Headhunters

by John King

  Mango was a success. He had money in his pocket. Money in his various accounts. Savings schemes and investment plans. Now it was time for a bit of active socialism. He was spreading his wealth. The girl sunk her head down and started moving. He looked straight ahead, willing himself to remain interested as he felt the emptiness of paid-for sex, his vision quickly accustomed to the darkness. Apartments glowed red through the trees and occasionally a car hummed past on fresh tarmac. The girl was doing her work like the pro she was and he felt the tension quickly build, forgetting the romantic setting and confused motives. Mango’s hands moved down to the back of the girl’s head and he pushed the dismembered head further down, doing his best to ram his penis down her throat. She began to gag and pull back, but he pushed harder and told her to get on with it, not to muck him about, laughing that he was paying the wages and the employer always demanded more work for lower pay, it was just the way of the world, part of the boss-worker contract. Then he was coming and the girl was coughing, Mango pushing the button so she could open the door and clear her throat in the street, realising that the punter meant it when he said he’d send her home in an ambulance if she dirtied the interior. When she’d recovered they sat in silence as he did the decent thing and drove her back. Mango made a couple of attempts at small talk that weren’t returned, one-word answers unwilling to forgive. When he glanced at the kid he saw her brushing a tear from her cheek and he felt like the exploiter he was, wanting to ask her name and history but knowing it was too late.

  Mango felt the Jag vibrate as the girl slammed the door and ran off, a flash of anger replaced by a desire to get home. He needed to forget instantly and press on as he had to be up early and needed to be at his best. There was a big deal in the pipeline and he would have to be shit hot to get the best for both himself and WorldView. He retraced his route along the Marylebone Road, then on to the West Way, down to Shepherd’s Bush Corner and through Earl’s Court to Fulham. He tried not to think too much, all that stuff about cutting up kids and everything, what the fuck was going on in his head, that whore as well, the second bird under sixteen he’d been with for a wage. King’s Cross was a cesspool as far as Mango was concerned and the sooner the police finished cleaning up the place the better for everyone. It was disgusting. It was his last time. Something had to be done. The country was going to the dogs.

  He wondered what the lads were doing. He wouldn’t mind a pint and some normal company, but it was late. He knew they thought he was a bit of a wanker sometimes, with the car and flat and money in the bank, but he preferred to dismiss it as jealousy. His mates were losers but they were also his history. It was where he belonged, though he hated the blind acceptance and broken pavements, the intensity of everyone knowing everyone else’s business. He wanted privacy. He believed in breaking things down and separating interests. If he wanted to bring some tart home and cut off her head, maybe leave it sitting on the living room table for a week then he could. No other cunt could do that. Not that he was going that way, not James Wilson, no chance, but it was nice to have the option. It showed he was in control. It was all about freedom of choice.

  When he entered his flat the first things Mango did was bolt the door, switch off the alarm, turn on the bath and get a shepherd’s pie out of the freezer ready for the microwave. It was good to be home, the flat warm and welcoming thanks to the automatic timer he’d had installed. The thick carpet was a luxurious cushion as he stripped off and went to the main bedroom. The bed was large and custom-made from the finest imported hardwood and had set him back two grand. There was a big gold-trimmed mirror at the bottom of the bed where he liked to take women from behind, able to view his actions in widescreen format. He really should’ve bought that girl back and shagged her properly. He was wary of disease, but imagined himself sodomising her, ripping her apart, shoving his fist up her arse and pulling out the guts. He laughed. Sick cunt he was sometimes. He’d never do it though. He knew he was alright. It was just the stuff around him hitting home. Poor little thing stuck in a place like King’s Cross. Probably milked by some dago, nigger or white trash pimp. Hooked on junk. Shafted by the male population. She’d been lucky to meet a bloke like James Wilson, Jimmy Boy, good old Mango, someone respectable from the City, a mother’s son, a bit-of-a-chap soft at heart, a decent citizen who wanted to help. Least he wasn’t a bum bandit like Carter or some death-tripper insisting on unprotected sex. He hadn’t even tried. Shown a bit of respect. He wasn’t tooled-up, a knife or pliers in his coat pocket, lengths of twisted wire to dig in her skin and find some kind of silver lining under the surface. Fuck that for a game of soldiers. He’d leave that to the wankers he worked with, going on about S&M all the time. It wasn’t surprising some of it rubbed off after a while.

