Bang: Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin Read online

  But it doesn’t matter. I can get past all that. And that’s what allows me to make a living out of this. I genuinely don’t give a damn what the target looks like, sounds like or even smells like. The excitement of becoming somebody else, of going undercover, is what gets me through. The excitement of a seduction. Thinking about the money helps too. That thrill has never really gone away. Even if the woman isn’t my type at all.

  Actually… now that I think about it, I’m not sure what my type is.

  Hmm. That’s bugging me now. Have I ever had one?

  Anyway, the point is that with Becky, I was making half of it up as I went along. It made the whole thing even more exciting, romancing by the seat of your pants. The fact that she was young and cute was a bonus, but it didn’t make much difference really. Becky could have had facial hair like Chewbacca and I’d still be coming at her like she was this month’s centrefold.

  Phase 3: Flirtation.

  Tuesday 8 June 2.20pm.

  “Oh God, what a slag!”

  “Who’s a slag?”

  “Her! That slag there!”

  There was a little group of office girls clustered round the reception desk, laughing and talking. Becky was still behind the desk but joining in. It looked like they were all peering at a magazine. The moment I saw them, I turned away and started rooting through my satchel, as if looking for something right at the bottom. Delaying tactics. I hovered, earwigging.

  “Who, Anne Robinson?”

  “No, her with her tits hanging out!”

  “Megan MacLeod?”

  “Yeah, the slag!”

  Becky’s voice: “She’s not bad in EastEnders though.”

  “Yeah but she’s everywhere nowadays innit, all over the place. Nothing but a Scotch tart.”

  “God look at Declan, he’s gorgeous.”

  “Oh yeah, he’s sex on a stick, isn’t he?”

  “Hmm, he’s all right. Bit too pretty-boy for me.” Becky again. Interesting.

  “He could certainly do better for himself than that slapper.”

  “I’d do the dark-haired one in the band, definitely, what’s his name, looks like a young Robbie Williams, phwoar!”

  “Phwoarrr!” mimicked Becky, making them all laugh.

  That sounded like my cue. I walked up to the desk, waving at Becky. “Hi. Another parcel.”

  The three girls shifted slightly, looking me up and down as I wandered innocently into their world. Christians and lions. “Just running my media studies class,” smiled Becky, gesturing to her mates.

  “Oh right… yeah, sounded pretty in-depth.”

  “Oh, we’re all professionals here, can’t you tell?” She was in a good mood. Excellent.

  “Bet he fancies her,” said one of the girls, making me jump. She waved the glossy magazine at me. I caught a colour spread of a young redhead in a slinky dress. “You do, don’t you? All blokes do.”

  “Who’s this, then?”

  “Her off EastEnders.”

  “Nah, she’s a slag,” I said, getting a roar of laughter from all of them.

  “It’s true! She is, I told you!” This was from the loudest of them, a bottle blonde whose hair had been styled to sweep dramatically sideways across her forehead. It looked like she’d washed her hair with superglue then walked out into a hurricane.

  “Mmm, a man with taste,” said a black girl whose body weight was twice my own. She had the dirtiest, loudest laugh of them all, like she was channelling Sid James. “Nice bum too.”

  Squeals from the third girl, who was small and boney. “Teri!” Hands to face. Drama queen.

  “Well he has! I like a man in leather!”

  “Whose your type then, if it’s not her?” asked bottle-blonde, still waving the magazine.

  “Well…” I thought about it for a second, and amazingly there was a sudden hush, like they were actually listening. Think quick. Make it work for me. “I got to say, I know this sounds stupid, but I prefer girls with blue eyes.” And I kept myself at a right angle to Becky, so it wasn’t obvious this was aimed at her.

  The boney dwarf squealed again. “Oh my God! I’ve got blue eyes!”

  “Yeah, and me!” said bottle-blonde.

  “Right, well I’ll have both of you then!” I lunged forwards, arms out-stretched, as if I was going to sweep them both up and run off with them. Big laughs all round. The blonde even threw herself forwards and gave me a quick hug. Bit keen, that one.

