Bang: Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin Read online

  Pity Bob never saw any of it – he might have made a few changes. A quarter of his staff were on the verge of walking out. One poor woman was so over-worked and stressed, she burst into tears telling me about it. I spent half an hour consoling her, promising that I’d be able to help – lying through my teeth, but it made her feel better anyway. Well, I couldn’t just leave her crying, could I? Did you think I was a bastard?

  And that was me. Simon Templar the management consultant. Smiler. Charmer. Smoothie. Bounder.

  Oh, the name? Yeah well, what can I say, I love the Seventies, even though I’m too young to have caught them. There’s just something about that decade that always comes across as fun. So when I go undercover, I always use names from old Seventies TV shows or movies, or sometimes famous people from that era. Just to get a private kick out of it. Not the names everyone knows, obviously, but most people don’t remember ‘Return Of The Saint’ (or even ‘The Saint’, which I think was back in the Sixties, a decade that bores me), and Simon Templar was too cool a name not to use. Names are important. His rhymed with ‘suave’. Just like I needed to be.

  Bob’s wife was his Human Resources Manager (which I suspected was a role he gave her just to make her feel useful), so eventually my information-gathering led to her door. She had lit up with recognition as I walked in. She’d seen me around. I’d laid the groundwork.

  It hadn’t gone too well to begin with. Amanda was friendly but didn’t take the bait. I met her eyes directly, my gaze flicking back and forth, scanning her face. I smiled loads. I leaned forwards in my chair with one hand halfway across the desk, as if I was subconsciously reaching to touch her. I acted like she distracted me so much that I forgot to write something down. You know – the standard stuff. But no joy.

  So when one of the younger girls walked in, I played the jealousy card. I broke off from Amanda to grin up at the girl and share a joke about the brief interview I’d done with her the day before. She giggled, joked back with me. I made a show of watching her walk to her desk.

  When I turned back to Amanda, she touched my hand briefly and asked if I’d like to get a coffee. Maybe do the interview in Starbucks, away from the noise of the office.

  And so I interviewed Amanda perched on stools. There were lots of laughs. She touched my hand again. And then my leg. Flipping off my safety catch.

  Next day, I interviewed her in the toilets on the third floor.

  And then one night, after everyone else in the building had gone home, I gave her a good hard interviewing out in the car park.

  That had been a couple of days ago, and now there we were – repeating the trick in her own car. But this wasn’t part of the plan. We weren’t supposed to be all the way out there! We were supposed to be upstairs in her bedroom. Why did I let her drag me out there? Why didn’t I stop her?

  Now I had to pay the price. I had to go through with it. No choice.

  Her hand slid along my thigh. I sensed her weight shifting my way. Soon there would be tongues. What was I going to do? I glanced through the front windscreen as if I might spot a quick way out.

  And damned if that isn’t exactly what happened. I squinted at the high garden fence, backlit from the party lights. That’s all I could see, but it was enough.

  Amanda whirled round. “What? Is someone there?”

  “No, it’s okay. Nobody can see us.” Yet.

  It was time to get it on.

  Amanda let out a muffled noise of surprise as I pressed my lips against hers, throwing my whole body forward. Octopus in a Saville Row suit, hands all over her. At the same time I yanked at my tie, tearing off my jacket with one hand, trying to clamber between my seat and hers as if in a wild frenzy to get at her.

  She responded perfectly – kissing me hungrily, trying to unbutton my shirt and slip her cocktail dress off her shoulders. In the dark we were absolutely everywhere, clothes pulled off, loud sloppy kisses, lots of moaning and panting. I imagined the view from the outside, the whole car rocking slightly like in all the Carry On movies, and my laugh was stifled by Amanda’s tongue in my mouth.

  In the kerfuffle, I eased the handbrake down.

  For a minute or so, there was just the two of us going at it like teenagers (and that’s precisely what she wanted, that feeling of being young, so desperate for a shag that you’ll do it anywhere, even in the car). I couldn’t feel the sensation I was looking for. Plenty of others, but not the one I wanted.