  He’d even given the bird an extra twenty quid after the event and though she took it quick enough the ungrateful slag hadn’t even bothered with a thank you. He got a bit carried away, that was all, trying to get deep down her throat like a man was told to in school, just to understand what was going on inside the system. And Mango stood in front of the mirror with subdued lamplight behind him, the edge of his skin dusted with orange-tinted angel dust, an aura of invincibility protecting him from harm. He worked his penis erect, walking over to the bedside table for the KY, returning to his original position, rubbing the lubricant in and aiming for the mirror. He thought of the girl in all kinds of positions, working through the options. When he was about to come he thought of the mirror’s price tag and hurried to the bathroom, entering the steamy atmosphere heavy with bath salts, hanging plants placed strategically either side of a frosted-glass window, a rainforest atmosphere for a lithe animal. Mango was in good time and ejaculated over the toilet seat and into the bowl. He watched tinsel hang, glue stretching with the weight of his heritage. He felt patriotism and pride in the DNA he manufactured, a caste away from the mutant genes dominant in red light zones and other centres of genetic inferiority. There was some kind of regret for the sperm doomed to float in dead scented water, the goal never achieved, the only possible end a torrent of green bleached water from the cistern and a one-way ticket round the U-bend. Then there was the trip through the sewers, struggling manfully to impregnate rats, creating a unique monster race that would one day rise from the underground and proclaim a new social order. Mango laughed and noticed his face in the mirror. He was looking a bit strange. Fresh from a test tube. It was the coffee. He wiped himself with a length of toilet paper, then flushed it away, swearing at the bits that stuck. Typical. He turned the bath off and was about to get in when the phone rang.

  ‘Mango you wanker,’ it was Balti. ‘Where’ve you been? I rang twice before.’

  Mango checked the answerphone and saw that two messages had been left. Balti was half-cut, but he wasn’t lying. He never did, the idiot. That’s why he lugged bricks around for people. He needed to get himself sorted out. Move on.

  ‘I was working late,’ he said, sitting down in the reclining armchair next to the phone, naked except for the toilet paper.

  ‘Till nearly midnight?’ Balti asked. ‘You want to have a word there. I mean, it’s a bit strong.’

  ‘I worked till ten, then went round this bird at work’s place. She hung about and I knew she was asking for it because she’s always giving me the eye and that, and then she was still there at ten, so when she invited me round to her flat in the Barbican I thought why not? She’s tasty as well. One of those professional birds in dress suits that hug their bodies. Real quality, Balti. Not some donkey from Acton or Shepherd’s Bush. She comes from class. Healthy food her whole life so she looks like an upper-class model. Privately educated, went to Oxford, you know the sort.’

  ‘Not really,’ the voice laughed. ‘Sounds horrible to me, but I suppose as long as you don’t have to talk to her and hear all about the country estate and that, how they kill foxes and torture the servants, and if she’s a looker, then why not.’

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ Mango said, smiling. �
��Long blonde hair and the perfect figure. You wouldn’t believe it if you saw her. I reckon I should get a few bonus points for class. Carter knobbing some brain-dead whale isn’t the same as what I’ve just been dipping my winkie in. I think I’m in love.’

  ‘How many points did you get then?’

  ‘Two for a shag, then I followed it up with a three-pointer. Swallowed it like a trouper. Straight down, though I thought she was going to gargle at first. She fucking loved it.’

  ‘Dirty cow. Mind you, you didn’t hang about did you? I mean, you leave work at ten, get round the Barbican, maybe say a few words or something, then you knob her, give it a while to recover and next thing you’re bollock deep in dentures. Then you have to stay awake and get back to SW6. Didn’t she mind you pissing off like that?’

