But I wasn’t... I wasn’t the same as them, was I?
I peered through the crowd, craning my head around people in my way, watching the players at work. Before long, targets had been assigned. The dark-haired guy in the grey suit was talking directly to the woman with long curly black hair, angling his body to separate her from the others, drawing her away from the security of the herd. The London-Indian had slid his sports jacket off to impress the blonde girl with his biceps, who was already touching them and giggling. Mister hairy-chest-designer-stubble was listening intently to the brunette’s nervous babble as if she was the only girl in the world. As if she was his own girlfriend, who as we all knew was at home alone that night.
The fourth girl stood off to one side. She was short, with brown hair in a bob (unlike all the others’ long, shampoo-advert hairstyles), and a turned-up nose. The bright smile on her face was wilting like an autumn flower.
They’d cut her out already. The ‘runt of the litter’, the one that none of the boys wanted. Equally clear was that her three friends were far too busy to notice. They’d abandoned her.
There was a sudden gap at the bar, which the guys took advantage of with the speed of experienced pub-goers. Drinks were ordered, three glasses of wine and three pints of lager. Nothing for the runt. She stood off to one side, watching her prettier friends get lucky with three smooth, cool, fit, handsome, good-wages, own-property, expensive-car, holidays-abroad, clothes-and-presents-and-shopping-opportunities, men.
I’d seen this story before.
Felt like rewriting the ending.
It took a while for the girl with the brown bob and a face like thunder to gather up her handbag and push her way through the crowd towards the ladies toilets, and by the time she got there, I was already waiting inside the door. I slapped a hand over her mouth to stop her screaming, pulled her in, kicked the door shut behind me, looked straight into her massive terrified eyes and held up my wallet.
“CID. Detective Sergeant Jack Carter. Please don’t scream, miss. Okay?”
She stared at the photocard in my wallet, then at me. She nodded, staying quiet as I removed my hand.
I had half a dozen fake IDs on me, but this was the one that came in handy most often. The laminated Metropolitan Police photocard would never stand up to any proper inspection, but it was just a prop. The identity was actually being faked right there on my face. Serious eyes. Authoritative voice. Urgent tone.
“I’m sorry to tell you like this, miss, but I couldn’t let anyone see me talking to you. You and your friends are in trouble and we need to act quickly. You’ve all walked into the middle of a CID operation, and we need to extricate you before we make our move.”
“What? What’s going on?” she breathed. I opened my mouth to tell her but she suddenly worked it out. “Wait, you mean those blokes? The ones with my friends? Are you after them?”
I nodded. “We’ve been tracking them for a few months. Now listen, miss, there are several undercover colleagues of mine in the bar, but we can’t move in until you and your friends are safely out of the way. So I’m going to ask you – ”
“What have they done?” she asked. As I’d hoped.
Grim expression. “They’re known to abuse women. They cruise around bars, pretend to be ordinary guys, then use rhohypnol to drug young women, so they can take them to their cars and drive them off to... well, to do whatever they want to them.”
Her jaw fell open. “Rhohypnol!”
“Yes, they put it into the drinks they buy for their targets. So I’m sorry miss, but I have to insist that you all – ”
Blur of motion, door yanked open, whoosh.
“ – leave as soon as possible,” I said to empty air.
I followed her out of the ladies and back into the hustle and bustle of the bar. She was elbowing her way through the crowd towards her friends. They were just taking their first sips of white wine, smiling at the three hot men they were now definitely with.
As their forgotten mate came barging up to them, leaning in to urgently whisper in their ears, they all had the same look of frustration on their faces. And then the same look of horror.
Three wine glasses hit the floor with a splintering CRASH!
The guys all jumped back, surprised, confused, wiping splashed wine and bits of glass off their trouser legs. Heads turned as half the bar witnessed three beautiful long-haired girls snatch up their bags and bolt for the exit, led by a shorter woman with brown hair in a bob, a turned-up nose and a look of fierce determination which oddly suited her. Behind them, the men called out helplessly, asking what was wrong and what had they done, then stopped when they realised dozens of people were staring at them, wondering the very same thing.
By the time they’d slinked away to where they had previously been standing by the rear wall, I was back on my stool and drinking my beer as if I’d never left. They didn’t even register me. They were too busy wondering what happened, why the girls left and what their friend had said to them. Except with a lot more swearing.
“Dunno what that fuckin’ bitch told ‘em but if I catch ‘er I’m gonna fuckin’ knock her teeth out, know what I mean?”
“God knows what their problem was bruv, God knows, some birds are just fucking weird!”
“Jesus, that’s got me right worked up now boys, I reckon we need to gang someone, yeah? All up for that?”
“Aw, yes mate, deffo! Remember that Polish tart in Whitechapel, she didn’t know what day of the week it was by the time we’d finished with her!”
“Right, so that’s our new mission then. We need to find some dirty little bitch and get her so coked up she’s happy to get every hole filled at the same time, and we can all fuckin’ bang the shit outta her.”
