FEAR: The Confession of Victor Gossard

F.E.A.R.

The confession of Victor Gossard

A novel by

Jamie Sinclair

Author’s note

This book was written in 2003. It is my third novel and was very nearly published by Transworld. I’ve kept every letter as a reminder of what I so nearly achieved.

Anyway, I haven’t even looked at it since 2004, not even thought about it until I started reading Doctor Sleep by Stephen King. He mentions fear right at the beginning. That got me thinking. I had another look at the story, liked it, but it needed work. I decided to publish it in chunks via my blog and Wattpad, editing as I went. Now that’s done I decided to publish the finished article.

Transworld had an issue with the original ending to the book. I won’t give anymore away since you haven’t read it yet. But it felt right then and it still feels right now. However, since Transworld had a problem with that ending there’s a chance others might too so there is now an epilogue which is basically a happy (happier anyway) ending. If you’re like me, you’ll stop reading after the original ending.

Okay. Short version. I was supposed to use this Dictaphone machine to record my thoughts and reflections as part of my CBT referral. I haven’t bothered. Why? Because the whole thing’s bollocks. The breakdown, the referral, the therapy, total crap. Plus I’ve had better things to do.

Until now. Right now I've nothing better to do. It’s all been done so now; finally, I’m ready to talk about it. Not the daft, fictitious stuff my therapist expects to hear. No, this is the real deal, the real reason it’s come to this. I might have all night to tell it. I might have a few minutes. Depends if anyone saw or heard me. I'll try and be quick though, it’s pretty cold sitting here in the car and I’ve turned the engine off because of the noise.

So then, long version, where to begin. My friend’s dead. I suppose that’s worth mentioning.

Sorry, I’ll start again. I’m glib by nature and a bit giddy now I’m actually talking about it all. But this subject demands I try a bit harder.

Okay, this was supposed to be a…diary or journal. Not really the right words but either will do for now. It’s the result of the sessions I’ve been having recently with a therapist called Dr Ralph Watson. He asked me to use a Dictaphone to augment my sessions. His words, augment my sessions. I think the idea is to encourage self-reflection, improve my fragile mental state and generally make me better. Either way, I’ve recorded nothing so far for reasons which will become apparent.

The machine by the way, the Dictaphone, is a properly antiquated thing. The size of an old mobile phone and about as heavy. Still, it’s doing the job, I’ve recorded a few sentences and rewound just to check there was something there.

So, the sessions are for Cognitive Behavioural Therapy or CBT to those in the know (I’d heard of CBT before but didn’t actually know what on earth it was). I really wasn’t planning on getting into this. I had a plan, it’s just that this wasn’t it and now here I am in the middle of it, or rather, at the end of it. So, since I have the opportunity I suppose I’d best talk about how I came to be sitting in my car in the middle of the night, reflecting into a tape recorder. Just for the sake of completeness, and because you might hear the sound of me drinking on the tape, I’ve got a bag of cans with me too. Half a dozen Stellas. It’s not like I’m going to be driving again tonight.

This all happened about five weeks ago. By ‘this’ I just mean the last bit, the therapy bit. I was diagnosed as being clinically depressed and put on medication. I’m supposed to take a 10mg Citalopram tablet every day for a month to see what the impact is and then the dose will be reviewed accordingly up to a maximum of 40mg. I have to say so far I don’t feel any different but then I was nauseous and struggled to sleep before.

As part of the treatment I was put on a waiting list for CBT but the NHS waiting list is six months, I kid you not. It makes you think, if people are having to wait six months just for a six week course of CBT, it’s a wonder people aren’t jumping off bridges all over the place. I don’t want to force my opinions on anyone but if people with serious depression, even suicidal thoughts, are waiting that long, well, perhaps the pathway or the funding or whatever needs looking at.

I’m paying for private sessions, that’s how I was seen so quickly. Once my mum got wind of the fact that there a genuine problem she went into maternal overdrive, insisting to my father that I couldn’t afford to wait, that it might be too late if we wait. I assume, by too late, she was thinking I might kill myself or whatever. All very dramatic though as it turns out not entirely inaccurate. Anyway, I couldn’t let them pay; not knowing what was coming, so I stumped up out of my savings. It’s not like I’m going to need the money after this is all done.

I’m already off track, didn’t take long. That will likely happen a lot as this journal progresses. I work for a magazine by the way, editing, but this is the first time I’ve been asked to document my own thoughts and, under the circumstances, it feels more than a bit strange.