  ‘She doesn’t care. Just wants a good bit of sex without the hassles. Pure animal attraction. She’s got one thing on her mind. You know what these office birds with a decent income are like. No morals. That’s how their families get rich in the first place. It goes back centuries. They rape, rob, stitch up the serfs, then set up laws so everyone believes what they’re doing is right because it’s been written down. It’s in their history. You watch them sometime. They’ve got no manners. Can’t say thank you or please and take what they want. It’s the ordinary people who’ve got morals. It’s them that help others and know their right and wrong.’

  ‘You sound like Arthur Scargill. Anyway, you’re part of all that now.’

  ‘You’ve got to get in there. There’s no other way. No point wasting your life trying to fight the system. Didn’t get Scargill anywhere, did it?’

  ‘Three points puts you second. You know Carter’s been up to his old tricks again. He shafted some bird when he was delivering beds. Three-pointer as well. Puts him on seven.’

  ‘Sounds a bit iffy to me,’ Mango said, narked that the shag man had maintained the gap at the top of the table. ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘He’s not going to lie, is he?’ Balti sounded a bit surprised. They were mates. If you couldn’t trust your mates, then who could you trust?

  ‘I know. He doesn’t hang about, that’s all. What about you and that dreamer you live with? What about Will?’

  ‘Had my first wank the other day, and I’ve followed it up with a couple more since then,’ Balti admitted. ‘As far as birds go, sweet FA. Mind you, we’re going down Blues tomorrow, that’s one of the things I’m calling about, so I reckon we’ll be getting stuck in there. Don’t know about Will. Haven’t seen him. You know what he’s like. Sitting at home listening to music getting stoned.’

  ‘I’ll see what time I get finished tomorrow. I’ll try and get down. Where you going first?’

  ‘The Unity, then The Hide, then Blues. Should be alright. Don’t suppose you know yet, I did the foreman the other day so I’m out of a job. If you hear about anything going let us know. Keep an ear out for us will you?’

  ‘What did you go and do that for?’

  ‘He was slagging me off. I hated it there anyway. It’s time I did something different. It’s like a new start. I need something to tide me over so if you hear of anything let us know.’

  When he put the phone down, Mango thought about Balti for a few minutes. Maybe he’d get himself into gear now. He could offer him a few pointers. Apply some of Maggie’s infinite wisdom. Balti would be better buying and selling. What he didn’t know. Anyway, it wasn’t his problem, though the news that Carter had been scoring points pissed him off. But at least he was second and the office bird story had potential. She probably had some dirty mates who wanted Mango to give them a good seeing to as well. He laughed as the word spread through the bistros of London. He could be their bit of rough, riding in a limousine down to Henley or Virginia Water, rows of upper-class birds lined up waiting for a good old-fashioned dose of pleb love-making. He’d make them pay through the nose, and he wouldn’t be touching any grinders either. He’d keep his dignity. Loaded by other means but willing to service the aristocracy, for a fee, considering that he was in effect lowering himself in providing such a facility. It got him thinking. Instead of hanging around King’s Cross he should try one of those agencies. The birds were probably a bit more upmarket, with posher accents and cleaner gear, more into it than the worn-out street girls. It meant getting them round the flat, which he didn’t fancy. Bollocks though. It was his place. He could do what he wanted. He lived in a democracy, not some communist slave state. He’d ask a couple of the chaps at WorldView. They’d know all the angles.

  Sitting in the bath, Mango took the opportunity to relax. The bath salts eased the strain and he closed his eyes. Steam filled the room. The Arabs understood these kind of things. The old Turkish baths and that. The Scandinavians had their saunas. The American Indians their sweat lodges, though they went for the natural touch as well, turning it into a hallucinogenic experience. But Mango was happy with his bathroom, a boiling cave where he could unwind after a hard day earning a crust. He looked at his knob floating limp in the water, the paper melted away. It was funny how something like sex became so important. One minute he was acting like scum in some park, next he was content, ready to support any proposed government action to clean up the streets. He was alone. It was great. His eyes were closed and the strain of working on computers all day was beginning to slide away. It was tough sometimes, but rewarding. He had everything material he’d ever wanted. Rain bounced off the window, reinforcing his feelings of satisfaction. One day, long before he was the same age as his old man, he would be set up and retired. No financial worries. That was the crux. You were always going to worry about money if you didn’t have any, but if you got a decent bit of wedge banked you could enjoy the finer things. It was security. Learning from the losers. Maggie knew.

