Geoff Stevens
Trapped in the Landslide is the life story of a fifty-something year old man who appeared to have everything – a gorgeous wife, two sons, decent job, social standing – the lot. It was never apparent to others that he was missing vitally important elements to his life. The love of his mother. The company of his brother. The name of his father.
Brought up by adoptive parents who handled his questions about his birthmother badly, he embarked on a journey of self-destruction that was to lead to behaviour that ultimately sent him to prison. Caught up in Operation Ore, the UK police operation to root out downloaders of child pornography, the self-destruction plan seemed perfect. The suicide attempt failed because of love from his wife, sons and friends he never knew he had.
Original documents are reproduced wherever possible. Contemporaneous notes are also presented in this book which makes no attempt to justify or excuse the author’s activity.
The depth of love, friendship and good old-fashioned humanity he found in those who stood by him (nearly everyone who knew the full story) meant he had to learn a new skill. How to be loved.
The cover of the book shows how he saw himself. Living on an island, surrounded by bright lights and fireworks to make people think he was a good man. But the house in the middle was, he thought, so disgusting that no-one was allowed near – not even his wife.
The title refers to the feeling of being trapped in a life that he often wanted to end. Landslide is the name of the American website that led to his demise – then rebirth.
The author was born in 1952 in Dorset. He never knew his birthmother, and not until he was about seventeen did he learn of the existence of his brother, who he has never met. Not until he was 52 did he learn such elementary things as his birth weight. The origin of his forenames is a mystery…
He left school at fifteen without qualifications. Brought up on a council estate in Bristol, his adoptive parents were working class snobs – that is, working class, proud of it, and with no intention of ever improving their lot.
He became a Magistrate, a Freemason, a company director and more. His job meant he was known nationally in the industry in which he worked. Much more importantly, he is the father of two sons. They are young men any man would be proud to call ‘son’. They are the only flesh and blood he has ever known.
In February 2004, he was forced to tell his sons his life story. Having to tell them that he was a bastard, amongst other things, was too much. A self-destructive tool he had toyed with five years before now became pre-eminent. In December 2004, his house was searched by police looking for indecent images of children. He told them where to find them. A few hours later he was unconscious with an empty vodka bottle and packaging for over a hundred pills in the car next to him.
If only he had known that nothing in his childhood mattered to anyone, everything would have been different. But he didn’t. So it wasn’t.
The third, and very clear, memory I have of my early days is obviously dated quite soon after the legal adoption on 11th January 1956, maybe even on that day. I was playing on the little room floor with toy cars. Mum was in the kitchen. She told me that I “…belong to us now, and no one can take you away”. I remember not being too impressed with this news and I carried on playing, quite oblivious to the importance of this. Perhaps that was because we were not even in the same room, an indication of the coldness and absence of compassion that was to be so typical of Mum's relationship towards me. Also to be questioned is the word, '…belong…' - did Mum see me merely as a possession?
* * * *
That evening I waited for Dad to come home. I had told Mum, who was mildly sympathetic. When Dad came in, I went to him and said I wanted to tell him something. Unusually, he told me to wait, as he had something to tell us. That morning, his best friend at work, Harry Rogers, had killed a schoolboy on the Wells Road near the Happy Landings. My world fell apart. Dad's best friend had killed my best friend. This was the third fatality Harry had been involved in. None of them was his fault. But he never drove again, though he continued to work for BRS, and as he lived only yards from us, I saw him regularly. I never blamed him. He never looked directly at me. Forty years later, that lamppost is the only one on that stretch of road that is not near the kerb. It was moved after the accident.
Mum banned me from attending Billy's funeral. I never forgave her for that. It seemed to me that Billy was punished for befriending me. It also seemed that I was being punished for having a friend - first that he died so horribly; second that I knew the driver of the lorry; and perhaps worst of all, that I was denied the chance to say a proper farewell to him. To this day I have never been able to visit his grave. I have no idea where he is buried.
* * * *
Memories now become even vaguer. At some point, someone removed my shoes and socks, and my shirt. I was certain later that I must have confused memories, but a few days later Vikki confirmed that when a needle was being put into my arm I was told it would scratch. I replied that in the old days, they always said 'just a little prick'. I waited for someone to say 'Yes, but he's got a lovely smile!' Nobody did and I passed out again. Even at this time, I managed a firework display…