Apologies again. I haven’t actually explained what the circumstances are. I’m not even sure I need to, or am required to. I suppose from a therapy point of view then it would be important to have these details, but I’m pretty much just blurting this out as it comes to me. Bottom line, all I want from this recording is for people to know I’m sorry. What value that will have I don’t know, I don’t suppose it will help my parents much in the aftermath. Anyway, it’ll be easy to lose sight of that simple fact once it all comes out, so just to reiterate, I’m sorry.

Okay, first things first. Right now, as I record this, I’m in Lancaster. I’ve been staying at my parents’ house. I’ve been here for the last five weeks. It wasn’t coming home that triggered my depression in case you’re jumping to that conclusion. Well, it was, but not because of any fault with my parents or the town itself. You see, I was coming home to confess, I want that to be perfectly clear before we go any further. A lot of things will be said, assumptions made, aspersions cast, but I wanted to make it right. As far as I’m able anyway. So that’s two things to keep track of. I’m sorry and I was coming home to make amends.

As it’s always been, even the best laid plans can come unstuck and my plan, such as it was, didn’t extend beyond driving back to Lancaster and admitting my part in what happened. Sadly, before I was able to put my flimsy, ill thought out strategy into operation, I had a bit of a wobble. Which is of course an outright lie.

I suffered a complete mental collapse.

Hmm, up until now I’ve kind of been down playing it. But now I’ve said it out loud it does sound pretty serious. Mental collapse. I think it’s the collapse part that really adds weight to it. As if everything just fell to bits, crumbled. Which it did.

My mum keeps referring to my ‘breakdown’. Cars breakdown. Boilers breakdown. You call a repairman, it gets fixed. But according to the doctor I, apparently, am in a right old state, hence the referral to the CBT chap and the medication. I collapsed. Mentally. I did not breakdown and I am far from fixed.

So, as I’ve said, my oh so simple plan was to drive home, confess… I hadn’t thought beyond that. That was over a month ago and in that time two significant things have happened. One, I had my mental episode. Two, my friend died. I’ll start with the breakdown.

I’m really not sure how to describe that day; I don’t remember most of it. Actually that’s not strictly accurate either. I thought I remembered it just fine; it felt like a few minutes had passed. It wasn’t until afterwards, when the police came and later still when I was referred to the doctor and then the therapist, that it was explained to me how long I’d been sitting there. That surprised me and I suppose I still can’t quite believe it. I didn’t feel any different to normal, I don’t feel any different now to be honest, not really. But for some reason, that day seemed to be when it all fell apart.

I think what I mean is that to me, that day, it felt the same as any other day. I felt like I was… thinking I suppose. Pondering my next move. I set off from Bradford where I live and was driving to Lancaster and just stopped for a break, stopped to think and I was happy doing that when all of a sudden a policeman tapped me on the arm. I was honestly bewildered. I imagine my protests that I’d only been there a few minutes must have made me seem particularly loopy. But as I said before, I couldn’t believe it and it’s taking a lot of effort to go along with it even now if I’m being really truthful. My mind is telling me I’m essentially fine, by my own standards, and that on that day I had only been sitting there for a short time. But because the police and Dr Watson are telling me different, then I’m supposed to go along with it.

Basically I’m being asked to take it on trust that I had this mental collapse and that’s hard to do when I don’t feel different today than I have for the last week, month or year. I suppose it’s different for them, it’s new. I’ve been living with this for ten years.

The first step to achieving a state of wellness, apparently, is to come to terms with the events that led to the breakdown in the first place. After all these years I think I can say with some confidence that it’s not something you come to terms with, hence the collapse I suppose.

My therapist has asked me to reflect on my behaviour, my situation etc. Obviously he has no clue as to the truth of the matter and I wasn’t about to make him the first person I shared it with, that’s the purpose of tonight, of right now. I know that sometimes it’s easier to share things with a stranger but not when you know that person is making a judgement based on your answers. That said, I was quite happy to be there, talking, answering questions, seeing where I fell on various scales, completing tests to see just how serious my condition is. But I’m not convinced the results will be that accurate since I haven’t shared everything. Then again, maybe they anticipate that type of behaviour in patients.

Anyway, as I’ve said already all this happened a few weeks ago and on the back of these sessions my therapist suggested I record my thoughts and feelings relating to the events which led to my collapse. It could be as structured or random as I want. Apparently some people like to imagine they’re talking to a friend, others that they’re dictating a diary or journal which is where I got the terminology from. The purpose is just to get my thoughts out.

At the time I was more than a little dubious because I had no clue who might hear what I recorded. I suppose that’s testament to how good the therapist is. I actually bought into the concept of getting well through therapy. It wasn’t until I was at home with my parents and I once again focussed on my confession plan that I decided the whole idea of therapy was pointless. So, I left the Dictaphone in the glove box of my car and forgot about it. It wasn’t until tonight, not until I was actually on my way here that I even thought about it. I was going to write a note but didn’t have a pen or paper. I had a look in the glove box and here we are.

