Occasional, Strong, Graphic

Secrets? Everyone's got them. Don't think so? That's just because
you don't know about them. Everyone's go them. Husbands, wives, lovers,
taxmen, mild mannered janitors, dentists.
I love them. The best part is they're so willing to share, as if a
secret is validated when someone else knows it. I'm not just talking
about old wives' tales of a gossiping old wife. In my experience the
demographic of men is far more willing to share especially where
there's guilt or pride involved.
He needs to hint at it, allude to it, tie it to a flagpole and haul it
all the way up. He tells in a dozen different secret ways exactly what
he swore he would never tell another living soul. It's just bursting to
get out in the things you do and say, in the lies you tell and
everything you leave for me.

I wouldn't describe it as my job. Its more of a sideline, a tool of the
trade, a top tip, when needs must, for occasional use only. Here's an
example.

This happened about five years ago. I was selling, I don't recall what
exactly, doesn't matter, it's all the same. I was selling something,
big expensive, probably seriously over priced. I had targets, car,
commission, bonuses, the lot.

This sale was big, million plus units, international distribution, high
street chains. I went to the top, dealt directly with a director,
worked him. For four months I'm there making a good impression, putting
the hours in, building the relationship, offering discounts, wining and
dining. I was sniffing round like a dog. The contract is in the bag,
done deal, handshakes over dinner.

Then I get a call from some minion. It's gone. Eleven thirty-th hour,
last minute, final countdown turnaround, competitor wins the
competition. It's gone from under me, and so will my reputation, bonus
and the rest.

Can I let that happen? No I can't. Would you? Give in gracefully?
Accompany the fair cop quietly, watching your ship sailing from the
harbour? No. Neither did I. Killer instinct, clincher, never quit,
never give up, get even.

Friday morning, 5:30 am, bin day, early, before the cart arrives.
Impressive mini-mansion in a respectable neighbourhood, two green
wheelies and three black plastic bags outside. A quick peek in those
stinking bins and I'll take a chance its just kitchen scraps, take the
bin bags into the back of the estate and drive. Nobody around, just the
way I like it, nobody needs to know.

Back at my minier-mansion, I empty the bags on the kitchen floor.
Ketchup bottles, plastic wrappers, tins, black banana skins and
decomposing matter spills over the tiles, filling the house with stink.
I slap on the wife's yellow gloves and plunge in. At first, it doesn't
look good, but at the bottom of bag three there's a tight ball of
shredded paper.
Here's a tip. If you buy a shredder, get one that cuts both ways. Yes,
they cost a little more but otherwise your secret could be safe with
me.
It's a credit card bill that, three and a half hours later, is
sellotaped together on the kitchen table. Its not his regular bill, the
balance is far to small. So why would he have a separate bill for
restaurants and expensive lingerie? I love it.

When I confront him he tells me "I haven't done anything, you can't
blackmail me". I explain that I can and I am. There's a certain amount
of smugness in that.

He sits there with his fat leathery body in his fat leather chair,
playing poker in his head, not the slightest wobble of his lip. Has he
bought it? He hasn't bought it. The bill is innocent - a niece or a tax
dodge? No. I don't think so. He has a secret, wants to share, it's just
a question of finding the words. There's only one thing to be done. I'm
a salesman, its time to sell. "Well Mr Francis I've been watching
you."

I give him details. I give him details of the restaurants they went to
and the hotels they stayed at. That's easy, straight from the bill.
He's beginning to falter, starting to deny events we both know to be
true. That means he's on the run, the killer instinct was right again.
I stop being tactful. The language turns purple and red. Then we start
painting colours by the book, voices raised to angry whispers. He
threatens legal action, invasion of privacy. That's really an admission
of guilt. I'm on the home straight, time to take risks. Elaborate and
embellish the facts, mention the sophistication of toady's
eavesdropping technology. Flesh out the picture with explicit details
of his most intimate moments with his lover.

He sinks into the padded chair, which seems to fold in around him. He
takes a moment to think about how much he values family life and public
life.

He decides that I can blackmail him and the price is an embarrassing,
and unexpected boardroom u-turn.
In doing so he keeps his family together, shows great purchasing wisdom
and puts my bonus in a place where only I can touch it. I'm a happy
man. Relief at having shared the burden of secret with someone is
dripping down his face. He'll be faced with choices now, maybe
sleepless nights deciding between wife and lover. Keep both? Choose
one? Call it off? Keep it going? How much longer it can continue? What
he would do without it?
In an act of kindness I choose for him. At the door I turn and smile.
"One last thing." He looks at me, eyes pleading me to decide for him.
"Don't see her again. I'll be watching." He nods silently.

I never knew if he did but I suspect it. I'm proud to do my bit for
family life. I like to think of him lying beside his wife, missing the
lover, thinking of me. I guess he remembers me as he squirms in front
of the board when they question his decisiveness, judgment or the
quality of my products.

That was five years ago, just an example. Not the first or the last.
I'm not the sort of person who will go through anyone's bins. But there
are sometimes situations when there are secrets to be shared, when the
children don't want to play. It's those times I play hard but not
fair.