by A B Morgan
‘No one believes a mental patient, Mr Neale. Nobody listens to what we say unless it provides some form of sensationalist entertainment, which is what you are after, no doubt.’
‘Is that not a fair exchange for freedom?’
‘Bugger off, Mr Neale, there’s a good chap. Leave me with the mad, the sad, the bad and dangerous to know, the hairy, the bitch, the dull, the nutty knitter…’
And there it was. His chance.
‘Why don’t we make it about everyone in here? Why don’t we help all your fellow residents by making this a political hot potato? Come on, it can’t be within the Human Rights Act for you to be detained indefinitely. For example, the lady with the knitting addiction – what was her name again? – Abigail wasn’t it? Is she stuck in here for the foreseeable?’
‘No, she’s only under assessment for few weeks. Comes and goes as she pleases, that one. Anyway, she’s not mentally ill as such, just psychologically messed up, so she can’t be treated with magical medication. God knows why they sent her here – one of Evanora’s private arrangements most likely. The gossipmongers on the ward would have you believe the lovely Abigail is a psycho stalker, but it’s probably her eating disorder requiring treatment. Still, you can’t take the word of a bunch of mad women, can you?’
Konrad almost wet himself. Keep her talking. Stay with her wishes, her interests.
‘Evanora? You said one of Evanora’s private arrangements. Who is she?’ he asked, earnestly.
‘Dr Sandra Yellnow,’ Ella replied, flicking her eyes to the door. ‘Evanora was the name of the Wicked Witch of the East. I’ll say no more.’ She circled a forefinger.
‘Good witch knowledge,’ Konrad said, admiring the inventiveness of the nickname. ‘I’ll try to remember that for the pub quiz, if it ever comes up.’ He smiled and it was mirrored.
‘The Wicked Witch of the West wasn’t given a name in the original film,’ Ella said, and she appeared delighted by Konrad’s swift response.
‘I think Miss Almira Gulch is far more frightening than any of the witches in Oz,’ he countered.
‘So do I.’ Dropping her defences, beaming widely, Ella’s reaction reminded Konrad of her real charm. She was a people-pleaser and for that he would be eternally grateful.
CHAPTER THREE
The stalker strikes again
Logan Peplow looked at the message on his mobile phone. He checked to see if Kat was watching him. She was.
‘Another text from Twisted Tara?’ she asked. Her body language shrieked that she was in no mood for a deep and meaningful conversation. Foul-tempered, she’d arrived home from work somewhat earlier than expected.
‘Yep. Quite kinky this one, the dirty bitch.’ He tried to sound light-hearted. ‘She’s going to smear caviar on my meat and two veg before licking it off. Lucky me.’ The words were said without conviction and were entirely untrue. What the text actually said was far more sinister.
In the preceding months Logan had received dozens of letters, cards, and text messages from the same person, and he was mightily pissed off with them. The first twenty or so were funny, suggestive or overly familiar, but the content became increasingly ominous. In the last few days, threats had been made directly towards Kat. Their relationship was going through an uncertain time and the last thing he needed was more ammunition for her to criticise him with.
He’d done as advised and ignored all communication from his mystery stalker. Unfortunately, doing nothing seemed to spur on the crazy person who was making his life difficult.
Doing the sensible thing, he’d reported the issue to the police, and had taken the trouble to show them evidence. Despite this, the law seemed impotent, even when, the previous morning, a miniature noose of cream-coloured wool was delivered in an envelope addressed to “Ms Katrina Chandler R.I.P.”. On the front of the card was a photograph of Kat stepping from her car on the driveway of the house; inside it read simply, “He’s mine”.
When Logan called the non-emergency police number to report the latest contact from his unrelenting stalker, he received a lukewarm response. The officer said they would investigate further and that was the last he’d heard. For some bizarre reason, the police failed to view the card as an actual threat to kill. Logan did.