  During all of this, Becky had been sitting there smiling, watching. Now her telephone rang, and she raised her voice to answer it. “Welcome to Asquith and Bream Consolidated, how can I be of assistance? What’s that, sir? Sexual favours department? Sorry, Laura’s not at her desk right now, can I take a message?”

  We all laughed like drains, even bottle-blonde Laura: “Oi, you bitch! Stop doing that!”

  Becky put the phone down and grinned. The joker of the pack. Very interesting.

  After this, I got a barrage of questions. You’re a new boy, aren’t you? Who do you work for? Are those leathers comfortable? Just nonsense stuff, but I chatted happily to them while Becky signed for the package. All of these deliveries were fake, by the way. I was buying the latest chart CDs and sending them to various high-ups in Asquith and Bream, with a compliment slip saying they were free samples from a marketing agency. I knew nobody would ever look too closely at a such a freebie, so it allowed me to keep making deliveries. Cost me a bit, but I could always chalk it up to expenses and get the client to pay. Like with the champagne that I never got to drink. In the past I’ve had expenses claims for everything from return flights to Greece to renting a Porsche. And once I made a claim for two pairs of handcuffs and a bottle of something called Banana Dick Lick. But that’s another story.

  I started worrying that I was concentrating on the other girls a bit too much, but then Becky asked me a direct question: “What was your name again?”

  “John,” I told her.

  She nodded. On her face: yes, that’s fine.

  I’ll say it again – names are important. Makes a world of difference in the early stages. A name you’ve never liked can put you right off someone. But you can’t go far wrong with John. Good solid name. Masculine, but ordinary. Just as long as she didn’t ask my surname. Or if she did, that she hadn’t heard of John Holmes and his enormous reputation.

  A more significant question from Laura. “Are you single?”

  “Laura!” gasped boney dwarf (whose name I gathered was Nicola), as if she’d asked me “Do you mind if we get a look at your cock?”

  “Sure.” I grinned, cheekily. “Best way to be.”

  “Oh yeah, totally! Loads more fun!”

  “Get a room, guys!” guffawed Teri. Nicola shook her head – I was a bit worried that if she turned that pointy chin towards Teri too quickly, she might burst her. That was enough for one day, I decided. As I picked up my satchel and turned to go, I threw a wink directly at Becky. She smiled, amused.

  A little secret something between her and me.

  It’s amazing how effective tiny gestures like that can be. There isn’t a woman in the world who doesn’t want to feel like she’s the special one – not her friends, not any of the other girls, but her. She’d keep that to herself, I knew.

  I felt I had a better handle on Becky now. She was lower end of the spectrum, cheap and cheerful. A common working girl. That might sound nasty, but remember I was used to getting it on with women who lived in mansions and had credit accounts at Fortnum and Masons. Still, Becky seemed a bit more on the ball than her workmates. And she had a sense of humour – the telephone gag was obviously her little invention, something she did from time to time to get a laugh.

  So that helped establish my character. I would be the boy next door type, as down to earth as she was. I would have a good sense of humour and be quick to laugh. And, remembering her comment about pretty boys, I would stop shaving. Maybe give myself one or two little scars? Hmm, not sure I could ever do that to
myself.

  But basically, that was me from now on. John Holmes the motorbike courier. Friendly. Cheeky. Fun. Honest.

  I loved this part. Crafting the mask. Nailing down the speech, the mannerisms, the personality, oh and the motivation darling, don’t forget, you must know the character’s motivation! (Well, that was easy. John’s motivation was to chat up the cute receptionist and, if possible, shag her blind.) I reckon I’d have made a half-decent actor in another life. But then again, do you have any idea how piss-poor most actors are? Nah, I’ll stick with where the money is. The Old Vic will get by somehow.

  Easy one, this. No challenge. Some of my past cases called for a whole lot more. I’ve had to pretend to be somebody so unlike me it would make the RSC weep at my wasted talent. That time with the vicar’s wife, for example. Prayer meetings and Bible discussions and long talks about the nature of temptation. That was tough. Not sure how I pulled that one off.

