Stalked

by Chris Smith

  ‘Who said I did?’ Libby replied in a strained voice.

  ‘Telstra records, traces made on calls received at his house, show that you phoned Phillip ten times that night. What do I say to the beak [judge] now, do you think?’

  Libby leaned back in her seat. What really happened that night? She shook her head to acknowledge she had no answer, no explanation for the court. Hopkins was on the far side of the court, but managed to lean forward and catch her sickened gaze. He was smirking broadly. After she glimpsed his expression, she turned back quickly to the magistrate as if to plead for some explanation. There was none.

  The rest of the short proceedings were a blur. Hopkins had been pestered by his alleged victim and he had indisputable proof. The magistrate found in his favour. He was prepared to continue the AVO orders but the breach allegations were dismissed. Now even Libby’s closest friends and family had reason to doubt her. How did this happen? What could she ever do to fight back? She was annihilated. She was escorted from the court, bewildered.

  As she shuffled out of the courtroom, heels dragging as she went, head bowed in defeat, a police officer blocked her way. ‘You got a second?’

  She looked up. It was the officer from Mosman who had collated her statements and evidence in the breach of AVO case against Hopkins. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Let that be a lesson to you, young girl. This is not a place to be toyed with. This is a court of law and while you go to these extreme lengths to hurt this bloke, you take me away from more serious cases—cases that involve life and death. Do you understand that?’

  Libby had nothing left. She had no defence, no explanation, nothing. ‘I’m sorry, but something else has happened here.’

  ‘We don’t want to hear it after that,’ the sergeant said. ‘You’re lucky we don’t charge you with public mischief. That could see you in jail, Miss. Now go home, get over him and don’t ever call me again. Do you hear?’

  ‘Yes,’ Libby muttered.

  As she walked from the court, out into the glaring sun, she stopped behind her mother for a second and turned to see Hopkins smiling, locked in an embrace with his mother on the court steps.

  Libby turned away, staring into nothing and mumbled quietly to herself: ‘I have to kill the bastard. I have to kill him now.’

  Confused, ashamed and still fuming at the unexpected turn of events, Libby decided to burn off her frustration with a swim and then relax in the safety of the warm summer sun …

  There was no safer sight than the little park under Anthony’s tiny Melbourne balcony. With winter just turning into spring, barren patches of earth were dotted with small tufts of green growth. The frost had passed and warmer weather was just around the corner. The park was a safe place, so far away from trouble, so foreign to the sick world she’d been living in. Tall pencil pines stood resolute in the cold wind. Their strength was reassuring. Dogs were scampering between the legs of their owners and tying themselves in knots with their leads. All her fears left her body on that balcony. If only she could stay here forever. But that could never work.

  Anthony’s smoky odour filled his apartment. This time, he was going nowhere. His weekend was dedicated to her. He could see she’d been to hell and back. He’d be there for her now, he told her. He would save her life, even if it endangered his own. Someone had to end her horrible torment; and it might as well be him. She was overwhelmed and buoyed by his commitment.

  They sat together at the small dining room table and decided that there was no turning back, they would lure Hopkins to Melbourne, using a message sent to him, via Sarah, saying that Libby was tired of running. She wanted a new start, in a new state.

  In Melbourne Hopkins’ AVO no longer applied. This was neutral territory and the place where Hopkins would die.

  The pistol Anthony bought from a gun dealer was shiny and menacing. She’d never seen anything like it before. It was real, loaded and waiting to end her nightmare.

  She couldn’t wait to meet Hopkins on St Kilda Pier late that afternoon as planned. As the light faded, his life would be taken with one pull of the trigger. Anthony would stalk the very best of stalkers.

  They discussed the plan in the little flat and Anthony’s fingers held the gun with ease—no hint of a shudder or nervous twitch. He was calm, empowered by its reassuring weight. There was just one hour to go; one hour to end it all, and Libby would be free. They could begin a new life together. Even if they were caught, life would eventually return to normal. They were prepared to take their chances with the law.

