You have probably heard of paedophile hunters.
They are the self-styled vigilantes who pose as children online to ensnare creeps who seek to meet up with boys and girls for sex – then expose them online.
Well, I was one of ‘s first paedophile hunters – and I scored my first scalp long before social media made it easy to expose these monsters.
Nowadays, ‘hunters’ lay their traps on social media and chat rooms, arrange a meeting with the target and confront them on camera.
Usually they hand the footage and chat logs over to police to handle, but sometimes the public shaming is punishment enough.
But back when I started, we operated in the shadows and our methods were old-fashioned.
It was the late ’90s in Sydney. I had discovered the address of a teacher from a private school who had been accused of a litany of sickening sex crimes – including kidnapping – against young boys in the eastern suburbs.
William Charles Lucan-Roberts, 61, had been charged with abusing dozens of children aged 12 to 16 over a four-decade reign of terror at the prestigious Sydney Boys High School, whose alma mater includes Hollywood stars and prime ministers.
Lucan-Roberts, a languages and cricket master, was awaiting trial when, under the cover of darkness and dressed in all-black, I dropped a leaflet at every door in his building and every post box on his street.
‘Warning: alleged paedophile William Charles Lucan-Roberts lives at —,’ my photocopied letter read.
‘He is accused of raping and molesting dozens of pupils at Sydney Boys High School and will appear at Downing Centre Local Court on Thursday.’
The following day – and less than 24 hours before his trial was due to begin – he was found dead in the backyard swimming pool of a friend’s house.
‘I felt it was better I go…’ he wrote in his two-line suicide note.
Did I feel a hint of guilt that my act of vigilantism may have been the final straw that made him end his life?
No, not one bit. Quite the opposite: I was ecstatic. And I still am to this day.
It was exactly the result I wanted.
I remember like it was yesterday the rush of relief that washed over me, knowing his alleged victims could rest easy in the knowledge that he was gone.
That’s the thing about paedophiles: they never stop. They never, ever stop. So I wish they would all kill themselves. I seriously wish that.
Some people say: ‘It’s terrible when anybody dies.’
To them, I say: ‘No. When it comes to people who sexually assault children, they don’t deserve to live. They’ve given up their right to live in society.’
And I am glad that I’ve helped at least one make a swift exit.
I carried out similar letter-writing campaigns against more than a dozen other suspected or convicted paedophiles in Sydney’s eastern suburbs.
But I have never had confirmation that my efforts yielded the same result.
You may wonder why I am so driven to hound those who hurt children.
Well, when I was a child, a friend at school told me her father was ‘doing things’ to her.
She didn’t say he was beating her, just that he was doing ‘something’.
And, of course, at that age, I had no idea what she was talking about.
I was the only friend she had ever invited around to her house: it was filthy. She slept on newspapers. Grimy dishes were piled high in the sink.
Her dad was a drunken old creep and she lived alone with him. She told me that every night she had to run him a bath and make him a hot chocolate.
Then one day she said, ‘I’m going to poison him.’
At first, I didn’t believe her. It was just childish words spoken in anger.
But I’ll never forget the day the principal came into our classroom with a solemn look on her face and asked to speak to my friend. Her father was dead.
She was so happy afterwards.
Years later, I was a mother myself and the memories of my childhood friend came flooding back.
A male acquaintance with a fancy job began showing a lot of interest in me.
He was offering to do all these things nice things. ‘Can I buy you this? Can I pay for you to have your hair done?’
I thought, ‘This is weird – he’s married. Why is he doing this?’
Then one day my daughter was having a sleepover with his children.
When she came home she said, ‘Oh, naughty Nathan* came into my bedroom when it was dark outside and started kissing me on the lips.’
Right away I knew he had been grooming me.
I took my daughter straight to a child sexual assault clinic where she had to undergo invasive tests to see if he had done anything more than just kiss her.
No child should ever have to experience that. The results came back negative and the police eventually said they couldn’t prosecute because there was not enough evidence.
But we exacted our own form of justice. Me and two others went round to his place and beat the crap out of him.
The look on his face when he opened the door betrayed his guilt.
He was a big guy but he went down like a crying baby in a heap.
We were kicking and punching him on the floor. A crowd eventually gathered in the street and I went out and told anyone who would listen that he was a paedophile.
His wife divorced him but within weeks we heard he was off with a new woman, another single mother, who had two young girls.
As I said, they never stop. And the horrifying thing is that they are everywhere.
I think a lot of parents just aren’t aware. They are living in a bubble of ‘everything’s beautiful and nice’.
But I’ve never lived in that bubble. One day my daughter was playing with other kids in Waverley Park, near Bondi Junction, when I saw an old man walk over with his puppy.
By the time I got there he’d hurried away. I asked my daughter what he said and she laughed.
‘He was showing us his puppy but what he didn’t realise was that when he was bending down his man stuff all fell out,’ she said.
I told the other mums who said they were sure it was just a mistake. A silly old man. So many parents are airy fairy and want to see the good in everybody.
But I knew exactly what he was doing. I called the police and rang the local paper, trying to create as much noise as I could.
I’m always on the ball. I don’t care how old I get. I’m always looking out for those abused kids – children with a haunted look on their face.
The depressing truth is that most paedophiles never get caught.
They’re not normally the grubby, druggy creep on the street.
It’s the father, the brother, the grandfather, the uncle, the family friend.
They’re often well-connected and respected in society.
And those that do get caught barely receive a slap on the wrist.
If they go to prison, especially in , they might get six to 18 months. It’s nothing. It’s a joke.
That’s why I campaigned for an n version of ‘Megan’s Law’ in the U.S.
The law, which forces authorities to make public the addresses of registered sex offenders, was brought in after the rape and murder of seven-year-old Megan Kanka.
Her neighbour, convicted sex offender Jesse Timmendequas, had lured her into his house before he disposed of her body in a nearby park.
No such law exists in , although Opposition Leader Peter Dutton has previously called for a national child sex offender registry.
n parents should be allowed to know if the person living on their street is a paedophile.
Critics say they will just be pushed out and have to live somewhere else.
Good. Keep pushing them out until they live in a shed in Timbuktu for all I care.
Or even better: keep harassing them until they kill themselves.
They’re not normal. I see them as evil. It’s pure evil to want to harm a child.
*Names have been changed.
As told to Max Aitchison.
If you or someone you know needs support, contact 1800 RESPECT on 1800 737 732 or Kids Helpline on 1800 551 800.
For confidential 24-hour support in call Lifeline on 13 11 14