I can see the lights from the house, set back from the road and gated but there’s no doubt as to whose home it is.
I’m so close now.
I am about to take another step when everything goes black.
17th November 2023 - Stalker found dead near actress Fiona Hunter’s home
A 43 year old man has been found dead near Fiona Hunter’s home in North London. The man has been identified as Craig Viner who has previously been given a restraining order from the actress due to repeated visits to her home and constant contact via email and letters over the past six years.
The court in 2021 heard that the letters were not threatening against Hunter, however Viner did make references to hurting himself or committing suicide if the two could not be together.
Hunter, who has recently starred in BBC Drama Clocks Calling and last year won a Tony for her Broadway show Good Girl. She lives in London with her husband, fellow actor Shane Hunter and their two children.
Hunter has declined to comment directly on the incident, however a statement from her agent said that ‘Mrs Hunter was extremely upset by recent events and wishes for privacy for her and her family at this time.’
The police are not treating this death as suspicious.
Three months later
“Now Fiona, I know you haven’t been speaking about this publicly…”
I imagine the people watching at home, sprawled on their sofa on a Friday night. Takeaway boxes in front of them, greasy plates or maybe just some chocolate as an end of week treat. Leaning forward, their eyes lighting up here we go. This is what they tuned in for. I wonder if they think I’ve been caught off guard, if they knew that all those moments where people look uncomfortable, or forced to tell a story, or pushed into giving an answer is almost always fake. Months, weeks, hours of prep goes into this one hour of show, and the briefing for this one moment has been extensive.
“But I wanted on behalf of everyone really to say how strong you’ve been to have had such a horrible thing go on, for years and still remain this positive, successful person. And we’re so excited for everything that’s going to come to you and to see you in series two of Clocks Calling, out March 16th.”
I smile, a perfectly practiced smile - not too fake, not too big, modest but grateful, which is how I’ve been told to respond to all of this. Can’t be happy the man is dead, even though I am, can’t talk about it too much or at all even really, or I’ll be a one track horse and be seen as making someone’s death into my next PR stunt. Whatever I do is wrong and whatever reaction I have is judged.
“The thing is darling.” My infuriating agent Hettie had said on the phone once. “Is that unfortunately, people don’t really want to hear from you about this. They want to hear all the think pieces on their podcasts and read the long Guardian articles for sure, but not if it’s coming from you. Then it feels a bit jarring, you know?”
“So just to get this clear, the public don’t want to hear from me about my own stalking incident that is currently headline news across the nation? They want to hear from the Loose Women panel instead?”
“Exactly!” She exclaimed. “Just right.”
“I was being facetious Hettie.” I sighed. “That’s ridiculous. I’m going to look weak if I don’t say anything. Like I’m a victim.”
“Oh come on Fiona. You know how it looks. When you see a weeping blonde on the morning telly with the latest bad thing that’s happened, of course you feel sorry for her but don’t you also think… we’ve all got problems nowadays?”
I opened my mouth to argue before I realised she was right. The public wouldn’t be sympathetic. I could imagine what people would think, even what other women would think - that I deserved this for being famous since I was nineteen, that it came with the territory and I was taking police time away from the real issues.
So I didn’t say anything. I was a good girl and I hung up the phone and then a few weeks later I had agreed to go on Graham Norton and talk about my new show for promo, and also comment on this whole 'mess' without really commenting on anything.
I'm snapped back to the present as I give my perfectly worded reply. “Thank you, that means a lot. Thank you. I’m really excited for everyone to see season two, season one was hard to top but I think we might have done it.” I imagine people smiling at their television sets, happy to see that I wasn’t making a fuss.
Graham asks another question, another actor tells another overly practiced anecdote and I can almost let out the breath I’m holding. Almost.
“Do you know the most annoying thing about all this?” I say to Shane later that night as we’re getting ready for bed. I don’t need to tell him what I’m referring to, it’s almost all I ever talk about at this time of night, when the kids are almost definitely asleep. “All these think pieces about male victims of suicide. And the cult of celebrity. Like I’ve been the one who’s done something wrong.”
“No one thinks you’ve done something wrong.” Shane sighs. “I thought you weren’t reading the press?”
“It’s tied up in Clocks promo.”