  No one was going to change their minds. Libby was no longer the Libby she knew. Calmly planning her revenge brought a high she’d never experienced before. They held hands across the table, the gun between them. It was what had to be done. No one else was capable of ending this.

  The tram trip down St Kilda Road seemed to last just a few seconds. She was deep in thought, focusing on how his face would look when he felt the barrel at his chest, saw Anthony’s fingers squeezing the trigger. He would die from shock, she thought. He’d never imagine that she had the guts to recruit someone to kill him in cold blood. He deserved nothing but death. He would never return to haunt her again.

  They stepped off the tram and onto the footpath.

  They turned to each other and managed a smile. They held hands and hugged, Libby whispering, ‘It’s alright, it’ll be alright. I can’t live with him in the world any longer. I won’t … Thank you. I love you for this.’

  They kissed and he turned back towards the city to get into his position. She watched him leave and she headed towards the beach. She walked off to meet Phillip for the very last time. She could see the beginning of the pier. Each step felt extremely light, not requiring effort or strain. She was ready.

  Anthony doubled back around the main cluster of shops to keep out of the way of Hopkins’ approach. The barrel of the pistol sat warmly in his overcoat pocket, as his hand gripped the handle tightly. He wasn’t letting go.

  An icy cold gust of wind hit Libby in the face. The sun was all but gone, the temperature close to freezing. Her heart pounded with excitement. Her eyes darted from side to side, then along the pier, trying to find the shape of the man she despised. She saw nothing except a long stretch of wooden boards leading out over the freezing water. Anthony had been right, no one was there at that time of the afternoon. The kiosk was closed and the fishermen gone. It was too late—and too early—for company.

  As she stepped onto the first board, her low heels clapped on the wood and continued the beat as she took another step, then another and another. He may have been huddled in the shadows of the kiosk at the end of the pier, but she could not see from where she was. If Hopkins was there, he was exactly where they wanted him to be, in a dead end, with no way out.

  All of a sudden something sprung out from the side of the pier, directly at Libby’s head. She ducked and, as she regained her balance, she saw that it was a seagull she’d interrupted from a feed of rotting bait.

  Then she heard a footstep on the boards somewhere behind her. She couldn’t determine how far away with the wind whistling past her ears. She dared not stop to turn for fear of scaring him. He must be lured all the way. He always had an escape route, a back up plan—but not this time. Phillip was so far away from his playground that his guard would be down. That was why it had to happen here.

  Libby’s steps continued. The further she ventured out into the wind, the harder it was to hear the sound of his approach. She knew he was there though. He wouldn’t be able to resist. She was only a few metres away from the kiosk and the noise of the steps behind was growing louder. Was he coming closer? She couldn’t turn, but picked up her pace to take refuge under the kiosk’s awning.

  Just as she reached the closed kiosk, she reeled back as a man in a balaclava emerged from the other side of the building, tapping his shoes on the board. So, that was what she’d heard. This was as close as Phillip Hopkins had come to her in many months.

  He knew he’d
scared her almost to death and began snorting with laughter. She stood still, knowing that Anthony would be close, ready to end it all. Her heart pounded against her chest. Hopkins slowly removed his mask and softened his gaze.

  ‘Sorry to frighten you, it’s been a while,’ he said calmly. ‘You know me.’

  Libby didn’t move; she didn’t need to do a single thing. It was out of her hands now.

  ‘Cat got your tongue, Libby?’ he asked. ‘It must have. Melbournians hate cats, you better watch out!’ He laughed at the football reference. He pushed the balaclava into the inside pocket of his thick black leather coat. He reached for her shoulder with a gloved hand. She shrank backwards, looking down at the ground to avoid any further eye contact.

  ‘What’s going on Libby? You wanted this crap to end. You wanted me back. I’m here … what are you up to?’ he said.

