A spiritual sequel to a previous blog: Paranoia in Bullet Point Form.

Disclaimer: Once again, all of this really happened and names, nationalities, suburbs and countries have been changed to protect the innocent.

So you have a really close cousin who lives in England. Now because your extended family is all split up and living in multiple countries around the world, consisting of a plethora of many unknown cousins in often non-English speaking lands, you were really happy to meet Mark when he came to visit you in Australia in 1999. Considering it was the very first time you guys had met since years ago when he was 9 and you were 1, it was a welcome introduction to family previously unfamiliar and anonymous, regardless of the age difference. There was a real connection, not just in the common language being spoken, but also in personalities and motivations; in other words, cousin Mark was a good guy.

You found each other on Facebook years later, a happy reunion full of well-wishes and life updates and sending each other photos of your parents and pets and friends. Writing on each other’s walls. Commenting on each other’s holiday photos. It was all so very cousin-ish; albeit so social network-gimmicky as well, but it was certainly better than a return to zero contact and for that you remained grateful: the contact has not been very constant since that initial surge, which surprises you somewhat, but at least the option is there.

Having not heard from him for a while, you then get an email notification: ‘Mark Ooi sent you a message on Facebook’.

You excitedly click on that email, a hundred possibilities twirling through your mind as to what it could possibly contain. Important news? Good or bad? I hope nothing serious has happened. No no, I’m sure it’s okay. Maybe he’s getting married? Maybe he’s coming back to Sydney? It’s about time I went to visit him in England, I’ve always wanted to go…

You willingly stop yourself from over-thinking, deciding to just read the damned thing.

Disclaimer: All of this really happened. Names, nationalities and suburbs have been changed to protect the innocent.

• So there’s a girl you like from Language Class. An Italian girl.

• You’ve met a couple of times, and even attended the same Language Class group dinner a few weeks ago. Since then there have been emails sent, promptly replied and responded to.

• You know she lives in Stanmore. It is pointed out to you by a friend that it is odd for a girl like her, a travelling student, to be living in Stanmore, as that’s more of a French area. You agree. You’re pretty sure she’s got a boyfriend. A French boyfriend.

• Indeed, he even picked her up from the dinner, you think. You didn’t get a very good look at him though as everyone was drunk that night.

• Despite all this, you’ve never really, properly, had a chat with this Italian girl. You just have a ‘feeling’. And her email and Facebook.

• But the last time you saw her in class, she seemed strange. ‘Keen’, even. It’s a surprise.

• She proposes that the two of you meet up – she even gives you the times she is free during the week, and the fact that she tends to be free on weekends.

• She states these facts nonchalantly.

• So…

• The next day you send an email to her containing your phone number.

• A day later, and still no reply. Strange. She usually replies quickly to emails.

• Then you get a strange mobile call early the next morning. You do not recognise the number. You say “Hello?” with a fleeting sense of hope in your heart that you will hear the Italian girl’s voice, but there is no response. “Hello?!” After a few nervous seconds, the person on the other end hangs up.

• Then you’re thinking thoughts such as “The email has been intercepted” and “The boyfriend’s trying to sabotage me.” The fact that if he is indeed intercepting the email and sabotaging your attempts of communication then his actions are somewhat justified given that he is the boyfriend seems irrelevant right now.

• You think to yourself “Ah ha! But the joke’s on you…I’ve got your number now,” which brings a mischievous, slightly evil smile to your face.

• So a few hours later, you call the number back, asking what it was about. The person who answers tells you he rang the wrong number before quickly hanging up.

• Accent: French.

• You store the number on your phone. It could come in handy later. Today.

• The first thing you do is go to her Facebook page, scouring through her photos like a bargain-hunter ravaging a box of used clothing knowing precisely what it is you are after and knowing that you will spot it as soon as you see it. And sure enough, there he is. The fucker. Posing in photos together with her. Who else could it be? You now know his name. Marco.

• You look for and find the guy on her friends list.

• You join the France Network so that you can access his page.

• Inadequate information. You leave the France network.

• You start thinking of asking for a favour from your old market research call centre friends. To call up that mobile number. To try and fit in the question “Am I speaking to Mr Marco”. To confirm it in your head. Or rather, to confirm the voices in your head telling you it is him.

• You look up his name on the online White Pages like the Terminator looking up Sarah Connor in the phonebook, finding someone that fits the information gathered thus far. Stanmore. Marco. French surname. It has to be him!

• You call up the home phone (while masking your mobile number), and someone picks up.

• You don’t say anything. You just listen. “Hello? Hello?!” You hear an accent. French. You put the phone down, calmly. You smile that evil smile.

• Then you get another idea: call the home number again and, with your mobile ready in hand with his number already entered (complete with masking prefix), have your thumb ready to press Call. Then, when he picks up the home phone, call through on the mobile and see if you hear another, separate ring in the background. That will confirm it once and for all.

• The person on the home phone picks up. “Hello?”. “Hello?!?” He is angry. You say nothing.

• You call on the mobile. You do not hear a ring in the background. Disappointed, and with the man on the home phone shouting “Hello?!” with venom, you hang up both phones. You assure yourself this could mean anything. His mobile could have been on Silent. Or in another room. The fucker. I know it’s him.

• So you have another idea. Call up again tomorrow and say, “Marco … 7 days”.

• Then the day after, call up and say, “Marco … 6 days”. And so on.

• A different voice in your head starts speaking now. It’s the voice of reason. It asks you “But what if the cops get involved?” You start thinking of the worst case scenario: he could report it to the police as a death threat.

• You formulate your alibis. “But it could mean anything. It could even mean he’s about to receive a prize when the countdown’s over.”

• You even prepare that prize.

• And then you realise that the tenuous grasp you have on being the person in control of this situation is now threadbare.

• And that this is all in your head, and nothing at all has been confirmed yet.

• But then you receive a call on your phone. Unknown number.

• This shit just got real.