Stalked

by Chris Smith

  These fleeting daytime appearances were different from his nighttime visits, which were still part of his weekly routine. Whereas a voice or a tap at the window in the darkness would terrify her, his daily pursuit was the slow-cooked version. The repetitive and mentally nauseating process of wearing Libby down, keeping her on edge, nervous and ill at ease. She’d jump at the sound of car horns, or any sudden noise around her. Libby didn’t know which was worse—but she did know that until she could prove what was happening, this was her life. She detested every living hour, unable to see an end to the psychological persecution.

  Libby returned to the company of her friends, in particular Sarah and Shane, spending a little more time out with them, rather than rugged up at home with her parents, peering constantly at the back fence. Life had to go on and she was curious to see how courageous Phillip was with an audience, if he dared breach the current AVO and whether her socialising would bring an end to his night visits—if only.

  On the third Saturday in February, Libby, Sarah and another friend, Patrick, decided to dare fate and hit the Oaks. It was time to wipe the slate clean. The girls were loud together, gregarious, just like the old days, when they went out to see what was on offer. A few hours into the night, Hopkins turned up, at the other end of the main bar. Libby spotted him first; she was too fragile not to be scouring the room. He sent her stares and evil looks from across the room. Sarah suggested they call the police. He was, after all, within the 100-metre limit of his AVO. Sarah wondered whether he had come there to hassle Libby deliberately or if he’d been coming to the Oaks regularly.

  Just as Libby had relaxed enough to become ensconced in conversation with her friends, Hopkins walked by within arm’s length.

  ‘Christ, you’re ugly!’ he said as he drew level.

  Sarah was about to have her say, until Libby grabbed her by the arm. She didn’t want to have anything else slapped in her face. Hopkins continued however. ‘You’re a hooked-nose Jew. Look at you,’ he snarled.

  When Hopkins left the bar, Libby asked both women to remember what had happened, just in case she needed their help.

  Three weeks later, at a nightclub in Cremorne, Libby was out again with her friends, including Shane. At about 11pm, Hopkins showed up, seemingly intoxicated and ready to get in Libby’s face. He began by following the group of friends around the nightclub, from the main bar and dance-floor to the piano bar upstairs.

  He kept his distance and this time the group was not giving him any benefit of the doubt—he was there to cause trouble. He thrust his middle finger up at her so pointedly it caught the attention of others in the club. He couldn’t resist a verbal shot either, ‘Just slutting around again are you, Libby?’ he said, from several metres away.

  Again Libby had to stop her friends, particularly Shane, from launching a return attack. She wanted there to be no ambiguity for Hopkins to use against her. He would be the only aggressor. Then an hour later, as the group returned to the bar to purchase another round of drinks, Hopkins approached quickly. ‘I loved you; you know I loved you.’ He pointed at her.

  She said nothing. Shane jostled him and they glared at each other, before Hopkins did a U-turn and walked out. This time, Libby notified the police and they took statements from the group.

  The following weekend, however, before the police acted, Libby found herself confronted once more, across the harbour at the Basement, a popular jazz venue. Hopkins was inside the women’s toilets. As she emerged from her cubicle, there he was, away from his haunts, never letting go of his target.

  The shock of his presence, not just at the Basement, but inside the women’s toilets, infuriated Libby. She headed straight for the bouncers at the entrance and asked the club to make contact with the nearest police station. She had been pushed too far and she wanted action, now.

  The bouncers rounded him up and, soon after, the police turned up to take him back to The Rocks police station. The officers contacted the police on the north side who were handling Libby’s most recent allegations.

  Hopkins claimed that he was at the Basement to see that night’s acts, that Libby was a freak. Then he suddenly calmed down and asked to use the conveniences. Officers showed Hopkins out of the interview room and he headed to the men’s room, across the open workroom of the station. Hopkins saw the huge, unmanned front desk facing George Street, took a sharp right and jumped across it, before regaining his feet and escaping through the double front doors.

