Bang: Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin (3 page)

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.

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 wife, 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?

But you have to know this. I don’t mess with people in love. I know, I look like the hypocrisy poster boy now, but it’s true. If it’s for real – if I think I’m dealing with a couple who are still in love, or just one of them loves the other – I walk away. I won’t interfere with that. Not for any amount.

Which leads me onto…

Rule Two: Never work for a third party.

In the Old Days, back before I came up with these Rules, I was a gun for hire. Anybody could use my services. Choose your target. Aim me. Fire.

That was when I started realising what complete bastards people could be. Take my old client Mrs Samuels. She despised the man that her daughter had married, so she hired me to make a move on her. To seduce her own daughter! She knew damn well that when the jealous, aggressive husband spotted me flirting with his wife, it would send him over the edge. Got a free holiday out of that one, since I had to fly out to Greece to do the job. They were still on honeymoon, you see. Mrs Samuels didn’t want that marriage lasting any longer than it had to. So I killed it. All it took was a drunken snog with the blushing bride at the hotel bar. Bang. Job done. Her daughter flew home early with a black eye, courtesy of enraged husband. Back home to cry on mummy’s shoulder. I did warn you about him darling. There there.

Never again. After that, I decided only the people in a relationship have the right to end it. Nobody else’s business. So the interfering mothers, protective fathers, jealous mates and all the rest of you can jog on. There’s the client, and there’s my target, and there’s me.

Rule Three: Don’t disrupt the target’s life unnecessarily.

This is just something that comes with experience. Old Days, bull in a china shop. I used to get far too deeply involved. The target’s friends and family would get to know me, even like me. Worse – I got to like them. Which meant I felt it when they got hit by the shrapnel, on the day I made the kill.

Messy. And unfair. As I said in Rule Two, it’s got nothing to do with anyone except the target and the client. So nowadays I’m more discreet. Surgical. In and out, nice and neat.

Well, all right, the Bentley-Foster case wasn’t exactly surgical…

Rule Four: Walk away the instant the job’s done.

This isn’t the same as Rule Three. This one means don’t linger. Don’t come back later and make sure you’ve done your job properly. Don’t give the target any opportunity to get in touch with you again.

Don’t – no matter how much you’re tempted – try to make the target feel better afterwards. Like anonymously sending a bouquet of roses. Or leaving a huge stuffed toy of that cartoon figure that was your private symbol when you were together.

Just don’t.

Damn good rules. They’ve served me well, got me out of all kinds of trouble. Stopped me hurting people. Stopped me looking like a complete tit. And I stuck to the Rules for years.

Until the Hargreaves case, when I broke every single one of them.

Do I have the room of fellow confessors rapt? Or am I wandering round in a circle talking to myself? Is the confession booth empty or packed?

This is weird for me. You have to understand that writing this down is so damn weird. I can’t tell people what I do for a living. With one exception, I never breathe a word about my missions to anyone. Secret agent. Nobody ever finds out. So writing about it, writing about me and my life, just feels wrong and strange. Half of me wants to really show off, tell my life story in juicy detail. The other half wants to delete every single word I’ve written, quick, before anybody sees it.

I wonder if my Dad felt like this. He was a writer too, a novelist. Thrillers, spy stories, hitmen, kidnappings, underworld. That sort of thing really floated Dad’s boat – the house was full of dog-eared Ian Flemings and Tom Clancys and John le Carrés – which is probably why I’ve ended up loving the same sort of genre. He had a book of his own published in the Eighties. Nobody bought it. You can’t find it now, not even on Amazon or eBay… I’ve checked.

After Dad was gone, Mum cleared out all the free copies he’d received from his publisher, as well as everything else he ever owned. It was almost an exorcism. To be honest, for a couple of years he’d almost been like a lodger anyway, squirreled away in the back room, barely speaking to anyone, getting more and more obsessed with his own writing. It was Mum who looked after me, brought me up pretty much single-handed. She never relied on my Dad to help, never stopped working, never complained. So once he was gone, it almost wasn’t that big a deal. A week later there was no trace of him or his book.