I haven’t got another CBT session until the end of next week and by then this will all be over, so I don’t suppose it matters a damn what I say into this machine in the grand scheme of things. But if nothing else I’d like it to be honest.

The thing is, even now it’s not easy. Nobody is listening, I’m alone and yet… I’ve spent literally years desperately trying not to share what happened and now here I am, sharing. Apparently it’s common for patients to struggle to express their innermost thoughts, expose their demons. The expression is to ‘give myself permission’ as my therapist put it. Until then it’s kind of like skirting round the issue without actually addressing it.

Which is exactly what I’ve done so far. Waffling, avoiding the subject. I’ve had this recorder for five weeks and ignored it. I’ve been given the tools, but not given myself permission I suppose. Even now there’s no guarantee it will turn out how I want it to. The battery might run out, somebody could turn up at any minute and interrupt me, I am trespassing after all. But at this stage it can’t make things any worse. The idea of making progress, therapeutic progress at least, has gone. All that’s left now is to try and talk about how I came to this point. It’s going to be hard not to get ahead of myself, and under the circumstances you can expect this to be pretty unstructured, especially once the beer kicks in.

As I’ve said, I had a mental episode. But that doesn’t tell you how I came to be in this state in the first place. Dr Watson said I can begin anywhere I like, wherever I feel able. So for me, things really began to unravel when I decided to confess. I suppose that’s obvious, given that this decision seems to have led directly to me going loopy.

Fantastic Expectations Amazing Revelations

So, one of my oldest friends was found dead. I hadn’t set eyes on him in almost ten years. My mum heard about it on local radio; died in his sleep on a bench apparently, his body had been there for over twelve hours. He would’ve been twenty-eight next month.

Sounds pretty grim doesn’t it? Well, that’s because it is. I know it must sound strange to you, I mean if he was such a good mate how come I hadn’t seen him in nearly a decade, right? That’s easy, I made a conscious effort to avoid seeing him even though he tried on lots of occasions to contact me. He’d even send messages via Mum asking how I was. It was embarrassing. She’d say she’d run into him in town, would I ring him when I got chance? I never did, never planned to. I’d left it all behind, or at least tried to. Ran off to the other side of the Pennines with no desire to return. Clearly the fact that I’m here and recording this tells you that running away hasn’t been particularly successful.

I think the reason he died is the same reason I came home when I did. You could argue he’d been hanging on for me to get to this point, the point where I lift up the stone and shine a light on what’s hiding underneath. I know that’s why he kept trying to contact me. He struggled with it more than any of us. He wanted to come clean, take responsibility. I chose to run away. I don’t know how he died but I know what caused it. This is going to sound harsh, but he’s better off dead, I really believe that. At least now he doesn’t have to suffer under the weight of it anymore. Another life ruined by what we did.

You might be wondering what sort of lunatic thinks it’s for the best if his twenty-seven year old friend is found dead on a bench in a shopping arcade? As I’ve said already at least he’s free of it now. You can argue he had the rest of his life in front of him. I’d counter that by saying all he had to look forward to was more of the same, maybe even a spell in prison. But certainly no prospect of the life he could have had. No glittering career, family, none of that. How do I know? Because I haven’t got any of that either.

But we’ll get to that, all in good time, it’s all going to come out now, finally, that’s why I came back. The breakdown, my collapse, was never part of my plan, obviously. I wanted to tell the story before it surfaced of its own accord. My friend’s death has only given me more reason to do it. If I miss any details I reckon there’s a decent percentage chance you’ll be able to catch the rest in the papers or on the news.

I make no bones about it. A large part of the reason I decided to confess is so that, perhaps, I’d be able to sleep without the aid of pills and alcohol. Certainly, as I sit here now, in the dark, achieving sleep, rest, is pretty much all I have left to work towards.

So what can be so bad that it’s led to this? Well, almost ten years ago a girl disappeared without trace. I know where she is, my dead friend knew too, because we killed her.

Hmm, there it is. Spoken out loud. We killed someone, a teenage girl. I’ve lived with that secret for very nearly ten years. It killed two of my friends. Okay, that’s dramatic. One died in a car crash, the other from causes yet to be determined. But I’m certain what we did was a factor because it’s been a part of me ever since that night. You wake up and it’s there, follows you round all day, a constant presence, inhabiting you. Inhibiting you.