Kat’s reaction had shocked him. She’d ripped the tiny noose from the card, thrown it onto the doormat and glared up at him. ‘Well, she can have you, whoever she is. If the best you can do is to pass on details to the useless fucking Keystone Cops then good luck to her.’ Kat spat out her rage like an angry chicken, her head thrusting back and forth, her nose nearly stabbing him in the chest. ‘Grow a pair and do that interview for Crimewatch, will you? Maybe the public can catch the sick bitch. Oh, and change your fucking phone number!’ With that she stormed off to work and slammed the door behind her with such force a photograph leapt from the wall.
The picture was of the two of them in much happier times, he – steaming in his rugby shirt glistening with mud and sweat, she – proudly tugging him forward by his collar for a kiss. A winner, a strong physical sportsman and someone she’d set her sights on two years ago. He’d gingerly pulled the broken shards of glass free from the frame, sighing inwardly.
One day later and there it was – another text from Twisted Tara. It was relentless. Kat dismissed the latest stalker contact as nothing more than a nuisance, so he left her pretending to watch television and he headed for his desk in the spare room.
Once there, he scrolled through the latest emails and found the one his agent sent through from the BBC about appearing on the Crimewatch Roadshow. Just above this was another request from Channel 7, begging him to take part in a documentary about the impact of female stalkers on male victims.
‘That BBC researcher must have a loose tongue,’ Logan groaned. He didn’t like to think of himself as a victim. However, given the events of yesterday morning and the text he’d read moments ago, the ripples went way beyond the stalker’s intended target. At this rate his career would take another unfortunate dive, having only just survived the last brush with British journalism. For Logan, not being in control of his future was unsettling.
‘Fuck you,’ he spat at his phone.
He looked again at the top email. Channel 7 was offering a lot of money for his story. The divorce proceedings and Kat’s expensive taste in clothes, shoes and handbags, made him nervous. Nevertheless, with that amount of money on offer he could pay outstanding legal fees and still splash out on a holiday for the two of them. Kat would see him in a new light. She would consider him brave for telling his story, as well as generous in sharing the proceeds with her. Wouldn’t she?
He replied to his agent.
❖
‘Hi Waveney. Thanks for forwarding these. You can let Channel 7 know I’m happy to meet with Mr Neale at his convenience. Meanwhile I’ll be changing my mobile number again, so they’ll have to communicate through you each time. The fewer people that know my contact details the better. She’s still badgering me. What time do Crimewatch want me at the studio tomorrow? Pep.’
❖
Waveney Bisset’s office dealt with his social media platforms, TV appearances, and any other contracts. Of course, Waveney couldn’t manage everything, and the media loved nothing more than gossip which Logan Peplow had stupidly handed them on a plate over his affair with Kat. Recently, some of the tabloids got wind of Logan’s problematical stalker and declared it was no more than he deserved for abandoning his wife in favour of a younger model.
He shouted down to the lounge. ‘Kat, I’m going to do an interview with Konrad Neale about male victims of stalking. Want to come along?’
The reply was almost instantaneous. ‘You bet. Konrad Neale is sex on legs. Scars or no scars he’s right up there with George Clooney and a damned-sight more attractive than Guy Nithercott.’ She appeared at the bottom of the stairs. ‘When is it?’
‘Don’t know yet. Soon. Very soon. Waveney’s going to set it up.’
For o
nce she was smiling at him, standing with one hand on the newel post. ‘Let me know. I’ll take the day off.’
‘If the boss lets you.’
‘The boss has to do whatever Guy says, and I have Guy Nithercott eating out of my hand. So, if I ask, I shall receive.’ By the expression on her face, Kat had got the cream. ‘Besides… he owes me a favour.’
Logan stared over the bannister rail. ‘Oh yes, why’s that?’ He hoped for a reprieve from the gnawing doubts about Kat’s infatuation with Guy Nithercott, but he didn’t receive one.
‘You know better than to ask. I’ve signed a binding contract which precludes me from discussing anything in regard to my work for Global Enterprises and most importantly I am prohibited from sharing any personal details about Guy.’
