Bang: Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin (19 page)

Didn’t need to hear her voice again.

REJE –

“Hello?”

“John? It’s me.”

Everything just sort of stopped when I heard her voice. I got that nostalgic tingle you get when you smell some unique scent that sends you back through the years to a specific time. It was weird, suddenly remembering a thousand tiny things about Becky in one second flat: hair, skin, eyes, clothes, flat, tea, sex, laugh. But what really knocked me for six…

“John? You there?”

I’d forgotten I was John Holmes.

That’s who I am to Becky, I thought. As far as she’s concerned, I’m John Holmes the motorbike courier. Friendly. Cheeky. Fun. Honest. And John’s an innocent party, John hasn’t done anything wrong.
I haven’t done anything wrong
.

A massive weight left me, like passing a concrete turd.

“Yeah! Hello! I’m here. Sorry, bit noisy in here, I’m just out shopping. How are you?”

“Yeah, I’m all right. Look… I’m really sorry about… you know, about last week, when you came in the office. I shouldn’t have… I’m just really sorry.”

“It’s cool,” I said, because that’s what John would say. Why wouldn’t it be cool? Not like anything was my fault. I mean
his
fault.

“Listen, have you got some time today? D’you want to go for a drink?”

RE -

“Sure. Whereabouts?”

She told me where her local pub was, a short tube ride away in Finchley. I told her I could be there in about half an hour. And that was it. John had a date with Becky.

“Get the drinks in, eh?” I told her. “Mine’s a champagne. The most expensive stuff they’ve got.”

“Fuck off,” she laughed, and hung up.

I put my mobile away, grinning. Lifted my head and looked around at the shopping mall, full of people out on a Saturday afternoon. And that’s all I saw, nothing more than that. Just ordinary people.

Like me.

I headed towards the exit, gliding around couples and grannies and kids. I just waltzed right through. There was plenty of room now – the mall must have cleared out a bit. I just sauntered from one end to the other, no worries.

At the bottom of the escalator, there was a middle-aged black woman in a tutu having some trouble. I wandered over and saw that she was trying to push a pram onto the slowly moving steps, while carrying a little boy – he couldn’t have been more than two years old – with several huge shopping bags in her other arm.

I didn’t even think twice. “D’you need a hand?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, and handed the boy to me.

I hesitated, then took him off her with a smile. I’d done this sort of thing hundreds of times before, when I was in character as someone else. Second nature. Not necessarily my nature, but the mask’s nature. Instinctively I sensed that John was good with kids, that he found them fun, probably wanted some of his own one day. Good old John. Heart of gold, really. Never did anything wrong.

“Hey big guy!” I said to the little boy in my arms. “How you doing?”

“Blark,” said the boy, vomiting straight down me.

Nothing I could do but stand there as a waterfall of orange juice, strawberry milkshake and coco pops streamed down my front.

His mother gave me a tired look. “He’s been sick.”

I glanced down, as if just noticing. “Oh yeah.”

So when I walked into the Finchley pub, t-shirt and jeans coated in multicoloured puke, I didn’t have to search too hard to find Becky. She was the girl sitting at the corner table laughing her head off.

“Oh my God!” she hooted. “John! What the hell happened to you?”

Every single person in the pub watched me stroll over to her, dripping. I put both hands on my waist, legs apart, as if proud of the mess I was in.

“You think YOU’RE sick of the sight of me…!”

Becky laughed and laughed, face going bright red. And I just couldn’t stop grinning, like the horribly warm stickiness soaking against my skin was something I did for kicks anyway. I dumped my jacket, sat down and explained what had happened. Before long we were both in hysterics, that hard laughter that hurts your chest after a while.

Becky wiped her eyes. “God, think I needed that,” she panted. “I’m sorry, I felt so bad saying that to you. Didn’t expect you to take it so literally!”

I smiled, sipping the pint of Fosters she’d had waiting for me on the table. She was good that way. Always bought her round. What might have been awkward now felt ordinary, just another quick drink in the pub between mates. Amazing what can happen when a little boy barks on you! Things felt relaxed between us again, and I couldn’t stop smiling. Good thing I’d forgotten to get a new SIM card, or else she’d never have been able to contact me again.

