by Chris Smith
They went to dinner at a local BYO, then for a drink at a bar. All the while, Libby was distant and distracted. She couldn’t pick the right time to let Phillip down easily. No moment seemed right. By the time they returned to Libby’s place, it was after midnight and Phillip went straight to the bedroom, clearly expecting that Libby would follow him.
Hardly a word was spoken. Libby stalled, moving washing baskets, picking up clothes, spending forever in the bathroom, tidying the kitchen—anything but heading into the bedroom. He called her to come in five times. Eventually she replied, ‘No, not tonight. I’m not interested.’
As she leant down to pick up a pillow from the lounge room floor, Phillip came up to her from behind and went to grab her shoulders. She moved her elbows up to stop him touching her and the mood was now set. ‘You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?’ Libby said, standing near the fireplace with her arms folded across her chest.
‘No. You’ve got the shits I know that.’ Phillip sat back into the lounge. ‘If it’s still about me scaring you, I’m sorry, it’s one of my bad habits. I won’t do it again. And the keys, I thought it might have been handy if I had a set.’
‘Stop it. It’s no good anymore. I don’t know whether I believe you. I don’t know whether you’re having me on, or not having me on … I’m so confused and I can’t cope anymore. Do you understand?’
Phillip stood from the lounge as if to offer reassurance and Libby immediately took a step back.
‘Don’t,’ she warned. ‘Just sit down, I haven’t finished. You’ve hurt me Phillip, emotionally and physically. You’re so unpredictable—you scare me. I know you’ve got some problems, you know, childhood stuff that won’t go away … I understand that, I’ve tried to excuse you because of it. You’re obsessive. You seem unable to accept the word ‘no’, or not having what you want. I’ve had enough. I want to end it. I want to end it now.’
She said it. She finally said what she’d been wanting but also fearing to say for days. Libby could feel the physical relief, the heavy weight lift off her shoulders, but she was shaking, waiting for Phillip’s reaction.
‘Okay. I got all that,’ Phillip said, unusually quietly. ‘I can see that you mean it. You’re truly over us, aren’t you?’
Libby nodded but said nothing. Phillip stood up and moved over towards the kitchen doorway. ‘I’m not walking out of here without putting a few things straight—things that you’ve completely misconstrued, totally misconstrued. That’s what you’ve done. You know as well as I do that you can’t handle love. All that independent woman junk you chicks believe, it’s just an excuse you use to get laid, to get laid by as many men as you can. I’ve only wanted to please you, be with you, and you turn me away.’
Phillip’s voice was raised now. He was sobbing and she knew he was going for the emotional jugular. She was trying desperately not to crack. Phillip moved closer to her. ‘Do you realise what you’ve done, Libby?’ he shouted. ‘You’ve taken me for a ride all this time. You’ve toyed with me and then when the heat turns up, you walk.’ He was pointing into Libby’s face, his voice growing louder. ‘Don’t you dare blame me for hurting you, scaring you,’ he yelled. ‘You’re the one who’s become an expert at that cruel game. You are a loser … you’ve lost someone who cares, who could be your soul mate. You’re the scary one, not me.’
Libby began to cry, overcome. Phillip grabbed her by the arms with great force and shook her. ‘Can’t you see?’ he yelled. ‘You’ve crushed me, again. First it was the flirting, the jealousy ploy; now let’s make Phillip grovel. Not this time, not on my bloody birthday!’
With that, Phillip threw his hands wildly in the air and his arm clipped an ornament on the mantlepiece. It hurtled to the ground and smashed into pieces on the floorboards. He was in an emotional frenzy, yelling, ranting, pleading. He stormed around the room, smashing his fists into walls, before breaking down in hysterical tears. The whites of his eyes were almost purple and he stared straight through Libby. Then, he spat at her; a foul glob of mucous splattered across her cheek and mouth.