“Male suicide pieces are tied up in promo?” Shane raises one eyebrow, knowing he’s got me and I have to stop myself smiling. It’s easy to see why people are so obsessed with him, his sexy and confident grin whilst also remaining one of the nicest people in the room. “What are you smirking at?”
“I was just thinking it would make far more sense for you to have a stalker than me.”
“Oh no.” Shane pulls me close. “I get it. I one hundred percent get it. I think if you hadn’t agreed to go out with me I’d have turned up outside your house too. You don’t wanna know what would have happened if I hadn’t convinced you to marry me.”
I push him away but I’m laughing now. “Stop making light of my stalker! Our stalker. You live here too.”
Shane holds fast around my waist. “When I took those marriage vows I didn’t realize stalkers were a two for one deal.” He kisses me again. “Listen, this will all be over soon. The nutter did us all a favour when he killed himself.”
15th November 2023
My heart is pounding.
He’s so close and I’m terrified that a snapped twig will give me away, like a cliche horror movie.
I almost laugh at my own joke before remembering exactly what I’m here to do.
He’s getting closer to my house, where my kids are sleeping and that thought makes me so angry that I don’t think twice before I swing.
The rock connects with his skull with a sickening crunch and he drops like a stone.
I wish that could be the end of it, but it’s not enough to convince people he tripped and fell, it’s too much of a coincidence and I don’t like coincidences, they leave too much room for error.
This is the bit that I don’t want to think about because even though I am pretty sure he is dead, leaving it a few moments without him moving I’m going to have to touch him and there’s going to be blood.
It’s strange to think that I’m now so close to someone who for the past six years I’ve done everything to avoid, who’s haunted my thoughts and nightmares and who I’m looking over my shoulder for everytime I walk down the street. He looks like any other man really, you wouldn’t look at him twice if you saw him on the street. Slightly balding, a little pouch around the middle, he looks harmless really. And maybe he is (was) but I had quite simply, had enough.
The fact he wasn’t threatening me was enough for the courts and the judges, he couldn’t be locked away so he was free to roam the streets. Sure he had a restraining order but how many stalkers listened to them? Using the law to detain someone who had already shown a lack of respect for consent and boundaries made no sense to me. This man knew where I lived, where my kids went to school.
Enough was enough.
I had spent a long time thinking about how to do this. I wondered if I could goad him into doing it himself, if there was a way to tear him down but it was too risky. I couldn’t get anyone else involved, couldn’t leave a trace.
In fact, if anyone had bothered to check my whereabouts when this exact incident had occurred, they would have found me running several miles from here. I’d swapped Shane’s and I’s Garmin’s this morning, his run would upload to my (private) Strava in an hour or so when he was home. The nanny was home with the kids, bathing and putting them to bed and I’d told her I was going for a quick jog.
The only hitch in this plan would have been if he hadn’t shown up.
That had been the only part of this that I had doubted. I had held my breath, lain awake at night wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t shown. If he had gone to the police and shown them evidence of me making contact.
It was a note, handwritten, slipped through his door so no stamp. Asking him to meet me by the house, late and tell no one. That I needed to talk to him.
The time I’d put had been later, I’d already been waiting as he approached. I watched him pick his way through the woods, no easy task at this time of night. He came into the clearing, I was behind a tree. This entire thing did feel like a badly produced show, maybe one on Channel 5, not as good as anything the BBC would do with me obviously, and then I smashed his skull in with a rock.
My stomach heaved as I took a blade to his wrists, he was definitely dead now but I still felt bad. It didn’t have to be deep enough to kill him, it was plausible to believe he’d cut his wrists and as he became dizzy with blood loss, tripped or fell and cracked his head.
The final part was to plant a note, typed, like his others had been (I’d received enough of them to be able to mimic the exact font and writing style).
“Fiona
This is my last request. I know we are meant to be together. If we cannot, then I have nothing more to say or do on this earth.
PS I loved that pink dress you wore on the Graham Norton Show.
CV”
It was almost identical to one he’d sent three years ago. It was used as evidence for the restraining order, and a few papers ran a copy of it.
I took a few minutes rearranging the body, before I put my hood back up and jogged back to my backgate. Ready to act shocked when the police knocked on our door. Ready to remain quiet and demure and keep my head down, just like a good girl would.