Oh yeah, you
forgot
that, didn’t you? That thing you do after every single mission without fail, you just
forgot
.

No. I didn’t forget. If I’d replaced the SIM card, then I wouldn’t have been able to scroll back through all her text messages. I wouldn’t have been able to replay her voicemails or look at all the pictures of herself she’d sent me.

The truth was that I’d missed her.

But I also missed John. I’d missed being him. I missed the banter with Becky, the fun of winding her up. I missed being a courier and riding round on a bike dressed in leather – damn, that had made me feel great. And I kind of missed being a nice guy. Even if being a nice guy got you puked on. Most of all… I missed not being to blame for anything.

“Got some more photos to show you,” she said sadly, bringing out a familiar manila envelope.

Once again, I got to see Emma and Sajjan – together in the university corridor, the coffee bar, the restaurant, outside his flat. Becky laid them out on the pub table amongst the beermats and ashtrays. I couldn’t help but notice that the last four pictures, of Emma and Sajjan on the sofa, were missing. But I knew they’d been in the envelope. I’d made sure of it.

Acting time. “What? Who’s this? That’s not… that’s not your fiancé, is it?”

Becky nodded.

“So he’s been… I mean, have him and this girl been – ”

“Yeah.” She gulped some wine.

“Where did these pictures come from?”

“Arrived at my work by courier. This one wasn’t nearly as cute as you,” she half-smiled. “He was a bit scary, actually. He gave me this really nasty smile when he handed them over. Like he knew what was in them. I wondered if he’d managed to open the envelope or something…”

Oh nice one Jake. You stupid bastard.

“But I haven’t got a clue who actually took them. I mean, with that first lot, of you and me… well, I know damn well where they came from. But this is seriously weird. I mean, who’d want to spy on Sajjan? It’s not like I asked anyone to, but someone’s obviously been following him around for ages! And why send these to me now?”

She looked at me, confused and worried. “This has really freaked me out, you know? It’s like there’s somebody out there just… just watching me and him, all the time. It’s creepy. Why would they bother taking pictures of us, though? Why bother following me around? I’m nothing special!”

I met her eyes. That’s what I used to think.

“So, er… you say you know who the first lot of pictures came from?”

“Oh yes.” A hard look settled on Becky’s face. “Thank you the Chudasama family, for ruining my life.”

“The who?”

“That’s the family Sajjan was supposed to marry into. You know how a lot of Hindus have these arranged marriages? Sajjan was always meant to marry this girl in the Chudasama family, they’d known the Lakhanis for ages and had their daughter set aside for him. Like, I dunno, reserving a library book or something! He kept putting it off as he got older but it was always on the cards. Until he met me,” she smiled, “and then he told the Chudasamas to piss off.”

Ah-ha. “And they didn’t take too kindly to that, then?”

“Bunch of freaks,” she suddenly snapped. “They don’t give a shit about Sajjan one way or the other. It was only when he went to medical college that they started putting pressure on his parents, to make him marry their daughter. Anything to get a doctor into the family. It’s all about prestige to them, about looking good in the Hindu community. That’s all they care about. Marry their daughter off to a doctor, to a respectable,
high-earning
professional, and it’s job done. Bollocks to what the girl wants, all that matters with their daughters is who they’re married to. And who cares whether they’re well-suited or not, or whether they even like each other? Marry ‘em up! Make us look good!”

Why did I think this wasn’t the first time Becky had said this?

“Anyway, when Sajjan started going out with me a couple of years ago, they just went ballistic. Started really piling the pressure on him, and on his mum and dad as well, to get rid of me and marry… whatever her bloody name was. Can’t trust white girls, they used to say to him. Our daughter will never leave you, she’ll cook your meals and wipe your bum and give you a million kids but this English girl, don’t trust her. Can’t trust white girls!” She shook her head with disgust.

“So that’s what that note with the pictures meant.”

“Exactly.
They were right about you
. As if I’m some kind of…” Becky glanced up, as if remembering who she had been caught with, then head down again, perhaps a little ashamed. “Can’t believe they’d go this far, to send somebody after me, taking pictures. Some private detective or something, I don’t know, do they still have private detectives these days?”

