by Paul Burston
‘You don’t have someone who could do it for you?’
‘I can’t afford staff.’
‘But presumably your publisher can?’
Tom coughed. ‘I’m between publishers at the moment.’
‘A friend, then?’
‘There’s nobody I’d really trust to do it properly. It’s a lot to ask of someone.’
‘But it would give you a break. Sometimes these things die down when the person realises they’re not getting through.’
Tom shrugged. ‘If only. If you ask me, she needs sectioning.’
‘A person can only be detained under The Mental Health Act if they’re deemed to pose a threat to themselves or others.’ The detective consulted her notes. ‘You say you met Ms Stokes at your book signing. Is that the only time you’ve seen her in person?’
Tom thought for a moment. ‘There was one other occasion – at the farmers’ market at Oval. At the time I put it down to coincidence. Now I’m not so sure.’
‘But you recognised her?’
‘It was more a case of her recognising me. She looked over and waved.’
‘And did you speak?’
‘I acknowledged her and moved swiftly on. I didn’t wish to be drawn into a conversation.’
‘Why was that?’
‘I don’t know her. My gut instinct told me that something wasn’t quite right.’
‘I see. And has Ms Stokes ever made direct threats against you?’
‘It depends what you mean by threats.’
‘Has she ever threatened to cause you physical harm?’
‘Not directly, no. But she’s hinted at it. After she turned on me, she made veiled comments on Twitter about getting back at me in some way. “Don’t get mad, get even” – that sort of thing. I don’t know what she’s capable of. She could be a knife-wielding maniac for all I know.’ Tom smiled weakly. ‘What I do know is that she’s obsessive and relentless, and clearly very angry with me.’
‘And why do you think that is?’
‘Honestly? I think she developed a crush on me, and she can never have me.’
‘Because you’re attached?’
‘Because I’m gay.’ Tom searched the detective’s face for some reaction, but her expression remained impassive.
‘I see. And was she aware of this?’
‘I didn’t lead her on, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I’m not saying you did. I’m just after the facts.’
Tom sighed. ‘I don’t make a secret of it. I’m not one of those professional gay types. I don’t shout it from the rooftops. But it’s not something I’m ashamed of. It’s part of who I am. It’s not all that I am.’
‘But if she knows you’re gay, surely she—’
‘We’re talking about someone who isn’t quite right in the head,’ Tom said, more irritably than he’d intended. ‘In her mind, she probably thought it was some minor obstacle to overcome. There are women like that, you know. They see gay men as a challenge.’
The detective smiled tightly. ‘You say she turned on you. What did she do exactly?’
‘Her emails and tweets became more aggressive. She started using homophobic language.’ Tom paused. ‘That makes this a hate crime, doesn’t it?’
‘Possibly. First we need to establish that a crime has been committed. Do you have copies of these emails and tweets?’
‘Some of them, yes. I deleted a lot of the emails. And some went into my spam folder.’
‘Can I ask why you deleted the emails?’
‘Just out of instinct, I suppose. They disgusted me, so I deleted them.’
‘Well the more you can find – the stronger the weight of evidence – the better the chances of the CPS pursuing the case.’
‘Do you think it’s likely that they will?’
‘It really all depends on the weight of evidence. I believe my colleagues asked you to bring in as much supporting evidence as you could find?’
‘They did,’ Tom said. ‘And I have.’ He reached into his leather messenger bag and took out a manila folder bulging with sheets of A4 paper.
The detective looked slightly taken aback. She logged onto the computer in front of her and opened up a template headed ‘Witness Statement’.
‘Right,’ she smiled professionally. ‘Why don’t we make a start?’
For the next two hours, Tom described the events that had brought him here. As he talked, the detective typed, then invited him to read back what she’d written. Progress was painfully slow. Tom lost count of the number of times he had to correct her spelling, or rephrase something to make the meaning clearer. At regular intervals he was asked to describe the contents of one of the many printed emails and screenshots of tweets he’d bought along as evidence. Each was given a reference number and slipped into an exhibit bag, which he was then asked to sign.
The statement described how the woman Tom knew as Evie Stokes first started following him on Twitter.
‘At first, her tweets were either flattering or innocuous. “I loved your last book” or “What do you think about this author?” I didn’t reply, though I may have “liked” the odd tweet here and there. This continued for several months.’
‘And you didn’t think to block her?’ the detective asked.
‘I didn’t see any reason to. There was nothing to indicate that she wished me any harm. She was just another overeager fan on Twitter.’
Then came the night they supposedly met at a book signing at Waterstones in Piccadilly. Tom couldn’t recall meeting anyone called Evie that evening – ‘I’m sure I’d have remembered’ – but he’d signed a lot of books for a lot of people, and as he explained to the detective, it was some time ago. He vaguely remembered a woman tweeting him later that night to thank him for signing her book and congratulate him on a successful event. Out of courtesy he may have followed her back. He realised later that this woman must have been Evie Stokes.