I thought it might feel different to admit it, especially if I said it to another person, to the police. Don’t get me wrong it feels liberating to at least be talking about it, to be able to say how I feel, how I’ve been feeling, about it. Honestly, I almost rewound this and recorded over it. We killed her.

Okay, now straight away I bet you’re judging me. Killer. Murderer. Psychopath. Well, yeah, maybe. You could turn the tape off and walk away right now, whoever you are. But if you do that you won’t find out how it happened, how it played out afterwards, what it’s been like for the last ten years.

So yes, judge me if you like, there’s no arguing the killer part. But I’m not sure I’m a psychopath, or any other kind of dangerous lunatic. Perhaps given time this CBT stuff could help get to the bottom of it, perhaps not. As I’ve already said, having a breakdown wasn’t part of the plan and I am on a bit of a fixed timescale here. But if you really want to start using labels allow me to suggest a few alternatives. Coward, liar or drunkard perhaps?

Either way, like I said, all in good time. Much as I want – need – to tell somebody what happened, there are bits I need to tell you first, actions I took when I came home, things I tried to straighten out. The first of these was to get in touch with another one of my oldest friends. Since I left town I haven’t seen him either. All part of my ever so clever avoidance tactics, geographical distance, cut all ties, drink a lot, pretend it didn’t happen. Turns out it’s not a great coping strategy.

The windscreen’s misting up a bit so I’ve opened the car door a crack just to let some air in. I’ve just rewound and listened to a few seconds of what I’ve recorded so far. Apologies once again for rambling. If I received this as an editor I’d have a fit. But then again, this is all a bit stream of consciousness. I’ve just realised I haven’t told you anything about my friends, despite announcing that two of them are dead. Sad really, at one time they were everything to me. But we’ll get to that too, time allowing.

There were four of us in our little gang; we were all there the night it happened. Brett Oliphant – recently deceased on a bench, Dean Byron – known as D.B. to his close friends and also dead, Pete Healey and me, Victor Gossard. Everyone calls me Vic by the way, it’s a family name: my dad, his dad, an uncle or two, loads of Victors. As for Gossard, that’s been the butt of more jokes than I’ve got time, or inclination, to mention. Suffice to say that I’ve had more than my fair share of tit, boob and breast jokes thrown in my direction. It wasn’t all bad though, it taught me to be quick-witted and I was quite the joker at school. Seems a lifetime ago now though.

Before I forget I’ll just mention Dean. He died about two years ago in a car crash, just one of those things apparently. I heard it was dark, a dodgy bend in the road, he lost control and that was it. Thankfully, according to the newspaper report my mum read to me over the telephone, he wouldn’t have known a thing about it and, if his existence was anything like mine, then it was merciful too.

I chose not to come back for his funeral which is disgraceful I know, spineless. We were thick as thieves throughout high school and because of one event we were reduced to nothing, our relationship torn to pieces. Dean was probably the most similar to me out of the four of us and he kept his distance after it happened. Suited me and over the years I never tried to reach out to him and as far as I know he never tried to get hold of me either. No calls, no messages via my mum, no Facebook. Like me he probably thought about it and realised we had nothing to say. That’s not true, we had just one thing to say, one thing to talk about, and no desire to talk about it. Best left alone.

Anyway, he died, I miss him, at least I miss the kid I knew at school, but again, at least he’s free of it now. Now that Brett’s gone as well, in a lot of ways I think he had it worse than any of us, that just leaves Pete and me.

We all met at school, secondary school, Ripley St Thomas Church of England High School to use its full title. I don’t know about now, but when I went there it was quite a religious school, it’s got its own chapel and everything. They played that card quite a bit. But I’m not at all religious, none of my friends are. The thing is, you have to choose a school to go to when you leave primary.

My local school had a pretty grim reputation. My parents took me to the open evening anyway but I didn’t like it. So we had a look at Ripley and I loved it. It felt very big, grand, with its tower, chapel, loads of grounds. The only twist was that Ripley used a points system for entry. Regular churchgoer, you score points. One parent, points. Good at rugby, points. So if you were an orphan prop forward who was on first name terms with the local vicar you were presumably guaranteed a place.

I didn’t get in, not at first. I ticked the religious box, just about. I’d been to Sunday School for two years leading up to secondary school, got a letter from the vicar and everything, saying what a great kid I was. But I was still rejected. My parents appealed and we were summoned in to see the headmaster.

There was another kid there at the same time, with his mum and dad. They talked posh, compared to us anyway. He was called Jeremy I think, hyphenated surname. We were all chatting, the Headmaster scoping us out, my mum and dad falling over themselves to make a good impression and then the Head decides to ask