“I guess there’s one or two about.”

“It’s sick, though. Don’t you think?”

“Don’t talk to me about sick right now, okay?”

A tiny laugh. “Sorry. It is though. It’s just sick.”

I sipped my pint thoughtfully. Finally, finally, I knew who my anonymous client for the Hargreaves case was. Stand up, the Chudasama family! It made perfect sense. To convince Sajjan to marry into their little clan, they had to get rid of the competition. My guess was they had hired Londonwide Associates to find out if Becky was cheating on Sajjan. Can’t trust white girls. But they found nothing – she wasn’t having an affair.

No problem. Londonwide Associates could help. They knew someone who could create an affair even when there wasn’t one. And along I came. To stitch her up good and proper.

That’s what I’d done. I’d proved them right. Can’t trust white girls. Turned out Becky was up for having an affair after all. I looked at her, so sweet and pretty, butter wouldn’t melt. But I’d proved they were right, just like the note said.
They were right about you
.

I felt like such a scumbag, for proving them right. Becky should have been better than that. And she would have been, if I hadn’t come along.

But now the same thing had happened to Sajjan. Barry had turned the case around and launched Emma at him like a shag-seeking missile. As a field test for his new recruit, another pilot scheme. He’d been stitched up just as badly as Becky.

This still didn’t explain who that blonde guy in the Glasshouse had been, taking pictures of me and making off with my motorbike. Why would the Chudasamas hire a second detective? Maybe he had nothing to do with them. Worry about that later, there was something more important I needed to know.

“So, now you know Sajjan wasn’t behaving himself either,” I asked, “does that make things better or worse?”

Real question: did I do the right thing?

Becky spent a long minute staring at the pictures. “Both,” she said eventually. “I mean, when I first saw them, God, I felt sick as a… sorry. I mean, I felt terrible. Seeing Sajjan with somebody else, all happy and flirting and… well, all the things they were doing. I felt, well, worthless. Like I’d been replaced by someone better, you know? That I was on the scrap heap.”

I stared at her, suddenly feeling like I wasn’t alone. “Yeah. Know how that feels.”

“I mean, look at her.” Becky pulled out a good shot of Emma in the restaurant, leaning across the table, all smiles and dark eyes and cleavage. “She’s gorgeous. How am I supposed to compete against that?”

“How am
I
going to compete against her, that’s what I want to know!” I very nearly said. But John rescued me. I felt him chip in with just the right thing to say, their little running joke. “Nah. Looks like a slag.”

This time, Becky didn’t laugh. Her face was stone. “Yeah. She does.” Quiet venom as she added “I just don’t understand girls like her. She could have anyone, looking like that, every bloke in the world goes for the blonde bimbo with her tits hanging out. Of all the guys she could have, she goes for mine. She could have
anyone
.”

John said “She couldn’t have me.”

Becky looked at me, smiling at last. “Liar.”

“No chance. I’m slag-proof.”

She gave me her
you fucking nutter
look. “But on the other hand, I guess I shouldn’t feel so guilty about, you know… you and me.”

“Because he was doing the same thing?”

“Yeah. We were just as bad as each other, I suppose. Both of us went off and had our fun. Maybe whoever had me on candid camera wanted me to know that. That it wasn’t just me being bad.” She sighed. “Suppose it’s better to find out now, isn’t it? Before I married him. There’d have been no going back after we’d tied the knot, just like you said.”

I heard my mobile going off inside my leather jacket. It could wait. “Does Sajjan know that you know?”

Becky held up her left hand. Took me a second to realise there was nothing around her ring finger. “Stuffed it through his letterbox this morning. Wrapped in one of these pictures.”

Couldn’t help myself – the laughter just burst out. And I bet I knew precisely which picture she’d chosen. The last one in the set. The one where he couldn’t believe what was happening to him. I’d love to see his face when that little number popped onto the welcome mat!

Becky drained her wine and leaned across the table towards me. “John, listen. The main reason I wanted to see you is ‘cos I owe you an apology. All this is my shit, really. It’s not fair that you got dragged into it, and I gave you such a hard time when you came to see me, but really you’ve done nothing wrong.”