Free Bang: Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin by David Wailing Page B

only one image lingering in front of my eyes, like when the blazing sun leaves its imprint on your retinas.
    The girl on the stairs.
    I felt ten times more unbalanced than before. Stomach doing funny things. There was a weird feeling of nostalgia, and it took me a while to place it. Nostalgic for a time when my head would be turned. That I’d feel like going after a girl because I genuinely wanted her. Because I really, really fancied her. Not because I was getting paid.
    I felt like crap for the rest of the day. Moped about my flat. Hammered away at my pinball machine and failed to get anywhere near my high score. Just couldn’t make the flippers work the way I wanted them to.
    Funny. Only recently I’d been asking myself what my type was, not really able to pin it down. In fact, I didn’t have a clue.
    Maybe she’d just walked by.

Chapter 6
     

Watching The Detectives
     
    Friday evening, just after eight, and Soho was starting to kick off. People, traffic, noise. It wouldn’t be really busy till about ten, but the restaurants and bars were filling up nicely. Not the best time or place to be standing all by yourself like a lemon, wouldn’t you agree, Ms Hargreaves?
    Becky looked great in a little black number, nothing too exotic but perfect for a night out in town. Long auburn hair curling down onto her shoulders. Bit of jewellery. Expensive leather handbag. She was even wearing heels. But she was clearly alone. Stood up.
    I can well imagine what Becky must have been calling me. I could see the scowl on her face right from the top of the road, where I spied on her for a good five minutes until I decided to put her out of her misery.
    This time, as I came roaring towards her on the motorbike, she saw me coming. She just couldn’t believe it.
    “Evening!” I called out.
    She looked me up and down: black leather trousers and jacket, motorcycle helmet, the Honda grumbling beneath me, pumping out fumes. Folded her arms. “See you’ve made an effort.”
    I pulled the helmet off. “I always dress for the occasion.”
    The restaurant doorman was scowling at me, arms by his side, body language for If you think you’re coming in here looking like that… There were half a dozen other punters at the door, all gaping at me and the growling bike.
    I love an audience. In case you hadn’t already picked up on that.
    So I had great fun yanking off my jacket to reveal a white Jermyn Street shirt with matching tie and cufflinks, stepping out of the leathers to reveal black trousers, and pulling a suit jacket out of the bike’s storage box. The small crowd laughed and applauded as I transformed in ten seconds flat from biker to gentleman. Even the doorman smirked, relaxing.
    And Becky? She couldn’t help herself – her irritation burst into laughter. And a long, smiling look into my eyes.
    Seeing something in a new light.
    I chained up the bike to a broken streetlight in the alleyway along the side of the restaurant. Then I offered Becky my arm as we went inside. The Glasshouse was one of the nicer restaurants in that part of town, not over the top but definitely the sort of place you made an effort for. We fitted in perfectly as I escorted Becky to our table and pulled out her chair for her. She smiled up at me and softly whispered “You’re a fucking nutter.”
    I grinned. Like I did this all the time. John Holmes, I’d decided, was the sort of cheeky sod who got away with blue murder.
    So far, I’d had a good time playing John. Wearing this particular mask didn’t feel so much like hard work, although in some ways John Holmes was one of my more well-rounded creations. Simon Templar had also been fun to play, but pretty one-dimensional really, just another smooth-talking wealthy charmer. My dear, you’re looking radiant tonight, can I tempt you with some more champagne? That sort of thing would never have worked with Becky. She’d have told Simon to shove it up his radiant. John had to be more believable, down to