  He felt tired but wanted to make his time at home last. When the water began to cool, he topped up again with hot. The tap handles were period brass. They shone under the light which he had dimmed. The weather outside was getting worse. He heard thunder far away in North London. He thought of the underclass in doorways, shafted left, right and centre, then forced to sell their sex. His view was realistic. Mango knew he was right. Nobody chose to prostitute themselves. The thought struck that he was a tart himself, out of his environment, but he wouldn’t think about all that. He was living proof of the longed for classless society. Or at least he was a representative of an early beginning. Mango didn’t want to think. It was too much. Rows of figures beating drums, pigs on skewers, women on street corners, schoolgirls in his car, Balti on the phone, Carter on the job. His old mates. Good blokes they were whatever they thought of him. At least when things got too much, the pressures of achievement and all that, then he could go back to his own manor and fall into the old ways for a night. He didn’t have to pretend. But neither did he want the pressure. He didn’t care. There was no point caring too much because you’d end up in a psychiatric unit with the doctors pushing ECT, or on the piss like his old girl, or jabbing needles into your arm in Finsbury Park.

  Sitting in his Rest-Easy armchair, Mango’s right hand adjusted the relevant handle, lowering the back rest so that he could lie out full-length. It had been expertly designed to fit the human body and was well worth the thousand-pound debit. He flicked through television channels using the remote, crisp images beaming from the screen of the Nokia 7296, surround sound supplied by the Rock Solid speakers that had been professionally placed around the room. Mango enjoyed the full home-cinema treatment, flicking back and forward through terrestrial and satellite channels without finding anything substantial to hold his interest. Trendy cult-show presenters discussed myriad forms of sexual persuasion in minute detail, a blockbuster Hollywood movie revelled in the blood and gore of a faceless serial killer without bothering with the deeper psychology behind the Razor Man’s gruesome dismemberments, while the soft-porn channel to which Mango subscribed grunted and groaned its way through a by now dull routine of missionary/rear-entry/woman-on-top positions
that only ever revealed bare breasts and wobbling buttocks. For a laugh he cranked the volume up full throttle to annoy the couple who lived below, a right pair of arrogant yuppies. The room was filled with the moaning passion of a full-blown orgy, female ecstasy vibrating through the bookcases he’d had specially built the previous year, shaking the books he’d never read. He did this for a couple of minutes then turned the sound down. He turned off the TV and went over to the separates system Will had recommended.

  Mango was making a brave attempt with the classics. His Best Of collection included Beethoven, Mozart, Bach; all the European masters he’d heard about somewhere along the line. It was supposed to be uplifting music, the kind of thing that imaginary blonde nymphomaniac from WorldView would be listening to as she lined the coke up along some multinational director’s knob, stirring the soul. Mango skipped from one track to the next. He found it pompous and dull, failing to do anything but bore, the knowledge that it represented European history and the ruling elite’s cultural values not enough to make it listenable. He had some of the best audio gear money could buy but it was no use. Maybe it was a question of being in the right mood at the right time. He should try listening with a bit of blow, or Wagner after ten bottles of select German lager. He wished he could get something out of Beethoven and the rest of the boys, but it wasn’t happening. He was uneducated. He would keep trying and crack it one day. Some other day. He chose another option.

  The radio was repeating news items with a breathless, speculative presentation that owed more to the need to fill the airwaves with constant interest than qualitative news values. He moved through layers of ragga, jungle, drum-n-bass pirate stations, French-and German-language channels, Anglo-Indian bangra where the sitars filtered through tablas seemingly boxed into the speakers. The clock on the mantelpiece showed one o’clock. He had to sleep. Had to stop his brain racing. Morning would come round soon enough. He closed everything down, went to the window and looked outside. He had forgotten about the shepherd’s pie. He wasn’t hungry. The rain slowed a little, then redoubled its pounding. Mango pulled the curtains tight and went to the fridge for one of the sleeping tablets the doctor had prescribed.