  At just past midnight Hopkins ran west up Argyle Street, watched by rowdy onlookers outside the bustling Orient Hotel opposite. What seemed like a whole station full of police surged out of two exits on foot and gave chase. Within ten seconds, three officers had tackled Hopkins 50 metres up the hill, on the hard, old convict-lain cobble stones, as he tried to evade apprehension by running towards the road.

  He was charged with escaping lawful custody and breaching an existing AVO, and transported to Sydney Police Station for a late-night bail sergeant to decide his immediate fate. It was not only the justice system that Hopkins had to worry about now; a frantic police chase up Argyle Street could not avoid media notice and the stalker was about to have his deeds spread to a much wider audience.

  The article in the next morning’s Sun Herald briefly outlined Hopkins’ thwarted escape and his breach of his AVO. It was only a short story, but it was enough to trigger two astonishing events.

  Soon after his attempted escape, Libby received a chilling nighttime phone call from a most unexpected source.

  ‘It’s Malcolm, Libby, Malcolm Hopkins.’

  ‘Yes, what do you want, Mr Hopkins?’ She was stunned.

  He started by saying he’d always hoped that Libby would be the one capable of turning her son around. He needed saving, needed to settle down.

  Libby attempted to underline his son’s problems in the kindest way possible. ‘There is something mentally wrong with your son Mr Hopkins—there has to be for him to act the way he does. He must be stopped; he’s cruel,’ she said calmly.

  There was silence for a moment. ‘I’m sorry if he’s been troubling you and you have every right not to be in this relationship, but can I give you my wife’s phone number. Maybe you’d like to have a woman to woman talk. He’s a good boy really, Libby. He doesn’t mean any harm, I promise.’

  Libby wasn’t arguing anymore. She agreed to think about what Malcolm had said and quickly terminated the call. That such an astute businessman would have thought that these traumatic events could be washed away by a phone call between two women astounded her.

  Phillip Hopkins’ dramatic arrest at The Rocks hadn’t only spurred his father into action, it had caught the eye of at least one crucial former player in his tawdry life.

  9

  NOT ALONE

  When the phone rang on her desk at work, Libby sensed that there was something strange about the call. She didn’t know what or why, but she hesitated for one drawn-out second. She quickly dismissed her paranoia and told herself it was a work call. But it was not.

  It was yet another surprise caller.

  ‘Um, is that Libby Masters? It’s Simone Crowe calling.’

  ‘Who? Oh, Simone Crowe. That Simone Crowe … I mean, Phillip’s ex. I know you, yes, hello …’, said Libby stammering in surprise and excitement.

  ‘I read about his escape and I felt I had to call.’

  ‘Thanks for calling. You know all about Phillip Hopkins, right?’

  ‘Know about him? Oh yeah … he stalked me for eight whole years. He bashed me. He changed me forever … I know him alright and I wish to God I’d never ever met him.

  ‘I saw the story and thought long and hard about it and had to do something, before …’ she tailed off. ‘I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I couldn’t believe that ten years later, he was still driving women nuts. Maybe my conscience got the better of me. I don’t know.’

  ‘That’s fine, I’m glad it did.’ Libby slowly leaned back on her chair and pulled the phon
e closer carefully to avoiding disconnecting the call or missing a single word. This was the call she’d been waiting for. Her life was echoing this woman’s; she needed to share that synchronicity.

  She was about to ask Simone a question, when the other woman’s story began: ‘I met him at a club. He came up and reckoned he’d seen me before somewhere. I’ve thought about that moment eight million times. He wasn’t the exciting type. Not boring either, just normal, I thought. I was only twenty. I didn’t think he was bad looking. He wasn’t pushy and I was curious as to where he’d seen me before. He kept that little secret for a long time. None of that twigged. It was a con to crack onto me.

  ‘The day after I’d first heard about you, Libby, I thought I saw him in the street. It’s such a horrible feeling to see someone you think looks like him. He was my hunter and I was his prey. It makes me so sick to even think about it …’

  Simone paused. Libby sensed her tears. ‘Go on, take your time,’ she coaxed.