  So I grabbed Amanda and half-pulled her onto my seat, sliding her leg across my lap so she was astride me. She let out a funny little noise. I pushed forwards and kissed her hard, forcing our combined weight onto the dashboard, her back against the glass.

  “Oh God, Simon…”

  I started to feel it.

  “God, yes…”

  It was happening.

  “Yes…”

  It was definitely happening.

  I kept her that way, pinned up against the front of the car, as if I just couldn’t stop myself. I buried my face in her cleavage. Woah, lots of gasping and moaning now. She reached backwards and unzipped, her clothing falling away, and then the bra beneath.

  “Simon…?”

  I could really feel it now, and so could she.

  “Simon! I think… can you feel something?”

  “Uh cuhn, ut fuhls wunduhful…”

  “Simon, get out of there!”

  I came up for air. “What?”

  “Oh God, we’re moving! The car’s… oh my God!”

  Both of us froze, feeling the same thing. The slow, sinking motion as the Mercedes rolled down the hill.

  Amanda twisted round, tits banging my face. Then she looked out of the windscreen and shouted “Oh my GOD!”

  I grinned as the wooden fence rushed up towards us.

  Amanda let out an ear-splitting scream as the car slammed into the fence. My ears were ringing afterwards for days – honestly, you’d think we were falling into a shark tank. But I suppose it was a bit of a shock, if you didn’t know it was coming. There was a splintering crash, the fence flattened by the impact of the Mercedes, then a second jolt as the car’s undercarriage lodged in the jagged wood, stopping it dead. All done with in a second: boom-bang-crunch!

  So, second time around in the garden party, picture this:

  A lovely silver Mercedes, jammed halfway through the fence, front wheels up off the ground.

  Nearly a hundred guests scattering in shock. Screams. Stares. Spilled drinks.

  And there in the front of the car, clearly visible to the whole party, the host’s wife with her boobs hanging out, wrapped around a young guy trying really, really hard not to smile.

  I couldn’t help it. This was far better than Plan A! It’s very rare that I get an audience for the kill. I mean, there’s always some kind of audience, since that’s the whole point – to be discovered. But I’d never planned on anything as public as this. Fantastic!

  Having said that, even as Amanda struggled to pull her clothes back on and the guests began closing in around the car, I felt it could have been better… I’m never satisfied with my own performance. I’d sort of hoped the car would go right through the fence and crash into the ornamental fountain. That’s how it would have happened in the movies, that would have looked great. And also, where was Bob? He should have been there to see the whole thing!

  Ah, but then I saw him, rushing out through the patio doors. Of course – he had been upstairs in the house, no doubt wondering why he couldn’t hear squelchy sex noise from behind his bedroom door. The crowd did a Red Sea and parted magically, allowing him to see the car.

  And his wife.

  And me.

  Bang. That was it – the moment when everyone heard the same thing in their heads, the sound of a relationship hitting the ground and shattering. Or to my mind, the sound of a gunshot through its heart at point blank range. Taking it out.

  Amanda clambered off me and staggered out onto the grass, pushing her breasts back in. She started ca
lling her husband’s name and stuttering about it being a mistake, an accident, it wasn’t… she didn’t… this wasn’t… but then she gave in and simply stared at him. What could she say?

  I stepped smoothly out of the car, knotted my tie back into place and said “What a crashing bore your lady wife is, Bob,” before strolling off.

  Actually that’s a complete lie. Although Simon Templar on TV might have done that, I still had to stay in character. So instead I came bumbling out of the Mercedes, trying to zip up my trousers and button my shirt. Car crash victim, all wide-eyed and shocked but still with that silver spoon in my mouth.

  “Bob! Oh goodness, Bob listen, it’s not what it looks like… we were just…”

  Bob glared. Really glared, with every muscle in his body. He looked so furious that for a second I wondered if he might charge me for damages. It was a Mercedes, after all.