She was totally repulsed and sickened. Her legs trembled, her heart was pounding violently and she feared for what else he was about to do. She made for the bedroom, totally distraught. Phillip tried to grab her shoulder as she turned, but managed only to catch her dress from behind, ripping it down the side. She pulled away, lengthening the tear.
‘Get out! Get out of here now!’ she screamed, backing away.
He wasn’t in the mood for taking orders. He followed her into the bedroom and grabbed her again, throwing her onto the bed. He tried to put his hand over her mouth but she managed to squirm out of his hold and away from his hand. She screamed as loudly as she could. It was deafening—Phillip retreated from the bed, then abruptly left, slamming the front door. Libby lay perfectly still, heart pounding furiously. What would he do now? Would he actually leave?
After ten silent minutes, she was convinced he’d truly left. She changed, throwing the ripped dress in the bin before turning most of the lights out. She curled up in bed in a state of sheer exhaustion. Her head was pounding, her eyes stinging and she just wanted to sleep. But as she closed her lids, she heard a muffled knock at the window to the kitchen. It came again and she tentatively made her way down the corridor. As she stood silently in the darkened kitchen, the front door suddenly flew open and there was Phillip, standing in the shadows, waiting for a reaction. ‘I want to talk to you,’ he said quietly.
‘I don’t. Get out. Get out now.’ She stepped across to the telephone, picking it up. ‘I’m calling the police, Phillip. I’m not mucking around any more.’
Phillip walked into the house and stood in the kitchen, pleading for Libby to listen to him.
‘Don’t do this. Listen to me, I can’t handle this.’
He had only one avenue left to turn her around. He needed to seek sympathy before she made that call, before she wiped him from her life forever. It was obviously unacceptable. He seemed intent on doing everything possible to change that, as he meandered through his good points, the failings he needed her help with and the pointlessness of a life without her.
‘I’m weak without you. I need you, Libby. I know that now.’
When that fell on deaf ears, he yelled and screamed in rage.
‘I’ll be out the front,’ Libby told the emergency operator and left through the front door to wait for the police. She moved right out onto the footpath, a few metres from her front gate. Phillip moved up behind her silently; she was unaware of his presence until it was too late. He grabbed her arm and hair and threw her onto the nature strip. ‘You bitch!’ he yelled. ‘This ain’t going to happen!’
Before he could get hold of her on the ground, Libby scrambled to her feet and began to run. Hopkins was right behind her. ‘Where are you going, Libby? You can’t run from me. You want to end it now do you? Well that’s not going to happen. You are mine.’
He was right; she couldn’t get away. It was hopeless. ‘Stop it … please?’ she begged.
He was quiet now, for fear of alerting the neighbours, but lights around them were already coming on. He grabbed her by the hair and began dragging her up a nearby street, a lane with no lighting. The rough surface of the path and the gravel of the driveways ripped the skin on her back as he dragged her 50 metres up the lane. She tried regaining her feet but he was moving too fast. His eyes were enraged. Whatever torture he was about to inflict upon her, Libby was powerless to stop him.
Then she heard two or three men yelling from down the lane.
‘Hoy, let her go!’
‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing, you bastard?’ another shouted.
Phillip dropped her on the ground and her shoulders hit the kerb painfully. He disappeared along the lane and then she heard the sound of sirens approaching. Libby was battered and bruised but able to stand.
Within a minute, one police officer was asking her how she was and placing his hand around her shoulder, as ano
ther spoke briefly to a frantic neighbour in a dressing-gown outside her house. They had caught Hopkins, the officer told her, and he was being taken away.
Libby was escorted back to her house—it looked like a crime scene. She didn’t want to be there anymore.
The police took Libby to her parents’ house that night, where she spent all of the next morning, Sunday, recovering from her ordeal. Her first verbal contact was with the constable who handled the night’s drama and had processed Hopkins at the local police station. He rang to inform her that the Hopkins’ family had posted bail and he’d been released. The officer was certain Hopkins had experienced his own ordeal and would not return to frighten or threaten her, at least not in the short term.
