Penelope walked into the Dry Flats police station to complain about a stalker. When she returned to the street with a constable, the stalker was not in sight. She then went to the offices of the local rag, The Dry Flats Observer, and was told of similar recent complaints. The police had dismissed them as no one had been approached or assaulted but now the citizens wanted an investigation by an independent party. The paper’s owners rubbed their hands in glee as they foresaw an enduring story and increased advertising revenue. They might get more mileage if the police were to prosecute someone, but Penelope was a sweet, sympathetic and convincing eyewitness.
The following week, Shane and Liam O’Reilly told their mother a man had followed them home from school. He hadn’t approached them, merely trailed about fifty metres behind them until they reached the front gate. She laughed and told them the man was probably travelling in the same direction and had continued his walk while they ran into the house.
The following night Mrs Simpson realized she was being followed. She took out her phone and photographed the man. He smiled and wished her a good night. Stella Simpson went to the police station and showed the photograph to the desk sergeant. She shouted at the man and demanded something be done.
‘What did he do to you?’ the policeman asked.
‘He was following me.’
‘He was travelling behind you, in the same direction as you, and didn’t approach you in any way.’
Stella’s anger rose. ‘That’s because I took his picture!’
‘I appreciate that, ma’am, but what do you want us to do? What crime has been committed?’
‘Don’t you ma’am me! Do you think this is amusing? I want something done.’
The policeman sighed. ‘Let me get a copy of that photo and we’ll look into it.’
At a meeting in the squad room the photograph was posted on a large screen. ‘Anyone know this bozo? He’s been reported for stalking a woman yesterday.’
‘Yeah, I know him. Jack Benson. He lives next door to me. Good guy. Let me have a word with him when I get off duty tonight.’
‘You do that! Don’t wait for tonight, do it now! This is the third report we’ve had. We don’t want these complaints reaching flood proportions. If you’re not convinced about the man’s intentions, bring him in.’
Constable Dodds knocked on his neighbour’s door at eight.
‘Hey, come on in,’ said Jack.
‘Nah. Better we speak out here for a moment. Let’s go for a jar. That all right?’
Jack’s eyebrows went up. ‘Er, yeah, I guess so.’ He turned his head and shouted, ‘Just going for a drink with Tom Dodds, Sheil. Won’t be long.’
As they walked down the drive, Jack asked, ‘What’s up, Tom?’
‘I won’t beat about the bush, Jack. There’s a photo of you down the station taken by a woman who claims you were stalking her last night.’
‘Yeah. I knew it’d happen sooner or later. I saw her take the photo but didn’t want to approach her as she was obviously scared. Perhaps I should have gone to the station myself.’
‘What are you talking about? The woman reckons you were stalking her!’
‘Well, I guess I was, in a way. You know I’m a member of the local Men’s Group?’
Tom nodded. ‘Well, we started a kind of service where we follow women and children to make sure they get home, or wherever they’re going, safely. It’s a new thing and we can’t be everywhere and so we are still ironing out some of the details. Once we figured it out we were going to tell you guys about it. Maybe even offer to accompany folks.’
Tom shook his head. ‘Ya gotta stop, Jack. Can’t you see how it can be misinterpreted?’
‘Yeah, but … look … we’re doing it with the best intentions.’
‘Well not everyone’s convinced. I was told to take you in if there was any doubt in my mind. Haven’t you guys thought this through? Don’t you see how an actual perp could take advantage of the situation? Some woman, or child, going home sees a stalker and thinks, ‘oh, it’s the Men’s Club protector and I’m safe now. I’ll invite him in for a cuppa when I get home.’’
Jack’s face dropped.’ Oh shit, I do now. I’ll phone everyone immediately.’ He turned to go home, then turned back. ‘Do you think we could offer the service as escorts to those who want it?’
‘Not really, Jack. How many are there of you? You’d never be able to cover all the requests. Best to let things be, I reckon. I’ll tell everyone at the station that all this has been done with the best intentions, but you have to stop.’
Jack saw the sense of Tom’s suggestion. He wondered if he should tell him about fellow Men’s Club volunteer, Steve Owen, who had revealed Tom’s wife made late night visits, whenever Tom was working nights, to the town’s newly elected young mayoress. Perhaps not.
About the author
Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English.
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