‘Sounds to me like you have already done your reconnaissance.’
I took his money and showed him through the back of the house to the rear exit, past the study where all the phone lines and my computer were. I indulged in his little fantasy once again, which was more of a challenge, because it was now unclear when he was done.
My home was not centrally air-conditioned, instead it had one of those systems that sat perilously in a window frame loudly blowing cool air in at night. Due to its size I could not completely lower my rollerblind to the window sill, so there was always an open view out to my back yard day or night.
Sometime later I had my last phone call from my young voyeur. This time he did not even want to come into the house, he wanted to deposit his cash into my mail box with a note attached telling me the time he wished for the ‘show to begin’. At four pm I went to my mailbox and sure enough there was the cash and a little note requesting I begin my performance at promptly eight. This was starting to get a little weird even for me. I was not comfortable knowing that clients were wandering around my property at their own leisure, unannounced. Ordinarily his number would have been saved in the phone as voyeur1 or some such nickname, but it seemed that every time he called he used a new number. I decided then and there that I would erect a curtain rod the next day to hang a curtain to cover the part of the window the roller blind left clear.
Three months passed before I had a rather bizarre phone call on my work number from a private number. This person claimed to have found my purse at the local video store and wished to return it to me. I was instantly doubtful on multiple levels. Firstly, I never leave the house with my purse. Why would I—I earn so much cash and, thanks to the tax man, I can’t deposit cash in the bank, so I never had to use my eftpos card. Secondly, the video store that he claimed to have found my purse in front of had been closed for over six months, so his story had to be bullshit. Thirdly, if he did indeed find my wallet, why didn’t he call me on my home number rather than my work number, which is not written anywhere in my purse? Finally, I had used my wallet within the last week at my desk to quote my frequent flyer number over the phone, and since then I had not left the house. I was one hundred per cent convinced this caller had broken into my home and stolen it.
Not wanting to antagonise this psycho I simply chose to deal with him like I was oblivious to his little ruse. ‘Oh, aren’t you kind, thanks for your honesty, look you have my address so why don’t you just drop it in my mail box next time you’re passing by? Alternatively give me your address and I would be happy to come by your house and collect it.’
Now he was stumped. ‘Well, you see, I recognised your photo from your driver’s licence and I have seen your website so I know your occupation, I was hoping I would get a little reward for returning your wallet?’
If the pictures on my website resembled the photo on my driver’s licence, I wanted my money back from the photographer. His story was entirely implausible. The bloody cheek of this prick, first he breaks into my house and steals my purse, now he wants me to pay for it to be returned.
‘Oh, I see, you’re not a good Samaritan, you want me to pay for returning my own property? No problem, drop it over and I will give you $50 for your trouble.’
‘How about a free session with you?’
‘Tell you what, just return my purse, and we will come to some sort of arrangement.’
In my head I was planning on having him greeted by the local police and have the prick arrested for theft. He then went on to suggest we meet that night as he was going to be in the area. He made up some excuse that he worked in the mining industry and was going to be away for the next three weeks. Luckily it was a night that Poppy was at a sleepover so I agreed on the time he had suggested and hung up.
I immediately relayed the phone call to my receptionist Tina, and she too saw the holes in his story. She was happy to work a bit of overtime so that I wasn’t alone when he arrived.
Tina and I sat there with trepidation, but he didn’t show. He called an hour later to tell me that something had cropped up and he couldn’t make it. I sent Tina home and prepared for bed. Within five minutes of her pulling out of her usual car park, Stalker, as we called him, was back on the phone. ‘Hey, I managed to get my car going. I’ll be there in five minutes.’
I phoned Tina’s mobile, and begged her to get her arse back ASAP.