  I don’t do holiness very well.

  Phase 4: Damage limitation.

  Wednesday 9 June. 11.02am.

  As soon as I walked into reception, I knew things had gone wrong. New faces behind the desk. One of them was a bloke. That’s how wrong it was.

  While I went through the whole sign-for-package thing with him, I looked round, hoping to spot Becky somewhere else. Through the glass double doors, I could see the main office – plenty of people, but not her. “No Becky today, then?” I asked the receptionist.

  “No, she’s off sick.”

  Bollocks. Nothing I could do about that. A waste of a day. And maybe more if she was ill the rest of the week. But that’s the way it goes. You’re bound to get setbacks one way or the other. The trick is to minimise them if you can.

  As I took the receipt from him I said “Cheers, and listen, tell her I hope she’s feeling better soon, yeah? She knows me, it’s John from Ontime Direct.”

  “Sure, I’ll let her know.”

  That was something. Assuming matey remembered to mention it, that might do me some good. Knowing that I asked about her might make her feel a little special. Most women get a buzz out of being pursued. If it’s not overdone, it can open a lot of doors.

  And legs.

  Phase 5: Conversation.

  Thursday 10 June. 9.33am.

  “Hey!” I said happily as I came through the doors. There she was in her usual place, giving me a smile. Thank God she was back. I was on a schedule. “So how you feeling, you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine thanks. Heard you came in yesterday.”

  Result. “You know what, I almost turned round and walked back out again. Can’t make a delivery without you there. It’s just not right!”

  She laughed. “I can’t believe you let someone else sign for it, how could you!”

  “I know, I’m a slag,” I said, and that made both of us laugh, remembering Laura’s little tirade. I scanned her face again. “I have to say, you don’t look ill to me.”

  “Yeah, well…” She glanced round, lowered her voice. “I threw a sickie. I had some stuff to do for… for a friend.” She was leaning forwards, arms folded round her sides, hands buried. You couldn’t see the ring.

  “So you bunked off! I’m telling!” I looked left and right. “Where’s your manager…?”

  “No, don’t you dare!” and she instinctively grabbed my arm to stop me walking off and squealing on her. Playground stuff. But it got her touching me, even if only briefly. Another small barrier broken.

  All I wanted to do today was talk. It didn’t matter if it was absolute rubbish or serious discussion, I just needed talking time. To listen to her voice, watch her expressions, measure her body language. And settle myself into those patterns.

  I managed nearly ten minutes of forgettable conversation. Slowly I began to mimic a few things about her, although I can’t say precisely what they were because so much of this stuff is done subconsciously. I did catch myself leaning on the desk the same way she did, with both arms folded underneath me. Didn’t even realise I was doing it. That’s how it works: talking the same body language.

  Her phone rang, and she switched it to voicemail without so much as a glance. Neither of us mentioned it – we just kept chatting. I was getting somewhere.

  Then I glanced round and noticed a little cluster of women near the inner doors. I recognised Teri and Nicola, plus three others, all watching me and Becky.

  “What?” said Becky, causing them all to giggle. Playground stuff.

  “You’re not allowed to flirt with the couriers!” chimed Nicola.

  Teri added “Yeah, what will hubbie say if he finds out?”

  Becky’s face flamed – “He’s not my hubbie yet!” – as she hastily scribbled her signature on the parcel receipt. The other girls laughed their heads off. I smiled, but said nothing, not even wanting to acknowledge that Becky had a fiancé. Behind my smile I was irritated. This was ruining our connection. Please, I begged the girls silently, sod off back to your desks right this second.

  “You watch yourself, John!” called Teri. “She’ll stick her hand in your trouser pocket and tell you she’s looking for her keys!”

  Becky gaped. “Teri! I don’t do that any more!”

  As the group eventually wandered away, Becky said she was sorry about that lot, and I said it was fine, don’t worry about it. “Like being back at school, isn’t it?” I put on a girly voice. “My mate fancies you!”

  She laughed, less embarrassed now. “Tell me about it!”

  I didn’t want to push my luck after all that. “Listen, I might be in again later. I think another parcel came in as I left. So see you this afternoon?”

