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Daily Stormer
August 11, 2014
Who was this Mysterious Man who walked into a woman’s life via a dating site, then sought to bring her down?
Was he an Arab? A Turk? A Paki? Perhaps even a Mexican Muslim?
We may never know.
As I lay under my living-room table, I was convulsed by a terror that my ex-boyfriend was coming to kill me.
Days before, he’d been spotted firing a crossbow in a Wiltshire field. When the police were called, they’d found a cache of weapons in the back of his van: an air rifle, a pellet gun, knives, a hammer — plus some ominous black bin bags.
Worse still, the van’s back window had been punched out, as had the partition between the front and back. The police reasoned it was to make it all the easier to shoot undetected from the rear of the vehicle, then clamber speedily back into the driving seat.
And now, unbelievably, this maniac was on the loose again. Whatever he’d intended to do to me, he was definitely going to try again — and the police were taking the threat very seriously.
I had to check in with them every night and then first thing in the morning to tell them I was OK. And if anything happened, they promised to be there in minutes.
Meanwhile, I was sleeping as close as I could to the front door of my ground-floor studio flat in Brighton — fully dressed, clutching my iPhone and wearing trainers for a quick getaway.
When he broke in, he’d hopefully head straight to the bedroom without glancing under the table.
And to think that this waking nightmare had started with a search for love…
When my friend Katie had suggested that I sign up with a dating agency, I was a 35-year-old doctor, in the final stretch of my medical training to become a GP.
The dating agency that Katie was using sounded better than most. The Executive Club of St James’s billed itself as London’s outstanding agency for professionals, interviewed everyone in depth, and then presented you with carefully chosen dates. So I agreed to try it.
‘Who knows?’ I said to Katie. ‘The next time we see each other, I might be instructing you to buy a new hat…’
The agency soon matched me with Al Amin Dhalla. He was a 35-year-old Canadian of Asian origin who had been in London for five years: he worked for the insurance broker LV and he loved the outdoors. I hadn’t had a serious boyfriend in years, but I remember thinking: ‘What have I got to lose?’
…
At the beginning of April, I started a new placement in the A&E department of the hospital where I worked. When I told Al I’d be there most weekends, he suggested moving in so we could see each other in the evenings — but I insisted it was far too soon.
The next time he turned up, he left a rucksack and two holdalls. ‘My clothes, toothbrush and a few other bits,’ he explained. Not long afterwards, he told me he loved me — and left two more holdalls. Then yet more stuff.
Several weeks later, he was still there. When I suggested it was time he went home, he said somewhat sheepishly: ‘Well, I had to let my flat go . . .’
My cheeks started to burn. ‘I told you I wasn’t ready to live together,’ I said. But I felt a bit like a raft being swept along by a strong current, and ended up reluctantly agreeing he could stay.
…
Then, one day in September, Al emailed my entire family with a formal invitation to our wedding the following February.
When I found out, I felt my legs go to jelly. I quickly rang everyone to tell them it was a mistake. Soon afterwards, Mum told me what the private investigator had found out. Al wasn’t an orphan at all; there had been no fatal crash involving his parents, and the ‘aunt’ who had raised him was, in fact, his mother. Mum said she was worried Al could be dangerous.
My reaction? I was confused and angry, but also curious: why would you lie about someone being your mother? Why claim your parents had died when they hadn’t? Who was this man?
Somehow, I didn’t feel repulsed by his lies — I felt there must be a good explanation for them. My naivete, looking back, was astounding.
…
Mum’s private detective now discovered that Al had served at least two prison sentences. Worse still, he had a violent criminal record, with the last incident only four years before. The Canadian authorities had imposed a ten-year Weapons Prohibition Order on him, which meant he was prohibited from possessing any firearm, crossbow, restricted weapon or ammunition.
After careful consideration, Mum and David decided it would be less painful for me if Al were deported. So unbeknown to me, they wrote to Home Secretary Theresa May (but never heard back). Then, as kindly as she could, Mum told me what the detective had found out. The news chilled me to my core.