  The cocking of the pistol fell into the silence between them. Hopkins opened his eyes wide, the whites clear in the moonlight as Anthony’s bulk emerged from around the corner of the kiosk. Libby went to his side.

  ‘You’ve come to the end, mate,’ Anthony said. ‘There’s no way back, no way out. You’re dead. You wouldn’t take the hint, would you?’

  ‘Stop it, Anthony. Just shoot him. Kill the bastard now!’ Libby screamed.

  It was enough to distract Anthony’s focus and for Hopkins to jump to the ground in a flash and, in almost the same motion, roll under the white guard railing. A shot rang out, almost at the same time as his body cleared the boards and left the pier. The sound of a splash came a split second afterwards.

  Libby woke suddenly, startled by the sound of a swimmer hitting the water. She’d been asleep in the late afternoon sun, under the trees at the Manly Swim Centre. She looked around quickly; it was late, turning cool. She remembered what her subconscious mind had just conjured up. It was crushing to find herself back in real life, a reality without hope, another night ahead without safety. Even in her dreams, her efforts to eradicate him only ended with his escape.

  It’s meant to be, you idiot, she thought. He’ll always win.

  She gathered her towel and bag and left the centre. But this was not Libby’s only dream about ending Hopkins’ life. She thought about it again and again in her waking hours. Two of her male friends had offered to bash or maim him, to fix the problem once and for all. She even had one offer to find a hitman. She thought about creating a trap in the backyard and torturing him to death. It was tempting, mad, irresistible.

  11

  A CRY FOR SANITY

  It was the longest week of Libby Masters’ life. She’d been embarrassed in front of those closest to her. The few who’d been prepared to support her claims and back her every move now had every reason to rethink their solidarity. No one knew what to believe, including Libby. Her paranoia was growing. Even at work, she felt underlying resentment and disbelief from those she dealt with, though most were ignorant of her trials. Her confidence was at a terrible low and her parents would no longer discuss her plight.

  How Hopkins had falsified Telstra traces—or had someone falsify them for him—Libby could only wonder. She knew one important fact, however, it was not she who phoned Hopkins from her home that night or any other night. No amount of paranoia or courtroom trauma was going to colour the truth in her own mind. These were fabricated calls aimed at covering the stalker’s alibi, or worse, were strictly designed to entrap his victim before the courts.

  Fortunately, Libby was not quite the only one prepared to conceive of either possibility. Whether it was because of an emotional connection to her or a genuine sense of what Hopkins was capable of, Libby’s friend Shane was still backing her. He knew Libby could never practise the deception she was accused of and he never gave up suggesting avenues that might be open to them. After all, Libby was not only attempting to survive anymore, she had to clear her name, to do everything in her power to defeat her nemesis.

  ‘I have a friend, Libby, who has a husband in the media and I think it’s time to consider making this whole thing public,’ urged Shane.

  Libby hadn’t spoken to anyone, let alone left the sanctity of her parents’ home to socialise, even on a Saturday night. Hopkins had not returned for an entire week. She was beginning to let herself hope that he’d stopped, at least for a while. She felt safe enough to dine out at a dimly lit Thai restaurant, situated in a newly-restored terrace at Manly.

  Libby had mixed feelings towards Shane’s idea. She feared being revealed publicly as a pitiful victim. How would she show her face? What kind of loonies would it bring out of the woodwork? Would it encourage him to return? And what if her boss felt it would damage her relationship with clients? On the positive side of the ledger, she instantly recalled Hopkins’ family’s reaction to the prospect of any exposure of their son’s crimes. Simone had used this prospect with some success on Phillip’s mother Kathryn.

  Shane’s logic made sense: have a story publicised which not would leave any identifiable trace. They guessed a deal could be arranged to ensure that Libby remained anonymous. Shane wanted her to place pressure on Phillip’s family and the police and to make some of her own circle of friends think again about whether Libby was telling the truth; but did she need to say who she really was? She could see where he was coming from, but still she wasn’t sure.