From this point on, the volume of tweets increased considerably. Sometimes he’d receive four or five in the space of an hour or so. Some days there was as many as twenty or thirty. Most were fairly innocuous in tone, though he did start to find the woman’s persistence a little irritating. He replied once or twice, but as the quantity grew, he stopped responding – so as not to encourage her any further. Gradually the tone of the tweets changed. She became more aggressive, demanding to know why he was ignoring her. It was at this point that she started using words like ‘prick’, ‘gaylord’ and ‘pansy’. It was then that he blocked her from his Twitter account.
‘Why did she suddenly become aggressive?’ the detective asked. ‘Was there a particular incident that may have prompted it?’
Tom shrugged. ‘She got it into her head that I’d agreed to read her book.’
The detective looked surprised. ‘So she’s also an author?’
‘God, no!’ Tom shook his head. ‘That’s precisely the point. She isn’t published but she seemed to think I could help. People often assume that. They think that because you’re published you hold some secret key to the kingdom, and if you’d only agree to help, they’d be bestselling authors in no time.’
‘And did you read it?’
‘I’ve had neither the time nor the inclination.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m not sure you do,’ Tom said. ‘This sort of thing happens a lot. People ask you to read their stuff, and you try to avoid causing offence by saying something noncommittal. If they then send it to you and you don’t respond, they assume you weren’t keen and just leave it at that.’
‘But not her.’
‘No. She was just getting started.’
He described to the detective how Evie started bombarding him with emails, demanding to know what he thought of her book. He blocked her email address, but each time he did she’d open another account with another provider. Then, when he checked his Twitter account, he discovered that she’d found a way of contacting him despite him having blocked her.
‘And you have proof of this?’
Tom handed over a printout of her tweet. ‘If that’s not a clear statement of intent, I don’t know what is.’
The detective examined it for a moment.
‘I know these may seem like small incidents,’ Tom said. ‘But it’s the continuous, repetitive nature of it that gets to you. There’s no respite. It’s every day.’
‘I understand the nature of harassment,’ the detective replied. ‘And what was the content of her tweets at this point?’
‘Some were just playground insults. Gaylord. Pansy. Sissy. But some were calculated to cause as much upset as possible. “You’re the AIDS generation! You’re lucky to be alive!”’ Tom’s voice faltered. ‘I had friends who died of AIDS. I don’t need reminding of the fact.’
The detective looked sympathetic. ‘I can see why you’d find that upsetting.’
Tom continued. On the advice of a friend, he tweeted Evie Stokes asking her to refrain from tagging him. He showed a screenshot of this tweet to the detective and she entered it into evidence. He also informed his Twitter followers of what was happening and asked them to either block her, not respond or not include him in their responses. Again, he hoped that things would finally die down.
Instead, they escalated. Stokes posted comments under reviews on Amazon, claiming co-authorship of the book he was currently working on. She made a series of amendments to his Wikipedia page, deleting links to his official website and inserting hyperlinks to her blog, where she repeated her claims and accused him of plagiarism.
‘All completely untrue, of course,’ Tom said. ‘But potentially very harmful to my career.’
‘Why?’ the detective asked. ‘If there’s no truth in her allegations, how could they harm you?’
‘People believe what they read. And there are plenty of lazy journalists out there who rely on Wikipedia or Twitter for background information. All it takes is for someone to repeat what’s written there, and suddenly the claim has credibility. Soon it’s part of the official narrative around me and my career. Which is exactly what she wants, of course – for our names to be linked in people’s minds. She’s a succubus, feeding off my reputation.’
The detective’s expression suggested that she didn’t know what a succubus was, but Tom decided to let it pass. Instead he described how the volume of emails continued to rise, sent by Stokes from a variety of different email addresses, either repeating the same allegations or apologising for offending him and suggesting that they meet to ‘talk it over’. No sooner had he blocked one email than another would appear.
‘And you didn’t think of changing your email address?’ the detective asked.
‘I thought of it,’ Tom replied. ‘But why should I? I’ve had the same email for years. I’m self-employed. I rely on it for work.’
‘I see.’ The detective scribbled something in her notebook. ‘What about phone calls? Does she have your number?’
‘Not as far as I know. I mean, she’s never called me.’
‘And there’ve been no silent calls, nothing of that nature?’
‘None I can think of.’
‘You might want to consider changing your number anyway, just in case. So, what happened next?’
Tom continued with his story, describing how the daily bombardment of tweets and emails began to grind him down. His work suffered. He found it hard to focus. For the first time in his life, he developed writer’s block. He began drinking heavily – a bottle of wine a night, sometimes more. He started smoking again – a habit he’d picked up in his teens and quit when he turned thirty. He was unable to sleep, lying awake all night or drifting off for a few hours before being jolted back to consciousness. Each morning, he approached his desk with trepidation. He dreaded checking his emails or logging on to Twitter. Finally, on the advice of a friend he went to see his doctor, who told him he was suffering from acute anxiety and prescribed a course of antidepressants.
Tom’s voice cracked. He lowered his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise it would be quite so hard, going over it all again. I’ve never taken antidepressants in my life. But it’s been incredibly stressful. There’ve been days when I thought I was losing my mind.’