“Now you’re talking, Si!”
I put my bottle down, suddenly too sick to drink.
Animals.
But now, at least, all the guilt and doubt drained away and I was left feeling clear-headed and certain about what I had to do.
Targets acquired. Game on.
On the table beside me sat another man, hunched away from me as he bellowed into a mobile phone. He didn’t notice as I leaned over and dipped two fingers into his pint glass. Dabbed lager along my neck like aftershave. Bit more down my shirt front, like I’d spilled some. Mussed up my hair slightly. Then I pushed forwards so I slid awkwardly off the chrome barstool, sending it clanging onto the floor as I stumbled into the back of the London-Indian guy.
“Shit, sorry mate, sorry!” I slurred.
“You’re all right mate,” he said, only half-turning. Drunk blokes bumping into other drunk blokes was par for the course on a Friday night.
“Listen, don’t mean to be nosey or nothin’, but... did I hear you say you’re all looking for a girl to gang-fuck?”
That got their attention – all three revolved my way with alarm, but I just gave them a lopsided grin, swaying back and forth. “Cos if you are, then I know the perfect slutty little whore you need, and she’s right here, waiting for it. Straight up!”
The dark-haired one shook his head. “We don’t need to pay for it, mate.”
I laughed – actually it was more like a drunken cackle. “Mate, I ain’t a pimp or nothin’! Nah, no need to pay for it when this girl’ll do it for free, she loves it! Me and my mate Tom spit-roasted her last week, she was fuckin’ begging for it, mate, no lie! We met her here, in this bar, I came looking for her tonight and she’s back!”
“So why aren’t you doing her again?” the blonde guy wanted to know.
Wry smile. Half-closed eyes. Swaying. “Too pissed, mate! Spent too long waiting, and I started at lunchtime, no good to anyone now. But this bird won’t say no to three blokes at once, she’s your girl. You wanna see her? Some other lads are bound to pick ‘er up if you don’t.”
All three shared a cautious look, and then a nod. I waved for them to follow as I led them through the crowd, round the bar to the other side of the room.
When I pointed her out, all three made half-grunt half-gasp noises of approval. She was bright and beautiful – those were the first impressions. Shiny blonde hair, very simple and classic, down to her shoulders. Tight white blouse, buttons open around the cleavage, a short red skirt with a slit up the thigh, and black stiletto-heeled shoes. Her bare legs were smooth, tanned and firm with muscle. She could be a high-earning professional in the City, or a high-class call girl – she gave off the vibe of both.
She was sitting, like I had been, by herself on a chrome stool against the wall, underneath an Art Nouveau mural. Despite the crush of people there was a space around her, as if nobody dared get too close. Quite a few were shooting glances her way, either with admiration or envy.
“Fuckin’ hell!” said the dark-haired guy. “How’d you get to shag something like that?”
“That’s the thing, mate, she’s training to be in porn! She told me she needs to get used to everything, so she can make some money making movies. That’s why she comes back here every week looking for cock, she’s training herself up to be professionally banged! More the merrier, she can’t get enough!”
I hoped I said all this in a convincing manner, but from the looks on their faces, I might as well have tapped it out in Morse code for all the difference it made. They stared at her like a pack of starving hyenas spotting a sleeping calf. Animal hunger.
“Nice one bruv,” the London-Indian guy said. He actually shook my hand, like we were finalising a business deal. “That’s a sweet tip!”
“Enjoy it, mate,” I said, stumbling away. “Remember, just do whatever you like, she’ll never say no!”
The dark-haired one cracked his knuckles. “Right then, time for us to all do some serious fuckin’ damage to that, boys. Bags the arse!”
“Uh-HA! Uh-HA! Uh-HA!”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-hehehehehehe!”
I backed off a little, but not so far away that I couldn’t watch the three of them saunter through the crowd like they owned the place. The blonde girl vanished from sight as they all stood close around her, swallowing her up.
Although I was too far away to hear anything, I could imagine their game-faces going on. No doubt they smiled sweetly, introduced themselves politely, met her eyes suggestively, complimented her charmingly. Or perhaps this time, they let their masks slip, assured that their true selves would be enough to get what they wanted. I couldn’t hear their voices. I couldn’t hear their laughter.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
But I heard the scream.
London-Indian folded neatly in two and fell to his knees onto the floor, both hands clutching his groin. Almost too fast to follow, the girl spun round on the stool and grabbed the back of the dark-haired guy’s head, then slammed his face down onto the circular edge of the table. He collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.
The blonde man whipped his palms up and backed away, but she reached out and sank her fingers into his chest hair. He was wincing as she dragged him back towards her, and then her other hand swung round, driving a fist into his face. She was still clutching a handful of wiry blonde hairs as he staggered back, legs buckling.
I watched her take a deep breath, sweeping her hair back. She still hadn’t got off the stool.
Gasps and screams and shock and surprise rippled through Avant-Garde, people backing away and staring at the three men yowling in agony on the floor. It didn’t take long before two black-suited bouncers were charging in from the entrance, clearly ready for trouble. Only to find a beautiful girl sitting calmly with three men writhing at her feet.
She waved them over, and I saw her talking to the bouncers. Then they were hauling the three men up off the ground. Ignoring their groans of pain, the bouncers frogmarched them out of the bar, two of them clutching bloody noses, the third clutching his crotch.
Professionally banged.
As the levels of chatter slowly returned to normal and the excitement died down, I slipped around the bar towards the side exit. But I hesitated long enough to glance backwards. Someone had approached the blonde girl: a very well-dressed black man in his early forties, bulging with muscles inside his Jermyn Street suit. From his stance and expression he was clearly asking if she was all right, and from her nods and magnetic smile, she was clearly telling him she was fine. He smiled back, tenderly placing a huge hand on her shoulder in an almost-paternal way. Almost. I noticed the gold band on his finger.
As I went through the door into the sidestreet outside Avant-Garde, I popped in my phone’s Bluetooth earpiece and made a call. A female voice answered. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” I said, “just checking how the mission’s going.”
“Fine. All on track.”
“Sure you’re okay? No problems?”
“Nope. Just had a run-in with three losers, but I think it’s actually worked in my favour, the target has properly noticed me. He’s just gone to buy me a drink. I think he’s probably turned on by a girl who knows self-defence.”
“When you say you had a run-in... those guys didn’t hurt you?”
A sigh. “Scott, you don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”
“Doing what?”
“You know what. Checking up on me, like I’m your little sister or something. You of all people know I can look after myself.”
My body twinged with meat-memories. “Thanks for reminding me.”
“Seriously, just let me get on with it, all right? I don’t do this on your missions, do I?”
“Okay, you’re right, I’ll back off. Sorry. I have to learn to stop worrying. All right, well, good luck and I’ll see you at the office in the – ”
“Scott.”
“Yeah?”
“...Thanks.” I could just about hear the smile in her voice. You had to know her pretty well to detect it.
I smiled too. “Take them out,” I told her. Infidelity Ltd’s company motto.
“I did,” she replied, ending the call.
I glanced round the corner of the building, where the three players were staggering across the pavement, staunching blood and cupping testicles. Howling like wounded animals.
I grinned to myself. “So did I.”
Pocketing my earpiece, I turned and walked off through Vauxhall’s streets, knowing that now the amateurs had been removed, the game could be left in the safe hands of my fellow professional.
About the Author
David Wailing writes contemporary fiction, a blend of mystery, thriller and humour.
The key theme of David’s novels is ‘identity’ - people pretending to be something they're not. All his work is focused around characters that fake being someone else or take on others’ characteristics.
At present David has two novels available as paperbacks and Kindle ebooks: Fake Kate and Bang: Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin.
In 2012 he will be producing new short stories followed by Shot, the second book in the Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin series.
David lives in North London and always puts everything on 21 black.
www.davidwailing.com
facebook.com/davidwailing
twitter @davidwailing
BANG
Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin
A novel by David Wailing
DON'T NEED THE OTHER HALF ANY MORE?
TAKE THEM OUT.
So, you've hired a detective agency to prove your partner is cheating on you. But there's no evidence to be found. Who you gonna call?
Me. I am the assassin. Your friend.
Anything your other half secretly desires, whatever makes her give in to temptation... that's who I'll become. Get close to her. Take her out. Bang. That's what a relationship assassin does. Infidelity for hire!
But don't think I'm heartless. I'm a professional. I've got Rules to protect my targets. Rules to stop them getting too close to the real me.
Rules that were blown away when three extraordinary women – the seductress, the celebrity, a
nd the office girl – turned my world inside out.
And for a relationship assassin, having my own other half was like shooting myself in the heart...
Buy the paperback or Kindle ebook of Bang at
www.davidwailing.com
Hire Infidelity Ltd to take them out at
www.infidelity-ltd.com
Fake Kate
A novel by David Wailing
TWO FACES ARE BETTER THAN ONE...
Belinda can’t believe it. Her sister Kate finally tries online dating and lines up no less than eight dates!
But nobody shows their true face on the internet. Eight exciting strangers, but they all have secrets. And one of them knows the only secret Belinda cares about:
Why Kate has vanished.
Belinda is determined to find out what’s happened, but how? With Kate missing, there will be no dates, unless...
Unless Belinda takes her place. Steals her sister’s looks and personality to go on the dates herself!
As Belinda struggles to fake an entire life, she discovers Kate had been faking too, for a very long time...
Buy the paperback or Kindle ebook of Fake Kate at
www.davidwailing.com
Use online dating to find your perfect match at
www.otherhalves.com
Table of Contents
Title page
Copyright page
Roulette
Players
About the author
Bang
Fake Kate
Roulette (Untold Tales from the Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin) Page 3