  Then a high-pitched crash pierced the din of the restaurant. One of the front concertina doors had been shattered by a large rock flying across the room, narrowly missing another couple, before landing at the foot of Libby’s chair. She seemed to be the only patron who sat unmoved and unsurprised. She knew who’d thrown the rock and remained motionless, staring directly at the shattered window.

  ‘Get this friend of yours to call me tomorrow morning, Shane. We’ll do that story,’ she said calmly. ‘I have to do that story or go out and kill him—one or the other. We’ll try this first.’

  Shane sensed Libby’s blunt and cool demeanour and wasn’t about to argue.

  The next morning, she was woken by a heavy knock at the front door. She peered through bleary eyes at the clock. It was 6 a.m. and she suspected it was finally the police answering her call from the previous night. She opened the door. In front of her was a young constable, who came straight to the point.

  ‘Sorry it took so long Ms Masters, but we were busy at Manly last night and I’m not so sure we’ll be of any use to you anyway.’

  Libby was firing in the dark and knew it. She’d been accused of harassing Hopkins, but knew the home phone was faulty and knew the answer could be found in the house somewhere. Only a discovery by the police could make her suspicions stick.

  He didn’t quite know what he was looking for but followed the Telstra cabling as it weaved in and out, up and down between the skirting boards. It led to below floor level. At Libby’s insistence he headed under the house. Only five minutes later he was back, knocking gently at Libby’s back door.

  ‘You have faulty phones all right. Are there any clever teenagers in the street?’ he asked.

  ‘No, none that I know anyway.’

  ‘Well someone’s been tampering with your line and could have been making calls on your account from under the house, I think. You’ll need to confirm this.’

  The officer had discovered a junction box taped around the power cables with plastic tape. It was a homemade contraption for splitting the one line that ran into and out of the house to create an extension. It was attached to the phone line by two crimp fasteners at either end. The junction box had no official telecommunications markings—it had clearly not been installed by a Telstra technician. Homemade it might have been, but was perfectly adequate for someone to connect a telephone and make any number of calls out, under the Masters’ phone account. Whoever had done this had hacked into their phone line; they could listen to any calls made by or received from the house.

  Libby, the police and the court had walked right into Hopkins’ trap. Libby immediately set about finding a Telstra technician to prove w
hat had happened. It was essential that at any future court hearing the truth be told and her reputation restored. It was as important to her as ridding Hopkins from her life.

  ‘No need for names at all, Libby,’ said the journalist on the the telephone. ‘We shouldn’t be putting victims through that very public experience anyway. It’s not a good look and the point can still be made without identification,’ he said.

  Matt Condon wrote for The Sun Herald, a senior features writer who had been introduced to Libby through Shane. He was quite taken by Libby’s plight. Her identity would be hidden; but her story would now be out there. Hopkins’ name too had to be disguised because, as Condon explained, these were all allegations that no editor would back now that the courts had found in the stalker’s favour.

  ‘This is a chance to highlight the inadequacies of stalking legislation and AVOs too. You’re not the first woman to feel let down by the system.’ Condon’s angle was obvious and, although Libby didn’t know where it would lead, it was a way of striking back publicly and made her feel empowered. It was at least a start.

  ‘Charmed and Dangerous’ read the headline in the Extra features section of the Sunday 16 June 1996 Sydney newspaper. It was the story of a couple: John and Paula. The subheading read ‘John’s attraction to Paula became a terrifying obsession. Matt Condon reports on the evil menace of stalking.’ The article began with a description of the night Libby met Phillip: ‘I was attracted to him. He seemed very intense, very intelligent.’

  Condon described how Hopkins and Libby went to her home on the lower North Shore. ‘I couldn’t make a judgement about him that night. He was very quiet, but I knew he was interested in me. He asked a lot of questions but surrendered very little about himself, only that he was involved in computers.’

  Condon gave accounts of some of Hopkins’ first dysfunctional visits: