Ch7. Monica.

Chapter 7

As Monica’s taxi drove away from the restaurant, her tormentor pulled out from the alley in a dark blue Cortina and followed behind. He stopped quite a way back when the taxi pulled up outside Monica's house and he watched her going into the house. He slowly drew up and looked over to see her in the living room talking to her parents before she walked out of sight. A group of youngsters were approaching and not wishing to draw attention to himself, he drove off.

         He drove round to the tower block, went up into his flat and looked down across to the back of Monica's house. He kept checking her bedroom window, watching, and waiting for the light to come on.

         He was getting impatient and as he waited, he walked over and slid out a small case from under his bed. Inside the case wrapped in a cloth was a 38mm revolver. It resembled a child's Lone-Star toy gun, but the weight of it showed it was not a plaything. He would spend some time later cleaning it again. He wanted to keep it spotless until the day he may have to use it, but for now he could just admire it while he waited for Monica, and he walked back to the window.

         He didn't have to wait long. The light came on and he saw her for just a few moments before she closed the curtains. It was always a big disappointment to him if she closed the curtains when she entered the room. Her bedroom light went off and he imagined her getting undressed and getting into bed. He wondered if she slept naked and it thrilled him as he pictured her lying naked in her bed. Despite her hostility, he thought she might be thinking of him, fantasising about him the way he did about her. He thought of her hands moving between her legs as he imagined her giving herself physical pleasure, the way he did when he fantasised about her.

         The following day, the middle-aged man was in his flat angrily looking across to Monica's house, annoyed that she could treat him the way she did. She had obviously been listening to her family and her false friends and they had managed to turn her against him. It had been a while since he had seen her shape through the frosted glass, as if she were taking a bath when she knew that he was not in. He only had to pop out to the off-licence and she would be in and out of the bath and into her room with the curtains closed by the time that he returned.

         He thought of the telephone and how he longed to hear her voice, but her parents had purposely denied him that pleasure by changing the telephone number. He thought of the karate club, another waste of time because now her boyfriend would either give her a lift home, or they'd go to The Globe for a drink with the other instructors. The Jug House, she liked to visit The Jug House of an evening, but again she always had someone with her. Even her work, he had called many times, but he missed her most of the time. The only time he could be sure of was Monday evenings, she always seemed to work Monday evenings, and this was Monday. This was perhaps the time to teach her some discipline, some respect towards him. He knew it wouldn't take a lot. She was sure to be full of regret when she realised that her actions had upset him so much. They were, after all, in love with each other and that love would see them through these bad times until they could be united, living together, dedicated to each other and in total bliss. Yes, he thought, I only have to talk to her.

* * * * *

         It had been a quiet evening at the Italian restaurant and I had been a little nervous about a repeat of the previous week, but to my relief, there was no sign of the man. I thought back to when I took over from Anne. It surprised me when she told me that she had started dating Dave. I did not like Dave much and I always thought Anne felt the same. He was just someone who was tolerated because he was a friend of a friend. The restaurant was closing and I put on my coat and looked over at Tony as I was getting ready to leave. "Well, I'm off now," I said.

         Tony seemed concerned as he looked back at me. "Really, Monica, I don't mind calling a cab for you."

         "I'll be all right on the bus and I haven't heard from or seen him for a week."

         "Any problems then you run back here."

         "Don't worry, I will." I gave a laugh and then walked out. I would have preferred to go home by cab, but I didn't want to start becoming too much of a burden and perhaps put my job at risk. It was a nice evening and there were plenty of people out walking and driving by. I had just passed a parked van when I heard him.

         "Monica."

         The sound of his voice sent shivers of fear through me. I turned to look at him walking towards me. There were still cars passing and although there were no pedestrians near me, there were people further up the street. It made me even more scared because he was actually confronting me out in the open and in a busy street. I thought that he must be truly insane. I slipped my shoes off and kicked them across the pavement. I had given up wearing platforms because of the trouble with the stalker. The flats were easy to kick off. If I had to fight him, I would prefer to be barefoot.

         "You've been a bad girl, Monica, taking the piss out of me when all I want is for us to look after each other, to love each other."

         "Keep away from me, keep away from me or I'll hurt you again."

         "Not this time. This time you'll come with me. Nice and quietly now, don't want no fuss, don't want no accidents do we?" He pulled from his pocket what looked to me like the bone handle of a long folded knife. He flicked it open and the sight of the six-inch blade of a cut-throat razor instantly terrified me. I stared at it and felt panicky. I knew I should keep control if I were to fight him, but how could I fight him? He only had to touch me with the blade to slice me open. I looked into his eyes as he approached me: piercing, staring eyes.

