by Paul Burston
Frustrated by his lack of progress, Tom slams the laptop closed and rises from his chair. He’s damned if he’ll let that bloody woman take up another moment’s headspace, not when he’s this close to finishing his book. Time to walk it off and come back to it later.
Outside the sun is scorching and the beach is packed with people thankful they didn’t fork out for a foreign holiday when it’s so warm at home. News reporters are saying it’s the hottest summer since 1976 and that temperatures are expected to last until September. With any luck, the forecasters will have got it right for once.
Scanning the beach, Tom sees that the message in pebbles is still visible on the groyne, though a few stones have been dislodged and the messenger is nowhere to be seen. He wonders if Karen has spotted it yet, and glances up at the windows. They stare back at him: blinds drawn or shiny and blank. He remembers Evie’s eyes the night she turned up at his flat – the blankness of them, the moment it dawned on him that the lights were on but there was no-one home. And he’d invited this. Not then, but before. What the hell was he thinking?
A thought surfaces, and something the private investigator said echoes inside his head. ‘Most internet stalkers pose no real physical threat. Put them in a real-life situation and they fall apart – ninety percent of them, anyway.’
Great, Tom thinks. But what about the other ten percent?
22
The Guardian article appears the next day. Sitting at the kitchen table with his morning coffee, Tom opens his laptop to find a Google alert with his name and a link to the webpage. A knot of anxiety tightens in his stomach as he clicks on the link and waits for the page to load.
‘The Danger of Female Stalkers’ screams the headline. Beneath it, there’s the writer’s byline and a subhead that reads, ‘Most internet trolls are men. But that doesn’t mean men can’t be victims of harassment too’. Already this sounds like a very different article to the one Ruth Freeman told Tom she was writing. He distinctly remembers her saying she was looking for a male perspective to provide some gender balance to the piece. Instead she seems to have focussed entirely on male victims of stalking, talking to a handful of men about their experiences and explaining that, while women account for only a small proportion of stalkers – twelve percent, according to the latest research – the impact they have on people’s lives is no less harmful.
‘Nearly forty percent of cyberstalking victims are men’, Freeman writes. ‘As with male rape and male victims of domestic violence, it’s possible that these numbers are just the tip of the iceberg and the actual numbers are far higher. Many experts believe that cases of cyberstalking against men are underreported due to social stigma and men’s reluctance to come forward lest they be perceived as weak. Previous studies have identified women as much more at risk from face-to-face stalking, but in the case of online harassment and cyberbullying, the gap between the sexes is far narrower.’
She then quotes a female psychologist and author of a recent study into cyberstalking, who stresses the widespread lack of understanding of the impact of this kind of behaviour. ‘People have a tendency to dismiss or belittle the impact of stalking on men. One of the questions we asked ourselves was, “Is there psychological harm?” Worryingly, a third of the men sampled experienced this. We’re not just talking about stress but everything from acute anxiety and depression to full-blown panic attacks. There’s a clear clinical record of serious psychological harm.’
Tom’s pulse rate increases. He’s used to seeing his name in print, just not in this context. And there it is. ‘One man who knows all about the impact of stalking is author Tom Hunter’, he reads. ‘Hunter was stalked for months by a woman he met online. The perpetrator was Evie Stokes, who sent hundreds of emails and tweets to Hunter and on one occasion even turned up at his home address. Two months ago, Stokes was found guilty of harassment without violence. Last month she was given a suspended custodial sentence. Recalling the events that led to her conviction, Hunter says, “It was a living hell. I couldn’t sleep. I ended up on antidepressants. There were days when I thought I was losing my mind.”’
Tom’s stomach churns. He never said those words, not exactly. It was Freeman who brought up the subject of antidepressants, not him. He’s aware that journalists often paraphrase quotes for clarity. He’s done it himself. But there’s paraphrasing and there’s putting words in someone’s mouth.
Alongside the offending paragraph is his author photo and a pull quote that reads simply, ‘Tom Hunter – victim of stalking’. So that’s who he is now – a victim. As if all his achievements have been eclipsed by this one experience. He scrolls down the page, scanning the text for further mentions of his name. Halfway down the first column, a chunk of text jumps out at him. ‘Hunter admits that he delayed reporting the crime for as long as possible. “The decision to go to the police wasn’t any easy one,” he says. “But by that point I didn’t feel I had any other choice.”’
He remembers saying that, or words to that effect. What he doesn’t appreciate is Freeman’s use of the word ‘admits’, with its implication that he’s somehow at fault, that it was some misplaced sense of male pride that prevented him from reporting the crime earlier. If she was going to suggest that, she could at least have put it to him first.
The next paragraph addresses the way male victims are treated by the criminal-justice system. ‘Hunter describes the police response as “sympathetic and supportive”, but is less enthusiastic about the Crown Prosecution Service, complaining that the time delay between him first reporting the crime and the case finally reaching court was “unnecessarily long and enormously stressful”. Had he known that it would take this long to get justice, Hunter says he might never have gone to the police in the first place.’
