‘I didn’t want to be impolite’: my first encounters with my stalker | australian books

I‘m walking through a park, on my way home, having just dropped my son off at school. Or not quite ‘just’. I’ve dropped my son off and I’ve been to the little cafe near the school where the coffee is good and the windows fold open on to a quiet, leafy street and a woman with two sausage dogs sits reading the morning paper while her her dogs wait patiently by her chair. I’ve sipped my latte and answered emails and redrafted a poem, and then I’ve gathered my things and walked back past the school, leaf shadows dancing beneath my feet.

As I enter the park, someone calls my name.

I turn round and it’s a man on a bicycle, wearing black jeans, black jacket, black bike helmet. He’s silhouetted like a shadow against the pink backdrop of the rose beds. He cycles towards me. Hellohe says. You’re not on your bike today.

The wind suddenly picks up, whipping my hair across my face. I scrape the strands out of my eyes and glance round the park, but there’s no one else here. It’s just me and this man.

Something dark and clotted heaves inside me but I suppress the urge to lean over and vomit on to the flower beds. Instead, I smile back at the man. Do not, i say, I had to walk today.

It’s true that I would normally be on my bike. Normally, my son and I cycle to school together. I drop him off, go for a coffee, do a bit of writing, then cycle home. And this man is not a complete stranger – he’s someone I’ve met and spoken to on a couple of occasions – but it’s odd that he would know anything about my usual routine.

He dismounts from his bike. Are you on your way home? he asks. Then, without waiting for an answer, I’ll walk with you.

And so, here we are, walking along the avenue of cherry trees that leads to the other side of the park. The blossoms drift down and catch in my hair. Tiny stones of panic rattle inside my rib cage as we leave the park and cross over the road to a wide, empty suburban street.

It’s funny me bumping into you like thissays the man.

I saw you across the park. I recognized your pants.

I look down at my trousers. I bought them the weekend before last. I haven’t seen this man since I bought them, I don’t see how he can recognize them as mine. I considered saying, I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten something, and turning round, going back towards the safer, busier road where the everyday traffic is. But I don’t say this, I keep going, caught between the horror of walking alongside him and the fear of angering him by turning back. As we walk, he asks me questions and tells me things about himself and I answer politely, thinking how, from the outside, we probably look like two people who are friends, not one person who is possibly psychotic and another who is fighting to hold the wild panic inside herself, who is trying not to ruin the chocolate-box prettiness of this well-to-do suburb by spraying its pavements with thick, dark vomit, with thin bitter bile, with fear and anger and horror.

Something felt odd

I first met The Man in the park at an auction house. I had become quite a regular there, trying to find furniture for our new home. This time I had my eye on a large honey-coloured chest of drawers with inlaid mother-of-pearl knobs and bun feet. A middle-aged man, tall and lean in dark jeans and a Ralph Lauren V-neck, also stopped to have a look. That’s a nice piecehe said.

And it is, I replied. And then, because it seemed impolite to stop there, I like the handles.

They’re lovely, aren’t they? Are you thinking of bidding on it? I have asked.

Depends on the priceI said.

oh, I replied, you must be a dealer.

Good heavens, no. Thought maybe I should start. I’m here often enough. I ran my hand across the worn patina of the pine chest while we continued chatting. Mostly it was him asking questions, answering me. He asked me what I did for a living and said he thought I looked arty. I told him I wrote poetry but I certainly didn’t make a living out of it.

What’s your name, if you don’t mind asking me? he said. I’d like to look you up. Will I be able to read anything of yours online?

um, maybeI said. Not that I’m well known or anything. But there might be something. I was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable, though I couldn’t really put my finger on why. I think the conversation just felt a bit intense for a chance encounter in an auction house. I told him my name anyway. It didn’t occur to me to lie about it. What I really wanted to do was walk away, but it felt like that would be too rude, especially as he was still talking.

Look, I’m not trying to find out where you live or anything, he was saying, but which suburb is it? I’ve just recently moved to Adelaide and I’m wondering if it’s one I know.

I think that’s what unnerved me most: I’m not trying to find out where you live or anything. Why would somebody say that?

It’s ProspectI said hesitantly, not really wanting to give him this information but, again, not quick-witted enough to lie about it, too busy trying to work out how I could politely extricate myself.

Something’s come up that I’d like to bid onI finally said. I’m just going to move down to the front.