         "You'll come with me," he said. "If you attack me you can be sure that I will cut you to pieces."

         Even though I was frightened, going with him was not an option. I thought how he was middle-aged and tubby; I was young and fit. I was trained to defend myself and knew that I could probably see him off, but because of the razor I wondered if it were worth the risk. I knew I only had two options and I had to make a choice. Should I fight or should I run?

         I turned and ran and I kept running at full pace as fast as I could, all the time too frightened to look back in case he was chasing me. I began passing people who looked at me bewildered by the way I was sprinting along in my bare feet. A bus passed me and stopped at a bus stop before pulling away again. I ran after it and jumped onto the platform. "Help me, please help me," I yelled to the conductor. "He's after me, he's trying to get me." I was breathing hard, trembling, tears were in my eyes, my feet were bleeding and I was almost on the verge of collapsing.

         "Whoa, honey, no one's going to get you, not on my bus." The conductor, a jovial West Indian helped me onto the bench seat. A young woman sat with me and tried to calm me while the conductor looked back from the platform, but he could see that whoever had been chasing me was no longer in pursuit. He went forward to speak to the driver and a few minutes later the bus stopped outside Bow Road police station.

         “There you go,” the conductor said. “Go and tell the police what happened.”

         “I’d rather just go home. They won’t believe me anyway.”

         “That doesn’t matter. You have got to report it in case he tries to attack someone else. You can’t go home with cuts on your feet and no shoes on anyway.”

         I knew he was right. I thanked him and walked over to the police station. The reception room was brown and bleak, looking very Edwardian.

         “And what can we do for you? the desk sergeant asked while looking at my dishevelled state.

         A constable had followed me in. “Your feet are bleeding,” he said.

         “A man chased me with a razor and I had to run and jump on a bus.”

         “I saw them dropping you off,” the constable said.

         “There’s no WPC’s on duty at the moment,” the sergeant said. “You’ll have to take her statement, Thomas, and see to her feet. But first,” he turned to me. “Do you want to use the telephone to get someone to pick you up?”

         I knew my mother would be home at this time and I made the call. She told me she was on the way but she sounded very agitated by the news.

         “Right,” the constable said. “I’ll take your statement but first let’s see to those feet. Sit down and I’ll get the first aid kit and some water. He was soon back with a bowl and washed the soles of my feet with a sponge. It felt strange having my feet washed and I also felt embarrassed. Even feeling guilty because I was somehow enjoying the sensation. This was the first time someone had paid attention to my feet. I found it somehow erotic especially as it was being done by a good looking young policeman. He dried my feet and sprayed some antiseptic on my soles and then applied a few plasters on the small cuts. He gave me two plastic shoe covers. “Put these on to keep your feet off the floor. Now let’s get your statement.”

         I wrote all what happened and signed it. The constable gave it to the sergeant.

         “You have not put down any witnesses. It is a busy time and you didn’t get any witnesses.”

         “I was being chased by a man with a razor. I didn’t fancy stopping to ask for witnesses.”

         The young policeman gave a laugh but I got a stern look from the sergeant.

         “What about the people on the bus. And you say the conductor helped you. Did he see anything?”

         “I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not.”

         “Did you get the conductor’s name?”

         “No, I didn’t think.”

         Just then my mother came rushing in. “What’s happened? Monica, are you all right?”

         I explained to my mother what happened and she was obviously shocked and angry.

         “Have you got someone looking for him?” my mother said.

         “Looking for a tubby, grey haired, middle aged man. No, I haven’t got the manpower to pull in a couple of hundred men.”

         “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

         “Nothing at the moment. There are no witnesses and no injuries apart from cut feet which was self inflicted.”

         “Come on mother, can we go home? They have it logged so there is nothing else they can do.”

         “That’s right, young lady,” the sergeant said. “But you did right to report it.”

         The constable gave me a smile. “If you ever recognise the man again you must call the police right away. Even if you don’t see him and are troubled, you can ask for me anytime.”

         As we set off for home, I thought about the stalker. He knows where I live. He knows where I work and he has a nasty razor. I knew that I had not seen the last of him and wondered how long it would be until he confronts me again.

Ch 8. Monica.   (18+) A brick goes through the widow at Benito's Restaurant. #1984641 by Bruce.