  ‘I think he expected sex the first night we met, you know. I wouldn’t, I couldn’t. I don’t do that so soon. We did though, a couple of weeks later, because he became pushy and was offended by my refusals. I was just not sure who he was … I haven’t thought about that for so long. Is it any wonder?

  Over the next few months, I slowly got used to him, got into it, got into him, but he became so moody when he didn’t get his way. That was my first experience of his sick mind. It didn’t bother me enough. That was the problem. We got more entrenched, more like a couple. When he got into one of those moods, he was pretty bloody awful, not just to me—my friends hated him. He made such a fool of himself in public, pleading with me to keep away from my friends, it was embarrassing … and then he’d be like a complete baby afterwards. He’d say sorry and …’

  ‘Say how he had a crap upbringing, a dysfunctional family?’ Libby interjected.

  ‘Absolutely, that’s exactly what he’d say.’

  ‘And you felt sorry for him again.’ Libby smiled.

  ‘I did. You did too?’

  ‘Yep, like a fish on the end of a hook.’

  ‘I thought I was the dumbest sucker in Australia,’ Simone said. ‘You too, hey? He even told me he once punched his mother. He knocked her down in the kitchen. His attitude to her, to his family, was just shit. For his 21st birthday his parents gave him this really nice stereo. I was there and I thought it was wonderful and yet he hated it. It wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t big enough. It wasn’t expensive enough. And it wasn’t the one he’d told his dad to buy. So ungrateful.’

  ‘I didn’t see too many friends in his life either … maybe that should have made me twig,’ Libby added.

  ‘Yeah, no friends, not even from work. When we were together, he was sacked from his job. He smashed his boss and was given his marching orders. He had every excuse under the sun about why he had to do it. The only friend I ever saw him hang around with was Jason—an oaf. Yeah, they were as thick as thieves, Jason and …’ Simone paused. ‘I almost said his name, but I can’t without feeling ill. I haven’t said it for years. Anyway, his mate would always stick up for him, like some salivating lap dog.’

  ‘After six months together, it all went mad. I tried so hard to end it. And when I thought I had, I hadn’t. I can’t explain it.’

  ‘I think I know what you mean … he pretends that it’s not over and jokes about your state of mind. As if I didn’t mean to end it,’ Libby said, shaking her head.

  ‘Even after the violence, he claimed I’d never break it off, that I couldn’t live on without him.’

  ‘How violent did it get?’ Libby asked.

  Simone paused again, sighed and continued with her story. ‘I can’t go through the full detail of it all, Libby. I just can’t. I’m sorry, but some things you need to know. In my flat sometimes, when I wouldn’t have sex with him, he’d drag me into this room, half joking initially, and half serious. He’d lock me in there. It was an empty study room. No furniture, nothing. I had to sit on the cold wooden floor. There were bars on all the windows. He tied the door to. If I tried to force it or break out, he’d come in and whack me, in this frantic half-joking way. He’d throw me against the wall, Libby. I’d be in mid-air and my back would smash against the wall. He even locked me in his mother’s room one time. I couldn’t get out. I was stuck there, even after they got home. He waited until his own mother walked upstairs and found me there. I had to explain. Make up some bullshit about a migraine. It was gross, it was so sick. He loved it. Then we’d go through the remorseful stage straight afterwards … and I bought it. I bought it for almost nine months.’

  ‘Did he go off in one of those rages, if he got jealous?’ Libby asked.

  ‘Sure did. He’d destroy all my TAFE drawings, all my art. He’d tear it to pieces like some mad, uncaring dog. That was before my art went dark … before I turned inside out and kept away from everyone, anyone … I just felt dirty, violated, guilty. Even the cakes I baked at home with the rest of my flatmates weren’t safe … when he felt like it, he’d just lose it, lose it completely and throw the cakes all over the place … It would take us ages to clean up. That was when I was lucky. He was soon constantly punching, shoving and hitting me. He’d knock me on the ground over virtually nothing, kick me in the stomach, in the back, in the back of the head—all the places that wouldn’t show. Occasionally he’d strike my face.

