Free The Fish Kisser by James Hawkins

mumbling, “Push off and wait your turn. You’re not in England now.” Bliss retreated, tried two other stairwells without success and was finally swept down to Car Deck B with a crowd. He wanted to be on Deck A—where LeClarc’s car was. Weaving in and out of the slowly moving cars, he reached the deck just in time to see Roger’s green Renault driving off the ramp onto the quayside.
    â€œQuick, follow him,” he shouted to Wilson, as he leapt into the back of their car. Wilson slammed it into gear, stared ahead, ignored the angry horns and voices of maddened motorists, and forced a path off the ship.
    They closed up on the Renault approaching the immigration booth, just as the driver’s passport was being handed back. Only two other cars separated them but the immigration officer was in no hurry, his day’s plan ruined by the ship’s late arrival. They inched forward as the Renault disappeared into the custom’s hall. “Hurry up,” muttered Wilson, drumming the steering wheel, waiting for the smartly uniformed officer of the Koninklijke Marechaussee, a Dutch Marine, on immigration control. But Bliss wound down his window impatiently.
    â€œOfficer, we’re in a hurry,” he called, flourishing his warrant card. “Someone from your police force should be here to meet us.”
    The officer’s English was good, not perfect. “Oh yes, Sir. Over zhere,” he said, pointing toward a dark blue Saab parked against the custom house wall with two men in black leather coats idly blowing smoke rings at each other. Bliss leapt out of the car, warrant card in hand, and ran over to the men.
    â€œWhat did they say?” asked Wilson as he returned, breathless.
    â€œEverything’s arranged,” replied Bliss. “They’ve really gone to town. They’ve got four units to pick him up as soon as he comes out of Customs.
    â€œShit,” said Wilson, “The Dutch must’ve money to burn. Four double-manned cars to follow a fat geezer in a poxy Renault, and we only had one.”
    â€œWell,” responded Bliss, “Maybe they’re not as good as us.”
    They laughed in relief, their task finally over and, with Roger’s car emerging from the Custom’s shed with the Saab in tow, Wilson mused, “I wonder if anyone did fall off the ship.”
    â€œDon’t know,” replied Bliss, his eye on the departing Renault. “But thank God it wasn’t LeClarc.”
    Trudy, in Roger’s house, in Roger’s bed, instructed herself to go back to the beginning, to her first words with Roger on the Internet. Reasoning that he must, at some time, have said, or done, something to give her a clue about the user I.D. and password she now needed to access his Internet server.
    They’d “met” four months earlier—Easter weekend—in a chat room—an ethereal cyber-venue whereweightless messages pass simultaneously between any number of correspondents; people who have never met, have little in common and, in most cases, nothing better to do.
    â€œYour dinner’s getting cold. What on earth are you doing?” her mother bawled up the stairs as she left for work that evening.
    â€œWon’t be long—just browsing,” Trudy replied, mesmerized by the tiny black and white screen. An hour later she was still there, her foil wrapped dinner balanced precariously in the fridge, on top of a chicken’s carcase.
    The chat room emptied as guests drifted away in search of greater stimulation—like an entire fleet of Flying Dutchmen destined to endlessly surf the vastness of cyber-space, destined never to be satisfied—leaving Trudy and Roger almost alone.
    â€œSO, ROGER, DO YOU THINK ONE DAY COMPUTERS WILL CLONE THEMSELVES,” she typed.
    â€œTHEY ALREADY DO. WE CAN’T MAKE COMPUTERS WITHOUT COMPUTERS,” he replied. “ITS LIKE PEOPLE. YOU CAN’T MAKE PEOPLE WITHOUT