe it. I’d just been replaced.

I walked through the dead Hackney streets. Morning sunlight picked out every old newspaper and crisp packet and coil of dog shit. I must have looked like someone who’d spent their whole weekend clubbing: drug-fucked, exhausted, staggering back to the real world. I suppose I was in shock, more than anything. Not sure what to think or feel. Numbed.

My mobile buzzed with a text message. Darren.

Just goes to show I was being a big girl’s blouse and didn’t know what real shock was.

Mate jake says he

wonts his fuckin

bike back rite now

or hes cumin after

u

I roared up outside Asquith and Bream Consolidated, kicked the stand down and killed the engine.

New bike. Like it? It’s mine.

This one really was mine. It didn’t belong to Jake for a little while yet. But this was a delivery run, to hand it over to him. A brand new motorbike.

It was a beauty. The latest model of his old Honda Inseminator, or whatever it was called. Faster. Sexier. More powerful. Gleaming with out-of-the-showroom polish. It had a smell of newness: metal and fresh oil. Frankly I didn’t feel like getting off it just yet, so I sat there, parked outside the building, twisting the throttle thoughtfully. The leathers I was wearing and the helmet on my head were brand new as well. My plan was to leave the helmet on when I met Jake. Keep the visor down.

Felt like protecting my face.

It was late Monday morning. I’d gone straight from Barry’s office to the Honda showroom, surprising the staff there with the fastest sale they’d ever made. Yep, that’s the one, how much, here you go, sign here, whoosh. I had to get the bike to Jake before he got sacked by his courier firm, which he might very well do if he didn’t turn up for work that day. So I had to move fast. I hoped this would appease him and get me off the hook. Get me off the IV drip in casualty.

But there was something else I had to do first. And this was the perfect opportunity to do it in character, as John the courier. That’s why I was parked outside Asquith and Bream.

I’d come to say goodbye to Becky.

I sat there on the Honda, thinking how weird this was. Normally I wouldn’t bother, there’d be no need. Once the job’s done, that’s it, walk away. Rule Four. Usually, the last my targets see of me is when their boyfriend or husband is chasing me out of the bedroom. Or I’m being escorted off the premises with a Mercedes jammed through the garden fence. Or, that time when Mrs Avery hired me to chat her up in the supermarket to make her husband jealous, I had to ride a shopping trolley out into the street, ducking the tins of Heinz baked beans he was flinging at me.

A few times, in the Old Days, I’d tried to soften the blow. I used to send presents and little cards, written by my mask, telling the target that I was sorry it had ended so badly (such a shock, couldn’t understand how we were found out, we were always so careful) but that I’d always remember them. I used to consider that to be part of the service. Later, I realised I was giving them false hope. And hope is torture. Better to simply vanish from their lives and let them get on with it. Let the wound heal. See, I do have some feelings. Did you think I was a bastard?

But this was too good an opportunity. Here I was, back in full courier mode for the last time, since the chances of Jake lending me his motorbike again were zero (assuming he left me capable of walking again, let alone riding a bike). An ideal time for John Holmes to make a farewell performance. Take a final bow, John, and leave the stage of Becky Hargreaves’s life for good. Curtain call! Encore! Thank you darlings, I love you all! Mwah! Mwah!

I sat on the bike and thought about what I was going to say. I decided I’d keep it simple, tell Becky I was going to be out of town for a bit. Working? No, holiday. An unplanned trip to Ibiza with a few of my mates. All very last minute, cheap flights booked on the internet. Bit of sunshine and foam. No, wait. Lads in Ibiza, all that clubbing, all those girls. John the courier was bound to cop off with someone. That thought would bug her. She’d never say anything, she’d just tell me to have a good time, but I knew she’d be thinking it. Let’s make it a family thing instead. Going to visit my Mum and Dad down in, let’s say, Cornwall. John’s ordinary, boring Mum and Dad. So I’ll be gone for a few days, call her when I get back. This is just a flying visit to let her know, in and out quick. Say hello, wave goodbye.

Then I’d change my mobile number yet again and that would be that.

Good plan. Let’s go.

I walked up the stairs and into the main reception of Asquith and Bream, feeling nostalgic even though it wasn’t much more than a week since I’d been there. Ah, and there were the old gang: big Teri, boney Nicola, Laura the Explorer’s bottle-blonde hair still obeying different laws of gravity. Couple of other office girls too, all clustered around the reception desk. Becky must be holding court again, making them all laugh with her fake phone calls, Becky the joker. She was great when she did that. That cheeky little smirk of hers, I loved it.

I breezed up to them, all smiles. “All right, girls? How’s it going?”

As one, they stared at me, like I was carrying a severed head under my arm instead of a motorcycle helmet.

Scared.
Horrified
.

I stopped – “What?” – shit, were the scratches on my face really that bad? But already I could see past them to Becky herself, sitting behind the desk. Her face was buried in her hands.

My pulse thumped. Something was wrong. I walked up to her, the girls backing away like I was contagious. “Hey, you okay? What’s up?“

She looked up at me – blue eyes full of tears.

“Oh God, no!” She threw herself backwards in her chair. “Go away!”

A different Becky. Face crumpled and reddened, streaked with tears, nose snotty, mouth twisted. Hardly looked like her at all. “What’s wrong?”

“I think maybe you should go, John,” said Teri, not unkindly.

“What’s happened! Tell me!”

Then I noticed the photos on the reception desk.

Scattered next to a torn-open manila envelope were about two dozen 8 x 6 glossy photographs. I reached out, picked them up clumsily in my biker gloves, flipped through them. And felt suddenly sick.

There I was. With Becky, in the pub. Drinks on the table between us, leaning forwards, talking, smiling.

There I was. On the bike, Becky clinging onto me. Captured by a telephoto lens with fast shutter speed, freezing us against a blurred background.

There I was. Sitting in the Glasshouse restaurant, holding my fork across the table to her mouth.

There I was. Pulling Becky close and kissing her, outside her front door. Then again inside, distorted through the frosted glass panel.

There I was. Caught.

Becky was crying, properly crying, behind the desk. I looked up and felt a wrench in my guts. I’d never seen her cry before.

“Becky…”

“Go away!”

Again, I heard Teri say “Best just go, John.” I was distantly aware of more people filling the reception area now. But I couldn’t move. My eyes just went from Becky to the photos and back again. There we were: talking, laughing, snogging. We looked great together, on the bike and in the pub and in each others arms. We looked like a real couple, enjoying ourselves in public without a care in the world. We looked… romantic, I suppose. Real.

I’d seen surveillance pictures of me and my targets before. But I’d never realised what it was like to receive them. This sickening, unexpected shock. Like a sudden punch in the stomach.

Christ. It was horrible.

This isn’t right, I thought, it’s the client who should be receiving these, not the target! Have Londonwide Associates screwed up? “Where… where are these from? Where did you get these pictures from?”

“He…he’s been watching me.” Becky fumbled with the photos, peeling a Post-it note off one of them. ”He’s never… he’s never trusted me… all this time, he never trusted me.”

I read the words on the note. Scrawled, barely legible handwriting. Doctor’s handwriting.

They were right about you
.

“What… is this Sajjan? But how…?”

“You said it was just a bit of fun! You said it wasn’t a big deal! Look at this!” She grabbed the pictures, flung them at me. Becky and John fluttered to the floor. “He knows everything! He’s seen us! He’s been
watching
us!”