The detective’s face softened. ‘I understand. And we don’t need to talk about that now. You’ll have an opportunity to talk about the impact of the crime at a later date. This witness statement is simply about gathering the facts.’ She glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘But I’m aware that you’re tired and it’s getting rather late. Would you prefer to stop now and finish this another time?’
‘No. I’d sooner get it over and done with.’ Tom cleared his throat and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
‘There is help available,’ the detective said, taking a box of tissues from the desk drawer. ‘Have you spoken to victim support?’
Tom took a tissue and blew his nose. He smiled weakly. ‘I’ve never really thought of myself as a victim. It’s not something I’m entirely comfortable with.’
‘You’re doing really well. This shouldn’t take much longer.’
In fact, it was more than an hour before the statement was complete. The detective printed off a copy for him to sign and date, and as they waited for the lift, she handed him a card with her direct line and other contact details.
‘What happens now?’ he asked. ‘Will she be arrested?’
The policewoman’s expression was inscrutable. ‘From what you’ve told me, it appears that a crime may have been committed. But we’ll have to see what Ms Stokes has to say for herself. And then it’s up to the Crown Prosecution Service.’
Tom knew the odds weren’t good. He’d read somewhere that only sixteen percent of harassment cases reported to the police resulted in prosecution. For stalking, it was even fewer – a measly one percent.
The detective must have read his mind. ‘We will look in to your complaint,’ she said firmly. ‘That’s really all I can say at this point. But I can assure you that it will be investigated thoroughly.’
The lift arrived and they stepped inside.
‘So you’ll be putting her under some sort of surveillance?’ Tom asked as the doors closed.
The policewoman smiled tightly. ‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that.’
‘But someone will monitor her activity online?’
‘We’ll certainly take a look at her Twitter feed. That’s all I can say at this point.’
‘I see,’ Tom said, although he didn’t really see at all. Surely it was up to the police to gather evidence now, or what was the point in him having spent the best part of three hours stuck in this grim excuse for a building? ‘One last thing. When she’s arrested, I assume you’ll seize her computer?’
‘Again, that really depends on the CPS.’
‘But what if someone was accused of distributing child pornography?’
As the lift shuddered to a halt, the detective met his gaze. ‘That would be a very different case.’
The doors opened and he followed her out into the corridor.
‘What should I do in the meantime?’
‘If she contacts you again, report it to the police, quoting the crime reference number you were given on Tuesday. If you think of anything else that might be useful, let me know and we can make an additional statement. All my details are on the card I gave you. And please, if she emails you, don’t delete her emails. Forward them to me and we can add them to your file.’
She swiped her security pass to open the door, and shook Tom’s hand.
As he turned to go, a thought occurred. ‘What if she turns up at my flat?’
A flicker of alarm crossed the detective’s face. ‘Does she know where you live
?’
‘I don’t think so. But I can’t say for sure. She might.’
‘If she approaches you in person, call 999 immediately.’
3
DAY 2
What was that stunt you pulled in court today? A screen? Seriously? You requested a screen between us while you gave evidence. What am I – some sort of wild animal you need protecting from? What did you expect me to do, Tom? Leap across the room and go for your throat? A little woman like me and a big man like you? Don’t make me laugh.
When they first told me, I thought they were joking. I was in one of the consulting rooms with my lawyer when a court official came to break the news.
‘But why does he need a screen?’ I demanded.
My lawyer shrugged and replied, ‘It’s within his rights.’
Your rights? What about my rights? I’m the one on trial here. Surely I should have the right to see my accuser?
Apparently, you’d made a request to the Crown Prosecution Service, insisting that you found me intimidating and didn’t want to ‘feed’ my ‘fixation’ by giving me the satisfaction of looking at you.
Really, Tom, you don’t half flatter yourself. And we both know that not a word of this is true. If you ask me, it was more a case of you not wanting to look me in the face when you lied. It’s harder to lie convincingly when the person you’re lying about is standing right in front of you. That’s the real reason you asked for that screen, isn’t it Tom? Not so that I couldn’t see you. So that you couldn’t see me.
Earlier in the day we’d heard from your policewoman friend – the one who came to arrest me the night this whole nightmare began. Do you have any idea how distressing that was? The police turning up at my door, barging into my bedroom, accusing me of all sorts? You know my dad hasn’t been very well lately. He’s the reason I moved back home. How do you think he felt, seeing his only daughter led away by the police like a common criminal? That’s a cruel trick to play on a man with a heart condition.
I was charged under the Malicious Communications Act. Me! A woman who doesn’t have a malicious bone in her body. Who has only ever wanted what’s best for you. Who stood by you when the critics trashed your last book. How many times did I leap to your defence, Tom? How many hours did I spend reassuring you that the critics were wrong, that they weren’t fit to pass judgement on a book so original and so brilliantly written, it was beyond their comprehension? ‘Ignore them,’ I said. Then, when you insisted that reviews that bad were impossible to ignore, I did everything within my power to soften the blow. I’ve lost count of how many reader reviews I posted on Amazon, how many critics I took to task in the comments sections, how many Wikipedia pages I corrected. I was your biggest supporter. And then you send the police round to accuse me, of all people, of malice?