Tom has no real issue with this, though seeing his words in print gives them an added weight. He wonders what the investigating officer and crown prosecutor will think. That he’s ungrateful for all the support they gave him? Finally the journalist asks him about the sentencing and he says simply, ‘The troll got what she deserved.’ He remembers saying that and doesn’t regret a single word. His only regret is that the sentence wasn’t more severe. If he’d had his way she’d have been locked up.
Having satisfied himself that his quotes are mostly accurate, Tom returns to the top of the page and reads the article again from start to finish. There are three other men interviewed, all using pseudonyms. ‘Pete’ describes how his life was ruined by a female coworker who became fixated with him, making false claims of sexual harassment when in fact it was she who had harassed him. The subsequent stress forced him to resign from the job he loved. Tom feels for him. He knows what a solace work can be.
Next there’s ‘Joe’, who was stalked by an ex who refused to accept that their relationship was over – turning up outside his house, posting love notes through the letterbox and sending threatening messages to the new woman in his life. They’ve since split up. Again, Tom feels for the poor man, remembering how alarmed he felt the night Evie Stokes turned up outside his apartment building. Plenty of people think men have nothing to fear from women. But plenty of people can be wrong.
This point is proved by the case of ‘Alan’, who was stalked online and then in real life by a woman he’d never even met but whose behaviour escalated to the point where he feared for his safety. One night he arrived home to find that she’d broken into his flat and was waiting for him with a kitchen knife. He was stabbed twice in the chest and spent ten days in intensive care. His attacker is currently serving a prison sentence for harassment with violence. Tom can only begin to imagine what he must have gone through. It’s his own worst nightmare.
All three men state that their lives have been seriously affected by the crimes committed against them. ‘Alan’ suffers from acute anxiety and depression. ‘I keep reliving it all in my head,’ he says. ‘I’m finding it very difficult to move on. I keep seeing her everywhere I turn.’ Tom knows the feeling, though it’s not one he�
��d readily admit to – certainly not to a journalist. Towards the end of the article it’s revealed that Joe’s stalker has since breached her restraining order and is currently awaiting trial. Finally Tom reads the depressingly familiar statistic – that more than forty percent of offenders convicted of stalking or harassment breach their restraining order.
He now knows why the journalist was so keen to talk to him. He’s the only person in the article who’s properly identified – the only one named, the only one whose photograph appears. As much as Tom sympathises with these men – and he does, very much – it’s easier to say these things when it’s not your name and photo in the paper. He’s the one people will think of when they read this – not ‘Pete’ or ‘Joe’ or ‘Alan’ or whatever they’re called. Him. Tom Hunter – bestselling author turned victim of harassment, reduced to a case study by some crazy woman hiding behind her keyboard. How the mighty are fallen!
As he closes the webpage, a prickling sensation creeps around his hairline and tightens across his skull. He’s picturing his nemesis poring over the same article. Knowing how obsessed she is with the Guardian, the likelihood of her not seeing it is pretty minimal. In fact, knowing her, she probably has Google alerts set not just for her own name but for his too.
He opens a new window on his search engine and locates her Twitter account. There’s hardly any activity. She hasn’t interacted with anyone or posted anything new in days. It’s not like her to be this quiet. Tom is reminded of a pet saying of his mother’s – ‘It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.’ It’s something people say without very much thought, and he doubts there’s much truth in it. There are plenty of people who announce their bad intentions loudly and persistently – are they really any more trustworthy? But in this case it seems fitting. Why is Stokes suddenly piping down? Unless of course it’s finally sunk in that her online behaviour is a problem and she’s decided to rectify it. Tom doesn’t believe that for a second.
He’s still staring at her Twitter profile, wondering if perhaps she’s ill or away for some reason, when something appears. A new tweet. It says simply, ‘LYING FUCKING QUEER PRECIOUS SNOWFLAKE!’ There’s no name, no tag, nothing to identify him. But it can’t be about anyone else, can it? Then a second tweet appears. ‘DON’T BELIEVE WHAT YOU READ!!!’
She’s seen it, then. He can picture her now, staring furiously at her computer screen, fingers hovering over her keyboard, unable to comment on the Guardian website for fear of breaching her restraining order. Or maybe the temptation will prove too great and she’ll respond, laying herself open to further charges and a possible prison sentence.
Go ahead, Tom thinks. Do your worst. If she ends up in prison there’s no saying what will happen to her. She’ll probably crack up and either top herself or finally get the help she so obviously needs. Either way, she’ll be out of his life for good. Pushing the thought away, he closes the laptop and changes into his running gear.
There’s a change in the air, a mugginess that feels as if it might bring rain. But the sky is blue and there’s hardly a cloud in the sky. Tom crosses the road to the promenade and heads westwards along the seafront towards St Leonards, picking up speed as he goes, then settling into a steady rhythm as he runs past Warrior Square and on towards Marina Court.