I found a seat on one of the sofas that was up for auction, and I watched as the different lots appeared on the screen but I was no longer interested in the honey-coloured chest of drawers. I couldn’t explain what it was. A turn of phrase? A certain look? Something had raised my hackles and I just wanted to go.

The Man was standing between me and the door, so I said goodbye as I went past. Hey, he said, can you give me your phone number or email address? Maybe we could meet for a coffee.

I gaped at him. I’m sorry, I don’t think that would be appropriate, I mumbled. I hurried outside, unlocked my bike and cycled home, fast.

A few days later I got an email.

Hello there Scottish lassie,

I’m not well today, nasty cold, so I’ve been lying in bed reading about you. I’d love to discuss your writing sometime. It would be nice to have a coffee with you.

Vague sense of anxiety. There was nothing sinister, but the tone of the email was oddly intimate. I decided to avoid the auction house. I felt funny about going there and I definitely didn’t want to see The Man again. But a couple of weeks later, something came up that I wanted to bid on. I hadn’t had any more emails and I was beginning to think I had overreacted. It’ll be OK, I thought. I probably won’t be there.

On the day of the auction, I entered the building and stood at the back for a few minutes, scanning the room for The Man. There was no sign of him. Feeling more at ease, I moved closer to the podium, to watch the bidding. I’d been standing there less than five minutes when I felt someone’s breath, hot and damp in my ear, a rasping whisper, I know what girls are into. I turned around, the hairs on the back of my neck literally standing on end. His face was inches from mine. I staggered backwards and he must have seen the horror on my face of him. Hey, he said, I was just referring to the title of your poetry book.

I’m aware of that, I said coldly, I just don’t like people sneaking up on me.

He looked down at me, frowning. I wasn’t sneaking up”, he said. You’re being paranoid. And you didn’t answer my email. I sent an email to … I have reeled off my email address … but I didn’t hear back from you.

OK, so what I should have said was, Que? Why did you send me an email when I told you I didn’t think it was appropriate? Oh, Yes, I got that email, but I didn’t reply because I don’t want any contact with you. Oh, STOP sending me emails and STOP whispering in my ear. In fact, you could just keep the current fuck away from me.

But I didn’t say any of those things. I didn’t want to be impolite. I didn’t want to cause offense or make a scene. And there was something about the way he was looking at me. I could tell he was angry, but it wasn’t just that. A voice inside me was saying, Be careful. He’s dangerous. So instead what I said was, Oh, that’s an old email address, I don’t use that one any more.

oh yeahhe said. I thought that must be what had happened. Well here’s what I said to you. I have repeated the email verbatim. And I’d love to speak to you about your book. When can we meet for a coffee?

I took a step back, away from him. I can’t meet youI said. I have a partner.

It’s just coffeehe said, laughing.

Again that look. A kind of sneer. I felt pathetic but I couldn’t shake the sense that there was something deeply wrong with all of this. I stood in silence trying to work out how to leave without angering him further.

He tried to start up the conversation again. I was thinking about you the other dayhe said. I was in Prospect, looking at a house. Maybe you know it. It’s an old stone cottage that someone’s doing up. There’s a pile of bricks outside it. It has very unusual pointing.

Rattling stones of panic. The cottage he was describing was directly opposite my house. Was he playing some kind of game? Was he trying to tell me he knew where I lived? He carried on talking about the cottage, how he’d spoken to the owner. I wasn’t paying much attention. All I could think about was how to get away from him. I got my phone out. I’m sorry, but I need to goI said.

He did that sneering thing again, looking down his nose at me. But you just got here.

I know, but I have an appointment I forgot about. I just got an alert.

I have stared at me. OKAY, he said, I’ll see you later. The words themselves were casual, but the tone was threatening, his mouth a thin, straight line, his eyes flat and cold. I turned quickly and made for the door.

Was I overreacting?

As I cycled home, the stones were still rattling inside me. I tried to convince myself I was getting things out of proportion, brainwashed by watching too many crime shows, thinking anyone who behaved a little oddly was a serial killer. The stone cottage was probably just a coincidence. I was reading too much into it. He was right, I was being paranoid, overreacting to his joke, imagining the cold anger in his eyes.

And yet, and yet, and yet… there WAS something strangely possessive about the way he spoke to me. I couldn’t quite convince myself that I was just imagining things.

And as it turned out, I wasn’t.

• Ellis Gunn (a pseudonym) is an Adelaide-based poet who survived several months of stalking. She details her experience in a new memoir, Rattled, published by Allen and Unwin, out on 3 May 2022.