Later that afternoon, Libby’s sister arrived to help out. They agreed to go back to Mosman to collect more of her clothes and personal items. As they drove to the top of her parent’s street, Libby immediately spotted Phillip’s bright red Laser and he was sitting behind the wheel. As they passed he started his car and began to tail Libby and her sister from two car lengths behind. They managed to lose him in traffic, but Libby refused to go home. She stayed the night at her sister’s and there was no further sign of him that weekend, but Libby remained unsettled.
Over the next few days, as Libby returned to work, against all advice, Phillip appeared at every turn. When she got off the bus, he stood opposite the bus stop for a few moments. When she reached her office, Phillip emerged from around the corner. If she was alone, he’d launch a pathetic appeal.
‘You’re making things worse and I wish you’d just go away,’ she said.
‘But I love you, I can’t live without you Libby.’ This was his constant lament.
Depending on who else was around, he would even follow her into her security-controlled building. He stood next to Libby as she tried to swipe her card to get inside and wouldn’t budge, pleading with her hysterically. He kept this up until he thought someone was coming. Once he managed to force his way into the foyer. When a colleague went to exit, Libby used the opportunity to push him back out the door just before it closed.
From outside the building, he hassled Libby with flowers and notes begging for forgiveness. When Libby caught the bus home, Phillip would pull up in his car at her stop and drive alongside her at walking pace with the window down to plead some more.
‘I’ll kill myself Libby—I will,’ he yelled out of the car. Libby walked undeterred and seemingly unaffected. He eventually drove away at speed, angry and distraught.
Then there were the painful letters, personally delivered, sometimes two on the same day. On 13 December he wrote:
Libby,
I can’t function without you—I can’t think, eat or sleep unless drugged. My life isn’t here anymore. You’re my life. The pain is persistent and unbearable. I miss you. I miss seeing you, talking with you every day—that’s why I need to see you, and why I have done what I have done. Not to hassle you or assault you or even to be a nuisance. Just to receive this pain. If you believe that, then there is no need to call the police again. That would kill me and nothing I have done deserves that, does it? And honestly, Mum would be affected severely as well. Please don’t.
I miss your beautiful face, with your hair out and over your shoulders, looking down on me lovingly, touching me. Me touching you.
Libby, you are pushing me out—and I told you that is what you must do if you want to end our relationship—and not build it up into something so strong no one or nothing can beat it. If that’s what you want you will have to keep on doing so until I give up hope. I don’t know how long that will take. Don’t worry, I won’t see you persistently or call you or see you in front of anyone concerned about you. But when I give up hope I’ll stop.
But I will always love you. And always, anytime soon, you can call me and maybe we can talk. In time, you will have someone else and I will too—and our good times will be remembered and what might have been will be wasted.
Please call me, Please see me.
I love you. That’s all that counts.
Going home from work became a tactical attempt to avoid him and keep as close as possible to others. One afternoon she walked down the fire stairs with a colleague and Phillip was there, but continued past the pair, as if too afraid to confront her in the company of an unknown entity. At the bus stop, he arrived from nowhere again. ‘I love you, I cannot live without you,’ he said.
At that moment, her colleague Carla, also leaving work, spotted Libby being hassled by the man she’d noticed lurking around the building. She screeched to a halt at the bus stop and opened the passenger door. Libby instantly ran over and hopped in.
Libby spent another night in the spare room of her sister’s house, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he’d turn up there too. She was now at her wit’s end. He returned to her workplace the following day and managed to get inside the building yet again.
‘That’s it, Phillip,’ she said forcefully. ‘I know you’re upset. I was prepared to allow you that grief until now. Enough! I will ring the police again and you’ll be in deeper trouble. Go away.’
Only the appearance of a stranger forced him to turn and leave.
That lunchtime, he was up the road, trying to intercept her walk to the shops. Libby wondered whether he actually spent any time at work. She turned to walk back to her building, shattered by the realisation that this was not going to end any time soon.
As she reached her office block, a hand grabbed her wrist from behind. His face was filled with rage. He began pulling Libby towards his car at the kerb. Two colleagues came running out of the security doors and broke the lock he had on her wrists. He jumped in his car and screeched away.
Within 30 minutes of this incident, after Libby had spent some time tidying herself up in the washroom, she returned to her desk to find yet a letter—another warning that he couldn’t live without her.
She could no longer cope with the constant onslaught. Three days after Phillip’s vicious assault, she called the police once. Her friend Shane agreed to take her home to collect her belongings. She was now on leave from work.
As Shane drove Libby out from the underground carpark and onto the Pacific Highway, Hopkins was close by, leaning against a wall. Spotting her in the passenger’s seat, he stepped towards the passing car and mouthed a message to her: ‘Don’t ring the police.’ But it was too late. They were on their way.
At that moment though, Libby no longer cared whether the police would catch him, or what they would do to him. She simply longed to be safe, to escape to a new place; a place Hopkins would never have conceived she’d go.
7
BASHED
‘You can stay here as long as you like, Libby,’ called the reassuring voice from the other room.
She was simply too petrified to stay alone. Overnight her home in Mosman had transformed into a cold, heartless shell. And it wasn’t only her cottage that felt unsafe. Phillip Hopkins had proved that he could track her down almost anywhere. No reassurance from the police could convince her otherwise. Yes, he now had a court-case to front after Christmas, the further allegations of force and constant harassment to defend, but his family had money. Libby had read enough to know that crimes of passion were often treated sympathetically by courts. And she was now smack bang in the middle of one of those stories that up to now she’d only read about.
She longed for solitude and needed rest, but for now she also had to keep well clear of her parents’ home and her sister’s too. All connections had to be broken. Phillip didn’t know about her friend Anthony in Melbourne. They had not been together long enough to travel there together. She just hoped that Phillip hadn’t followed her to the airport—or even to Melbourne—but she couldn’t be entirely sure. Anyone who’d been through what Libby had of late had every reason to keep looking over their shoulder, even so many hundreds of kilometres away from home.
As far as her stalker was concerned, Libby had simply vanishe
d from the face of the earth. She spent most of her days holed up in Anthony’s small lounge room and on the even smaller apartment veranda overlooking the postage stamp-sized park below. South Yarra felt a world away from her life on Sydney’s warm north shore.
Anthony was a former beau—very former—and was the only person in Libby’s life detached from her current set of friends. He no longer held any attraction for Libby—although the fact that he lived so close to the Toorak Road shopping strip was a pleasant distraction. The upmarket boutiques and the cafés slowly lured her out of the apartment and elevated her soul. Anthony was extremely busy and not often able to entertain his interstate guest, but that was exactly what Libby needed, solitude and an environment conducive to mental rehabilitation. Most of all, she felt safe.
Libby felt empowered by her isolation, stronger in mind and spirit. The quiet apartment block, the serene park below and all those scarfed Melbournians going about their business felt so far away from the maddening captivity she’d been living in. Anthony didn’t ask too many questions about the condition she was in. He knew what had happened that night and during the days afterwards, but little about what had led up to these events. He’d known Libby long enough and intimately enough not to push her towards breaking point. She was slowly letting her guard down, revealing bits and pieces of the story, but it would happen in her own time.
The Libby Masters Anthony had known had everything going for her. Even now, under duress, she was a very beautiful young woman. Her face and eyes were kind and warm, her complexion pale and close to perfect, her hair long, wavy and blonde. Many a discerning man had become mesmerised by that girl-next-door look. Her figure was exceptional, the envy of her workmates and girlfriends. And her career had been going well too. Her hours were flexible, she got out and about quite often and she worked in an interesting industry.