Logan groaned and made his way to the top of the staircase. ‘Kat, we’ve been through this. I work for the weird wanker as well. I signed a contract too. One cancels out the other because we’re both bound by similar contracts so we can talk about him to each other.’
Hair swishing across her shoulders, she stepped onto the carpeted stairs. He fantasised for one second that she was going to race up them and snog his face off, but it wasn’t to be.
‘I’m keeping my mouth shut about the Nithercotts and so should you,’ she said. On reaching the landing she performed a hand-off against his shoulder. He swayed to one side. ‘Piss off out of my way, I need to decide what to wear when we meet Konrad Neale.’
‘Don’t forget we’re going to Zoe and Gee’s for dinner later,’ he reminded her.
‘I thought you were cooking?’
‘No, I made dinner yesterday. They asked us last week remember?’
‘Do we have to? They’re not my friends and you spend far too much time with them already. Anyone would think you and Gianni were joined at the hip.’
The stalemate was broken by Logan’s mobile phone. It was Waveney. ‘That was quick,’ Logan said, and not bothering with a greeting, he immediately replied to his agent, ‘Yes. That should be fine. When do they want me to do that? … And will they be able to edit it if I make a balls-up of the whole thing? You will… Oh, I see… Okay, no time like the present, I suppose. Give me a few minutes while I set it up.’
Logan took a couple of long strides back towards the spare room where his desk fought for space with the bunk beds used by his two young sons when they were permitted to stay overnight.
‘Kat? Can you phone Zoe and let her know we may be late? I’ve got to take a Skype call from some researcher at the BBC. They only want a statement to put on the Crimewatch Roadshow this week, so I don’t need to go into the studio tomorrow.’ He was draping a duvet over the side of the pine bunks to disguise them. It would be unacceptable to have such a semidetached suburban background to his interview. He wasn’t satisfied with the result.
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ came Kat’s sour reply over the scraping sound of clothes hangers being shuffled back and forth.
‘Two reasons.’ Logan raised his head and the volume of his voice. ‘One; because I need you to be quiet, and two; because the meeting with Konrad Neale has been arranged for tomorrow.’
‘Shit, shit, shit. What time tomorrow?’ she howled, crashing a sliding wardrobe door back into place.
‘In the afternoon. Three o’clock. Channel 7 offices in London. Now give me a hand to find a backdrop.’
‘Use the wicker screen in the conservatory. Or better still move the laptop down there. Do I have to think of everything?’
Logan slapped his forehead, infuriated that he hadn’t arrived at such a simple solution himself.
‘And change your shirt. You look scruffy,’ she continued.
Logan glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to set up the laptop, change his shirt, brush his hair and prepare for probing questions. By the time the call came through, he was still adjusting the height of the office chair that he’d manhandled down steep stairs through the lounge and into the pocket-sized conservatory.
The table was too low, so he balanced the laptop precariously on a pile of books in order for the jungle of houseplants to act as an effective background to the shot of his face. He wiggled the screen to achieve the best angle before answering the Skype call.
The questions, as outlined by the young female researcher, were predictable. She sketchily prepared him before he spoke directly to the presenter Rav. By the time the two men had chatted somewhat superficially about sport for a few minutes, Logan was less flustered.
‘As one bloke to another, what’s been the most upsetting aspect of these unwanted approaches,’ Rav asked.
Logan stared deeply at the screen. He faltered. It was difficult to know how to come across. Should he be diplomatic and professional, as he would for his day job, or should he be truthful about his doubts and fears? He ended up with a confusing mix of the two. ‘Ummm, upsetting. What’s been most upsetting…? Well, … I suppose it’s the not knowing. Not knowing who I’m dealing with. You know?’ He dried up.
‘Not really, Logan,’ Rav looked disappointed.
Logan steadied himself; he was supposed to be a sports commentator, not a stammering idiot. He tried again. ‘I know it’s a woman and she believes I’m in love with her, and that somehow we are destined to be together. But as far as I know, I’ve never met her, never seen her, never been approached by her directly. I don’t know her name, nothing. It’s what she writes in letters and texts that’s so disturbing.’
Rav was quick to point out that, as a sports personality, Logan must receive thousands of messages from the public, both positive and negative.
‘For sure,’ Logan replied. ‘I wrote these ones off as just another fan with a crush, at first. But whoever they are, they manage to get hold of my mobile phone numbers almost as soon as I change them. Her messages are… how shall I say … Fruity. Sexually explicit.’
Not sure just how much to let on, he added hastily, ‘and more recently she’s made threats against people close to me.’
‘Another jealous girlfriend perhaps?’
It was not lost on Logan that Rav chose to use the word “another”, and by doing so, made a poorly veiled reference to his separation and pending divorce. Faithless husband – no sympathy from the public there.
‘Look, Rav. I’m a big boy. I can deal with the perverted messages. I’m pretty used to the press making stuff up about me. But my family… that’s another matter.’ Although he didn’t want Rav picking away at his private life, it was inevitable.
‘It must be worrying for them.’
‘Worrying? My mother lives in a permanent state of anxiety. She’s a nervous wreck.’
His mother had always been a bundle of nerves, but Logan wasn’t going to admit to that, or that he and his father were barely speaking because they’d had a massive falling out about Kat. The laptop wobbled as he shuffled in his seat.
‘My partner puts on a brave face, she’s losing sleep and…’ Logan stopped short of detailing how Kat was blaming him, how she screamed her bitter regret at ever having met him, how she accused him of cowardice and emasculated him with her scorn.
‘Stressful times,’ Rav said.
‘Stressful?’ Logan was almost insulted by Rav’s dismissive comment. ‘Stressful? It’s beyond stressful. We’re all completely shattered,’ he said with his throat constricting, making his voice higher pitched.
‘And, as you well know, this type of behaviour can have tragic consequences. I need only mention the name Jill Dando. Now do you understand? My girlfriend has been sent a noose this week and the police have nothing to go on.’
Rav’s wide, white, TV smile dissolved rapidly. ‘We at The Crimewatch Roadshow spoke to the police investigating this matter and, as far as we understand it, no fingerprints have been found matching any known criminal.’
‘And nothing relating to the mobile phones used to send me messages…’ Logan’s voice trailed off.
‘So, how can the public help to find whoever is doing this?’<
br />
‘You tell me, Rav. Keep an eye out for mentally disturbed behaviours? Perhaps the police should check out the local mental institutions, because, as far as I can see, this woman is barking mad.’
On screen, Logan could see Rav shaking his head.
‘I know where you’re coming from Logan, but I think we should re-do that answer. It’s not going to win you any admirers to suggest your stalker is “barking mad”. Perhaps you should say, “mental health issues”, it might go down better.’
CHAPTER FOUR
The brakes are off
Konrad almost tripped over his shoes in his rush to rid himself of them and head into the kitchen of his old stone cottage. ‘Lorna?’ he barked. ‘Lorna, where the hell are you? Brace yourself. What I’ve got for you is about as hot as it gets.’
His wife’s soft voice returned to him from the far end of the house. ‘Keep it down you horny old goat, I’m on a call.’
Ignoring her request, he marched his way to her study. ‘No, don’t fob me off. I’m about to burst,’ he shouted.
She stood at the window, covering the mouthpiece of a cordless phone. Smirking a silent apology, Konrad slashed two fingers across his own throat three times before restlessly bouncing on the balls of his stockinged feet; waiting as she made her excuses. She turned her back.
‘I’m sorry about that. My partner can be… quite impatient. Yes. I was fully aware of the need for an enhanced disclosure and I really appreciate your understanding. Thanks, I’m looking forward to it.’ Lorna let out a puff of relief before facing Konrad. ‘That was uncomfortable,’ she said, frowning at him.