  I gestured at Amanda, on the other side of the car. “It’s not her fault! She didn’t want to do anything, it was my idea, don’t blame her, Bob, it’s not her fault. Look, I’m sorry, I’m so terribly, terribly sorry, I don’t know what to say…”

  I was milking it now, but so what. I love an audience.

  Eventually, Bob composed himself enough to shout “Get him out of here!” Two suited men sprang forward and grabbed an arm each. I looked back and forth in sheer disbelief. Like this couldn’t possibly be happening. Not to me, Simon Templar, successful management consultant, this was simply not happening!

  Incidentally, even with all this going on, I noticed that directly beside Bob was a young, very pretty woman in the slinkiest of cocktail skirts. Even if I didn’t already know, I could have guessed what this particular employee of Bob’s company did for him. What her real job description was. The amazing thing was that Amanda hadn’t seen it.

  But then, they never do. It would never occur to Amanda that her husband wanted precisely the same thing she did: to feel young again.

  The two guys frogmarched me towards the house. Again, the crowd parted and I got an idea what it must be like for convicted criminals and megastars, to be hustled quickly through a sea of faces. All those stares. All that attention. I’d have given anything for the flash of a camera right then. I live for moments like that.

  I glanced back over my shoulder. How cool the Mercedes looked, wedged through the fence, its doors hanging open. How lost Amanda looked, like she’d just woken up from a confusing dream. How angry Bob looked, staring after me…

  Right there – so subtle that you had to be looking for it – his eyes softened. The hint of a nod.

  As if to say: Good job.

  Bob’s buddies manhandled me through the patio doors, past my unopened bottle of champagne (I’d claim that back as expenses) and out the front door. For a second, I thought they were going to hurl me to the ground, maybe even beat me up – but then they let go and stepped back.

  I brushed my shirt down and nodded genially at them. Like a performer coming offstage.

  “Sorry about the rough stuff, old chap,” one of them said.

  Old chap! Don’t laugh. “No harm done,” I assured him.

  I turned to go, about to call my getaway driver for a fast ride back to Arse-End Halt or whatever the train station was called. The other businessman tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Um… Bob told us about, you know, what you do, and I was wondering if you might be free for more bookings, Mister uh… sorry, I don’t know your name?”

  I grinned. Names are important. Handed him a business card. The one my agent had printed up for me.

  Chapter 2

  Confessions And Impressions

  My name is Scott Rowley, and I am an assassin.

  I like to imagine the whole room going quiet at that point. You know the set-up: a dozen people sitting in a circle, introducing themselves, all confessing their particular sins. Someone gets up and talks about drugs, someone else admits to violence, another guy explains how he’s addicted to sex, and so on. Then I get up and confess to being an assassin for the past eight years. Watch those jaws drop! See those eyes stare!

  I love an audience.

  First impressions, like names, are important. After saying that, I imagine their first impression would be to run like hell. There’s a killer in the room! So I’d have to explain that I’m not a conventional assassin. They’re completely safe, no need to worry. I’m not the sort of guy who kills people for money. That isn’t a gun in my pocket, I’m just pleased to see them.

  It’s people’s relationships that I kill.

  But yes, for money.

  Watch those frowns, those confused looks. What the hell does that mean? So I’d have to explain it. Tell them the story of the time I had Amanda Bentley-Foster in my crosshairs. How I made her fantasy come true: a secret, passionate affair with a handsome younger guy… never knowing I’d been hired by her husband. In order to get rid of her.

  So that wasn’t a gun in my pocket, but it blew her life away all the same.

  As soon as I mention doing this for money, a first impression is formed. Mercenary. Cold-hearted. Bastard. Might have liked it better if I was a proper assassin, at least that’s interesting and cool, whereas this just sounds like I’m some kind of whore. Then again, maybe you think it’s fascinating. Or just weird. Maybe you’re not sure what to think just yet, but you’ve certainly scratched me off your Christmas card list.

  This is where the confession part comes in. One way or the other, I know that writing this means opening myself up to be judged. Here I am, crouched in a darkened booth with the rest of the world on the other side of the mesh. Sitting in judgement.