  “Okay, cool, see you later.”

  Phase 6: Anticipation.

  Thursday 10 June.

  I didn’t show.

  It would have been easy to go wandering back in there, after having broken the ice so well that morning. I had the fake parcel all wrapped up, ready to go. But instead I stayed at home and played pinball.

  It’s a genuine oldie, my pinball machine. Cost a lot of money to get it refurbished, but there’s a whole network of pinball enthusiasts out there if you know where to look, with plenty of spare parts and expertise. Thanks to their help, I had a proper pinball machine from the mid-Seventies flashing and chiming in my living room. Could spend hours on it, trying to beat my high score, pumping the flippers and singing away to myself. That deaf dumb and blind kid, sure plays a mean pinball!

  So that was Thursday afternoon gone, and then I went down the pub with Darren. Got in three times as many rounds as him while he babbled on about this girl he was shagging. But Asquith and Bream Consolidated had to do without me.

  Why? Because I wanted her to want me.

  It wasn’t as if we were having some great romance or anything. Wuthering Heights this ain’t. But I wanted to trigger some small feeling of eagerness in Becky. Even if it was just looking forward to another little distraction from work.

  Making a woman meet you halfway isn’t something you achieve by following her too closely. You play a few cards to show you’re keen, but then you keep the rest of your hand hidden, see if she wants to play the game.

  I wanted her to wonder where I’d got to.

  I wanted her to miss me, just a little.

  Phase 7: Isolation.

  Friday 11 June. 12.05pm.

  There was a middle-aged woman struggling across reception with a chair, carrying it out of the main office and into a meeting room. Without even thinking, I stepped up to give her a hand. She was relieved, thanking me as I carried it into the room. No problem, I said breezily, popping the chair down and walking back to the reception desk. Becky was watching me with a smile on her face.

  I’d love to be able to tell you that was meticulously planned. That I’d set the whole thing up so that I could show her what a nice guy I was. But that would be bullshit, so I’ll admit it was pure luck. By itself, nothing very important. But little things like that can add up quickly.

  Becky s
aid “Look at you, knight in shining leather,” and I shrugged as if embarrassed, as if I’d been caught doing the boy scout thing, whoops, you got me.

  She looked great. I hadn’t paid much attention to her clothes before. Bland office stuff, blouses and jackets. But it was Friday, so now I noticed her white t-shirt and blue Levis. You couldn’t get much simpler, but it looked good on her, showing off her curves. Her auburn hair wasn’t pinned up today either, but fell down onto her shoulders in lightly-curled waves. Teardrop earrings instead of hoops. Had she made an effort for me?

  “What happened to you yesterday then, mister? Where’s this other package?” So she did notice that I hadn’t come back.

  “Ah, threw it away. Didn’t look important.”

  She laughed. And I noticed her eyes were now doing the scanning thing, left and right over my face. I felt my pulse jump a bit – that was one of the small signs I had been looking for. I hadn’t shaved for three days now, and the stubble was nice and even, so maybe that was it. She didn’t like her boys too pretty.

  “You’ve been delivering packages to other places, haven’t you? I just know it.”

  “Who, me? How could you say that?”

  “I know your type. Cheating swine. You’ll deliver to anyone. You’re just a – ”

  “Slag!” we chorused, giggling like kids. I silently thanked her mate Laura for the gift. Nothing brings two people together better than having a laugh over somebody else.

  Her telephone rang again, and she rolled her eyes. It seemed like a genuine call, so she caught me by surprise by saying “Hello, Chinese laundry? Look, for the last time, I’ve never heard of Asquith and bloody Bream, all right? Yes, you can pick up the bed sheets at four, goodbye!”

  I guess you had to be there to see the way she did it, but it did crack me up. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to fake laughter to show some woman how much I appreciate her sense of humour. (The worst was Mrs Baker, who saw herself as a female Tommy Cooper. Only in looks, I once replied. That didn’t go down too well. Fortunately I do, so that took her mind off it – just like that.) But with Becky it was all too easy.