The tide is low and there’s hardly any wind. Small waves nag at the shoreline like a dog with a bone. A group of people in wetsuits are paddleboarding. Tom watches as they glide across the surface of the sea as if it were a millpond. The light bouncing off the water lifts his spirits – so much so that he hardly notices the few drops of rain that begin to fall as he approaches the bowling green. The sun shower is over before it’s really begun, but by the time he reaches the beach huts with their cheery pastel stripes his mind is racing. There’s nothing like a good run to get the creative juices flowing. Time to head back and crack on with his book. Writing novels is what he does. It’s what gives him the greatest satisfaction and his sense of identity. Nobody can take that from him, least of all some angry little keyboard warrior whose only claim to fame is a criminal record.
It’s as he’s making his way back along the seafront that the dark thoughts begin to resurface. He thinks of the man in the article whose coworker prompted him to resign from a job he loved. He thinks of the man whose ex caused him so much aggravation, his subsequent relationship buckled under the stress. ‘It was impossible to move on,’ he was quoted as saying. ‘She wouldn’t let me. She still won’t.’
Tom wonders if this will be his fate, too – tied forever to a woman he wishes he’d never met.
Arriving back at his apartment building, Tom sees his neighbour seated outside, a copy of the Guardian folded on the table next to him.
‘I saw you in the paper,’ Colin says. ‘Sounds like you’ve had quite an ordeal.’
Tom pauses to catch his breath. He’s glad his face is flushed from the run, so Colin can’t see his embarrassment. ‘It could have been worse,’ he says, then immediately imagines all the ways in which it could still get worse. Maybe Emma was right. Maybe Stokes will see the interview as some kind of provocation. He forces the thought away. ‘The important thing is it’s all behind me now.’ He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand, hoping the older man will take the hint.
He doesn’t. ‘Have a seat,’ Colin says, gesturing to the chair beside him.
‘I’m okay standing, really.’
‘I didn’t ask if you were okay standing. I should think you are, big strong lad like you. I asked you to sit with me.’
Reluctantly, Tom does as he’s told.
‘It makes you wonder what’s wrong with people,’ Colin continues, ‘spending all their time on the internet, harassing people like that.’
‘The wonders of modern technology,’ Tom says, trying to lighten the mood and failing miserably. Just the thought of it is enough to set his pulse racing.
‘Mentally ill then, is she?’ Colin says. ‘She’d have to be, I suppose. I don’t see how she can be anything else. I’m surprised they didn’t just section her.’
Tom smiles tightly. ‘It’s not as simple as that, or so I’m told.’
‘Not much comfort to you, though, is it? Her still at large when she’s already put you through such an ordeal. They should have locked her up and thrown away the key.’
For a Guardian reader, Colin sounds like he’d be more at home with the Daily Mail. Tom wonders how old Colin is exactly. He takes in the man’s tanned skin and freshly laundered sportswear. Late sixties, maybe? Then he sees through the tan to the sunken cheeks and broken capillaries and adds another five to ten years. He tries not to stare too hard at the pink neck, the flesh puckered and hanging in folds. This will be him one day. Assuming he lives that long.
‘It was her first offence,’ Tom says, sounding far more charitable than he actually feels. ‘People rarely get locked up for their first offence. Not unless they kill someone or there’s violence involved.’
‘In my day people got locked up for a lot less,’ Colin replies. Tom expects him to launch into an angry tirade about petty criminals and liberal politicians, but instead his face softens and his eyes mist over. ‘They used to lock men like us up just for being ourselves. Hardly bears thinking about now, but the first few years we were together, my partner and I slept in separate beds. It was against the law, being queer. And even after the law changed you had to watch yourself. All it took was for some nosy neighbour to catch you showing affection in your own home and you could be had for gross indecency.’
‘It must have been awful,’ Tom says.
The old man nods. ‘It was. One chap I knew killed himself. Lots of men did in those days. Things are a lot better now, of course. But old prejudices die hard. You still hear about people being attacked in the street – or on the internet.’
‘I didn’t have you down for a silver surfer,’ Tom says, and immediately regrets his choice of words. The hair colour Colin chooses to present to the wor
ld is anything but silver. Is it just Tom’s imagination, or does the old man’s toupee look even less convincing today?
If Colin is offended, he doesn’t let it show. ‘I don’t use it much. I have a niece in Australia. We talk on Skype sometimes. And I have a Facebook account I barely use. But I see what goes on. And we didn’t go through all the battles of the last fifty years so some crazy woman can go around attacking people just because they’re gay.’
Tom’s face burns. ‘There was a bit more to it than that.’
‘It says in the paper that she called you queer and pansy and made jokes about AIDS.’
A vein throbs in Tom’s left temple. ‘She did.’
‘And you didn’t even know her?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘She should count herself lucky you didn’t take the law into your own hands. Some men would have gone round and taught her a lesson she wouldn’t forget.’
‘I don’t believe in hitting women.’
‘Me neither,’ Colin says, though the look on his face suggests that he might be willing to make an exception. ‘I knew there was something wrong the first time I clapped eyes on you. I said to Graham, “that man’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders”.’
‘Graham?’
‘My other half.’
‘Sorry, I thought you said your partner was—’
‘Dead? Yes, he is. He passed away in 2014. It doesn’t stop me from talking to him, though. He always said I talked too much. I’d hate to disappoint him now.’