  Bring it on. I’m way beyond it. Nobody will ever think I’m as cool as I once thought I was. And nobody will ever be disgusted by me as much I once disgusted myself.

  So let’s get the basics out of the way. Pay attention, class! Yes, this is my job. I put groceries on the table by seducing other men’s significant others. It’s not shagging for cash (which sounds like a game show – “Next tonight, Betty from Blackpool gambles her marriage for the chance to pay off the mortgage in, Shagging For Cash!”). It’s a complete, illicit relationship, there to be discovered. Often there’s no need to have sex at all, I just need to be caught at the wrong place and wrong time, looking guilty as sin.

  It’s not that far removed from hiring a detective agency to spy on your other half and find out if they’re up to something. Matrimonial surveillance, that’s called. Very popular these days. But a lot of the time, the detective’s clients are disappointed because it turns out there’s nothing going on after all. The good lady wife is behaving herself, there’s no guilty secret to discover.

  This is the next step – hiring someone to make sure there’s a guilty secret to discover.

  You might be surprised to learn how popular this little sideline to the detective industry has become. In Japan, of course, it’s been going on for years. They call people like me wakaresaseya – ‘breaker-uppers’. (I think relationship assassin is a little easier to say. And cooler.) For the wakaresaseya, their cases are usually all about saving face – making their clients look good amongst their peers – or bringing shame upon someone else. But in the good old UK, it’s usually about money.

  Doesn’t sound like I could earn a living out of this, does it? But there are plenty of powerful, wealthy men out there who will do anything to hold onto their assets. A straight divorce can mean their ex-wives walk away with half of everything, unless they’ve got a cast iron reason to cut them off. The best reason is to catch them playing away from home. If you can prove your spouse committed adultery with someone of the opposite sex, the courts tend to process your divorce petition quickly. Cry “Harlot!” and let slip the lawyers of war, and it’s all over for Mrs Businessman.

  And in case you’re already appalled at how badly the poor women are being treated, and have formed another impression of me as a sexist, misogynist bastard… You might like to know that in about 30% of cases, my client is the w
ife, not the husband. Strange but true. (I have a different business card for those situations, obviously. Curly script on a peach background, all very tasteful.) Sometimes she’s desperate for a divorce but knows her boring husband will never cheat on her, so she does the cheating herself, hiring me as a ready-made secret lover. Sometimes she wants to prove a point – remind hubbie she’s still attractive by having me make a move on her in public, make him realise how lucky he is to have her.

  Sometimes she just wants sex with someone else for a change. I turn those cases down. This isn’t escorting we’re talking about here, so go and wash your brain out with soap.

  But I suppose, like escorts, I don’t think of sex the way most people do. To me, it’s like a sport – the masses do it for fun, but a few turn it into a profession. They train themselves to the point where they can perform even if they aren’t in the mood. They study different techniques. And above all else, they practise, practise, practise. I swear, one day you’ll be able to switch on the telly and see edited highlights from the day’s sex tournaments. “Well Brian, after that marvellous upwards thrust, you can see how he manages to continue that rhythm for another volley!” “Yes, terrific ball control from the Frenchman there! It’s no wonder he’s this year’s number one seed!”

  Okay, I’m taking the piss out of myself now, but believe me when I tell you I don’t do what I do lightly. I screw with people’s lives. Never forget it. Back in the Old Days, when I was finding my feet, I did tend to enjoy myself a bit too much. I thought the whole thing was hysterical. Being paid to get your end away! And with married women as well! What a laugh!

  But too much has happened since then. I’m not that flippant anymore. I’ve learned the hard way to be professional.

  I’ve got Rules. The Rules I live my life by.

  Rule One: Never kill a relationship that isn’t already dead.

  Example? Look at the Bentley-Fosters. Not exactly what you’d call a loving couple. That marriage was already history. Amanda said as much. She just didn’t know that Bob felt the same way and was using me to end it. Relationship euthanasia might be a better way to put it. Splitting those two up was like putting a wounded animal to sleep. Should I feel guilty about a mercy killing?