Skin against skin

# 5

"Hello Christine. It's Simon from the police. Is it ok for you if I just jump in? We could use some more information."
- "No problem. I'm working in the shop at the moment. You know where it is, he?"
"I do. We won't bother you now he? I will be in plain clothes of course."
- "It's no problem. Just barge in."
"Okay, will be half an hour or so. Peter, are you coming?"
Peter clearly is still trying to shake off this crummy weekend. He's guzzling down his third pot of coffee and throws out a little yell: "aaaah, yeeaaahh, owwkaayyy."

I give him an amused look. "Needed to come out?"
- "Really needed to come out", he confirms with determined look. "Come, I'll drive."
"Wow, let's keep it nice and easy, he?" I glance at him in a way he really knows I remember his maniac-period. At that time, I really thought it wasn't a laughing matter. At night, at 70 miles per hour, police car upside down sliding further on its roof, towards a big pond... Cabine was nearly completely immersed... with me also in it.

"Just shut up," he hisses between his teeth, while striding towards the door and snatching the keys to the unmarked police car. Somebody yells after him "yo Fish!", but he's already outside.
Fish isn't his surname or so. It's his nickname. And not because he likes to fish. Because of that pondstory...
I just go after him and quickly snatch a police radio on the go.
"Log it in, mate! Procedures! the day officer calls out to me.

I pretend not to hear it. Procedures, here, there, everywhere.
Confirm this, take a copy of that. Jesus.
"Let's roll. Buttbrain is whining again", I tell Peter while I close the passenger car door.
"And that on monday morning. Asshole."

It's a half hour drive. The december sun digs its way up and is able to make a tiny hole in the unwilling morning grey. Some colourless cows, like shark fins, split the sea of mist rolling over the fields.

I just thumble around on my smartphone. Sending a message to Carla, that I love her. She needs a lot of confirmation, so I give her that. In understand.

Peter throws a quick glance onto her picture on my homescreen. She does look supersexy in that pic, with her incredible cleavage.
"Damn, that is a huge difference with mine," he sighs, in a mix of disappointment, jealousy, admiration en about a liter of horniness.
"You just look at the road, Fishter" I laugh it away.
- "Hey, if buddies can't share..." he mutters quite brutally.
'On the contrary', I think to myself. At times like these I just have to feign to be the chaste Simon. I sometimes need to make the switch in my head that the majority of the population does not screw its neighbours or friends.
I just throw him a 'you sick pervert' and keep watching my phone.

After a minute or so I can discard my feigned outrage and I notice I have a message on Facebook.
No, not a message. A new friend request. Of a guy named Steve Baker. Should I know him? There's no explanation. Picture doesn't ring a bell either. I'll just leave it for a moment. Maybe it will come to me.
Peter switches the radiostation. "Always that boring station. This is music!" Some dance song hits my ears. Oh well.

A short while later we arrive at the store where Christine works. We park the car in the street and just keep looking around for a while. With a little luck, John the stalker might just pass... Of course, it doesn't happen. We get out.
"Beeeeeepppp!!!" A scooter barely misses Peter. He must have opened the door without even looking.
"Damned!" he shouts, clearly shaken up. Even shaking a bit.
Fortunately, the driver is ok and just drives on. To him, it's just another motorist who doesn't give a twat about scooters and cyclists.

An electronic beeper sounds when we open the door to the shop.
"Morning, police. Is Christine here? She knows we're coming."
The shop manager nods. "I know. She's in the back. You can go."
At the back of the store are three mannequin dolls. It looks as if they're chatting. Peter glances just that bit too long at the naked breasts of the blonde. He notices I caught him looking and quickly points in the direction of the opened door of the stockroom. "Will be there."
With a twisted smile on my face I just say "yeah, I think so too."

"Ah, good morning, Simon. Peter. You didn't spot him outside?" Christine greets us and just starts rambling: "Yesterday he sent messages again. Through whatsapp, with his picture visible! That is so fucke up! And you know what he writes?! 'You just watch yourself this week. It just might turn out to be your special week, baby'.
Now what does that mean?? Why is he doing..."

"Easy, easy," Peter interrupts her. "We're here also."
I ask Christine to have a seat, after which she does calm down a little.
"Hey, we could really use a time, a moment, that is predictable. A moment we can say: yes, at that moment he will be there, stalking you. Then we can anticipate, make sure we are around and catch him with his pants down, so to speak," I explain to her.

"I know, I know," she gasps in a hurried voice. "But there just is nothing predictable. Every time it's different hours, days. And when for example he flaunts through my street, than that only lasts just a couple of seconds or minutes. He just leaves straight on. It's not an idiot, you know. He knows how to do these things! He's got lots of experience. It's driving me crazy! Really!

Christine's got her head down, tears in her eyes, obviously completely at the end of everything.

I try to keep it neutral. "Okay, and what would he mean with that special week? Is something about to occur? A birthday, jubilee? Anything?"
Christine doesn't even look up from my question. "No, nothing. Nothing at all. I've been picking my brain ever since he wrote it. I only slept two hours this night... I... ahh..."

Me and Peter exchange a powerless look.
"Right, well, we'll keep you informed every step of the way on what we will be doing. First, we'll have another drive around the city blocks here." Peter tries to reassure her just a little, which of course fails miserably.
Just when we get up, Christine nearly begs us: "there must be something you can do!?"
As we leave the store, we can only mumble something.

"Absolute shite this is."
I can only concur. At least a minute we sit still in the car. Not a word. Then Peter says the thing that was flopping around in my mind: "if there's nothing predictable, maybe we have to create something predictable..."
Another silence. Our eyes say we understand. But we realize that this is over the edge. This could turn out so wrong. We're both playing and rewinding the numerous dangers to this plan in our heads. But the conclusion doesn't change: there is no alternative. Or we let him do whatever he wants, or we de something.

"Hit the road", I tell him. "Let's sweep the streets.
Peter hits first gear. The tires squeal in stereo.