The Night Stalker

Duke described himself as tall and dark (which Simone doubted) but then she described herself as tall and blonde (which was also a lie). They would go off and have private chats, in cosy virtual spaces, and sometimes it would get hot and heavy. He would describe what he wanted to do to her sexually; she responded. He made her feel loved and desired.

She opened up to him about her situation. Told him about her abusive husband, who she never named. She told Duke everything. Her deepest secrets, desires and fantasies. He did the same in return. The only thing they held back from one another was where they lived, and their real names. He was DUKE, and she was NIGHT OWL.

She couldn’t remember exactly when their conversations had taken a darker turn. It had happened one night after she’d been raped. She’d started to refer to it as that – rape – and not as sex. She’d been complaining that her doctor had prescribed yet another batch of pills which weren’t making a dent in her insomnia. And Duke had written:

DUKE: Maybe the pills would work better on yur husband!

She’d stared at the screen for a long time. Then she’d carried on chatting.

It had taken her two more nights to pluck up the courage. She’d cooked Stan spaghetti bolognese, and as the hot tomato sauce had bubbled away on the stove, she’d opened one of the capsules of Zopiclone, the latest sleeping pill she’d been prescribed. She remembered separating the capsule and holding the two halves over the large steaming pan… Then stirring the white powder into the food.

She’d nervously watched Stan eat a large plateful, and then, when he’d finished, go to the sofa with a beer, put his head back. He was out cold in minutes.

Simone’s exhilaration that it had worked had quickly been replaced by fear, and the realisation that she had been stupid. She hadn’t thought beyond knocking him out. What if he stayed on the sofa all night? What if he woke up in the morning still on the sofa? He would be suspicious.

It had taken a superhuman effort to rouse Stan and get him upstairs, supporting him like a drunk. She was convinced she had blown it, and was sick with fear, watching him all night. Wild thoughts went through her mind: of running away, of taking her own life. And then the sun had come up, and he’d woken. Irritable, unpleasant – but he had gone to work with nothing more than a comment that he must have been tired.

Is it that easy? she’d thought.

A month passed, and the abuse escalated. On one harrowing evening they were watching TV, and for no reason Stan had snapped, telling her how much he hated her, how she had ruined his life. He’d started to beat her, and she’d managed to get away and lock herself in the bathroom.

She’d sat, cowering in the bath, listening to him rant and crash in the kitchen. Then he’d charged the door and burst in with a saucepan. He’d stripped off her clothes and held her down in the bath whilst he poured boiling water over her naked body.

She’d been badly burnt across her chest and abdomen. The burns became so infected, and she was in so much pain, that Stan had no choice but take her to the doctor. She’d seen this as an opportunity to tell someone about the abuse she was suffering. But Dr Gregory Munro had thought this was a symptom of the paranoia and psychosis linked to her insomnia. He thought she was lying! Stan had played the part well, acting like the concerned husband.

Yes, she’d lost grip on reality in the past, she’d hallucinated, and previously told Dr Munro about things she saw and heard, but now, faced with her burns and her tears, Dr Munro didn’t believe her. She’d trusted him, but he threw it back in her face. He took Stan’s side, almost pitying him for having such a crazy wife, and had her admitted to hospital.

She was discharged after a week, and for a while afterwards the violence had subsided. But she’d still been too afraid to leave him and had become desperate, feeling there was no way out of her situation.

She’d drugged him again, this time placing two of the pills in the beer he drank in bed. Within minutes, he was out cold. She’d even tried to wake him – prodding at him, shaking him – but nothing. He woke again none the wiser, complaining, as ever, that he felt groggy.

Around this time, Duke stopped sleeping completely. He started to talk about how he wanted to end his life, detailing how he would do it.

DUKE: I’d use a suicide bag.

NIGHT OWL: What’s a suicide bag?

DUKE: They also call them exit bags…

NIGHT OWL: ???

DUKE: It’s a large plastic bag with a draw cord. You can use them to commit suicide.

NIGHT OWL: Sounds painful.

DUKE: Not if u use it with gas, like helium or nitrogen. Helium is easier. You can buy canisters of helium for kids’ birthday parties. Put the bag over your head and start to fill it with gas… It prevents u panicking, you just drift off to sleep. Endless sleep. Bliss.