  He had this flat above a shop in Concord and he once dragged me from the top floor, from his bedroom, after punching me in the face. I was covered in blood. He dragged me by the hair down two flights of stairs! He kicked me and hurt me in all the places it wouldn’t show. He was too gutless to be caught. By the way, did he hurt you?’

  Libby was taken aback at first. ‘Yeah, he forced himself upon me a few times and I gave in, just to avoid the drama, of him “accidentally” hitting me. So, did he stalk you when the relationship ended?’

  Simone laughed, a clinical, false laugh. ‘He stalked me alright—endlessly. I ran away, to Tamworth, to Mum’s place. I had no choice. He broke into my house, punched me in the face and gave me two black eyes. He’d wake me up at 3am, sitting on top of the shed out the back.

  He followed me to the club, to restaurants, to bars. He’d scream at me in a room full of diners and slam the door in disgust. He’d park around the corner and wait for me for hours over the weekend, then just drive away. Even at my father’s place, he’d throw something at the window, I’d wake up and he’d be sitting in the long grass at the back, peering out so that his eyes were shiny in the moonlight.

  I was petrified every single night. I’d vomit. I got so sick. I had to take time off work. He’d be sitting in the back of my bus of an afternoon. He must have taken other buses other days and missed me so often. But he was mad enough to play this game of hide and seek for so long.’

  Simone explained how she had taken out AVOs. How police involvement proved fruitless. Hopkins just got smarter, more elusive, better at stalking. ‘I tried to run away too, twice.’

  ‘Where to?’ Libby asked.

  ‘I went to the country, as I said, to my mother in Tamworth. I even started a new life … enrolling in an arts course. He found me, travelled all the way up there and stalked me again. In fact I think he enjoyed Tamworth best. He lived in this hire car, from what I could tell, and roamed the streets and backyards at night. He got brazen there. He confronted me, Mum, my TAFE teachers and threatened to kill me. He threatened to kill anyone who got in the way, even Mum. He stole a photo album from my car that I’d brought up to show my mother. A week later, some of the photos of us together were glued to the bonnet of my car, with droplets of blood stuck to them. It was creepy. The local cops didn’t know what to do. They treated it all as a bad domestic and told us to go back to Sydney and sort it out. That’s when I decided to leave. I had to leave the whole goddamn country. I went overseas. It was the only real choice I had left—or kill him!’

  ‘You went overseas because of him?’
/>   ‘You bet. I was on the verge of killing myself, or killing him. Forget what he was threatening to do to me. I had to go and it worked. For two and a half years, I was free of him. I lived in England. I had a kind of boyfriend over there. I got my life back. I was rid of him, although I lost my friends, my family and the place I grew up in. I loved Sydney so much before I met him. I loved so many things before I met him. The beaches were once beautiful. The city was incredible once upon a time. The smell of the place, the sights, they’ve since soured. I use to love me too, but it’s just too complicated now.’

  Even 17,000 kilometres away, Simone had constant nightmares. Her recurring dream involved being stabbed by Hopkins, stabbed in the stomach. It never went away. Eventually, she came home, back to her family and friends. She had to in the end, and simply hope that Hopkins had moved on, had perhaps even married and grown out of his cruel behaviour.

  ‘So you had to go overseas to make the break? Is that what I have to do?’

  ‘It won’t work, Libby. Within weeks of finding a place, registering my telephone and gas, he found me at Alexandria!’

  ‘He found you after two and a half years?’

  ‘Yep, as if I hadn’t been away for a single day. As soon as I was in Sydney again, he was onto me. How he knew that I’d returned is still a mystery to me. Unless all that geeky computer work he does has him tapped into some public utility mainframe. I wouldn’t be surprised. I had flatmates, which was probably the best insurance policy I could have had. They saw most of the next round of stalking, the cruel obsession and his nastiness. They saved my life and sanity. But yes, the stalking was back on again … the persistent hunter, over my shoulder, across the road, in the bushes, against the window, above the shop and even in the shopping centre toilets. He was bloody untiring. I became a wreck all over again.’ Simone was clearly exhausted by revisiting her nightmare.