A Fateful Accusation

'Justice delayed is justice denied'- William E. Gladstone

I am not a religious man, yet I am certainly not a militant atheist like Richard 'If you like God, you're stupid' Dawkins. Belief/faith in some sort of deity is comforting for some, and there are a large number of people who believe in the concept of 'divine intervention'. This can be defined as a deity, whether through the power of prayer or perhaps it being a slow day in the afterlife, takes the conscious decision to intervene in our mortal realm and influence a certain chain of events. Miracles are often categorised as the result of divine intervention, and on an overcast 29 March, on the steps outside of St Paul's Cathedral in London, a deity may have given me a helping hand. It certainly isn't on the scale of Jesus walking on water or God sending the Ten Plagues onto Egypt, but in that very moment of time it felt as if 'divine intervention' had just occurred.

My mother felt charitable that day, as I was allowed to borrow her phone for the day (and even for my Easter weekend holiday to Paris). To have a phone that actually had Snapchat and a version of Instagram that wasn't in beta (get it together Nokia) was more than enough for me. Accompanied by my travel companion Felix, we were London tourists for the day, exploring the multiple sights our own capital had on offer, and even making a trip to Angel Shopping Centre to be in with the chance of winning a Google Home Mini, or donuts if our box did not contain this new sought after gadget. But it was the call from my father, at 16:43, that was the real gift of the day. On the steps of St Paul's, this defiant symbol of London, I was told that the police had dropped their investigation against me, and now the process of getting my devices, that had been in police possession for around 4 months, was underway. I shouted in delight, and announced to my dear friend Felix the good news. A large hug was involved, and I fought back tears as my ordeal had finally come to an end. That great burden that had been weighing me down, much like Atlas with the globe on his back, had been lifted.

Public Enemy Number 1

But hang on, I don't come across as someone who would go about and break the law. I may have some discrepancies towards the government, but I would never go out of my way to endanger the well being of society. I guess that's why I was taken aback when, on 16 November last year, at 18:30, the police turned up at my door. Two officers stood before me, with one looking over their shoulder and investigating Kianu, my trusty Kia Picanto. I had a horrible feeling that I might have hit something on my way back from my exercise class the previous night, to which I said that I would gladly help with their investigation. It would be unreasonable for me to turn them away, as it was a bleak November night and I'm sure they would rather be at home in the warm. Yet they were not here for that, although now I wish they had been. I was placed under arrest for public indecency, masturbating in public no less, and making sexual advances towards a group of underage girls.

Apparently, three girls had claimed that a young adult male had been seen jacking it in a nature reserve in Ash, to which he then encouraged the teens closer to him. A group of adults, most likely the parents or older siblings of the girls, then came back to confront the perpetrator, to which he sped off and hit a post whilst escaping. They collected the clothes I was wearing the night before, and even though I could feel my entire life crumbling around me once more, I was relatively calm. It was the week of the North London Derby, and one of the officers was a Spurs fan, so we joked of how the game would go on the weekend. I put on my shoes, told my brother and mother that 'I was apparently jacking off in my car last night' and was whisked off to Guildford Police Station in the back of a paddy wagon. It was a wintry November night, and my body temperature plummeted as the chilly air and feeling of utter shock at being arrested over a false accusation, especially one as serious as this, combined into one horrific cold front.

Mr Goscomb, your chariot awaits

For around 20 hours, I was in police custody. An interview between myself, my duty solicitor Rebecca Smart, and two detectives was conducted at 3 in the morning, at least 7 hours after the initial time the interview was meant to take place- or so I was told. It felt as if the police and I were engaged in psychological warfare; their investigation hinged on me crumbling and admitting to something that I hadn't done. I laughed off questions from the detective, such as 'Have you ever been to a nature reserve before?', and went into excruciating detail of my route to and from home. The fact that the incident had occurred at a site I never knew existed at around 19:45 (at least an hour after I had returned home) should have been a sufficient enough defence. Yet, in the days when sexual attacks are common, every case must be examined with extreme scrutiny. I never wanted to appear to be a resilient suspect, but both my time and their time was being wasted. More serious crimes, committed by people with truly terrible intents, should have been the focus of Surrey Police. Alas, for the time being, they were not.

My devices, including my phone, iPod, laptop and even Sat Nav, were seized as potential pieces of evidence that could be used to convict me of being a paedophile. Kianu was also taken from me, as a small scratch on the front right of the car was clearly the damage left over by a collision with a post. Turns out my brother had just hit the curb when he was dropping off one of his coworkers, and it was so minimal that none of us had noticed. I was also duly suspended from work (with pay, thank God), meaning that I now had to wait for an unknown period of time for the investigation to be concluded. For 4 months, I was under investigation for making sexual advances towards a group of teenagers, which is basically career ending for someone who had ambitions to train to be a teacher. I had no idea who the victims were, and thoughts crossed my mind of Calthorpe Park students, recognising my car, deciding to play a joke on Mr Goscomb. Maybe it was a group of bored locals, who were desperate for attention and desired to be grouped with people who had actually suffered from sexual assault. The likelihood is that a crime had taken place, and the offender was also a young male dressed as if he had just returned from the gym. It is a pretty broad bracket, but it was one that I unfortunately fell in to.

A typical sexual offender... apparently

My father was on hand to take me home, as his natural paternal instinct of protecting his child kicked in. Mum was waiting at home, too shaken to go to work and clearly in no fit state to do anything that an adult would do. She took me in her arms and I could feel her body convulse as she quietly sobbed. Our day then consisted of sitting in our PJ's, watching Mulan and the version of Robin Hood where all the characters are animals (it's the best version, no argument), with her certain that this whole matter would be cleared up in no time at all. But she had never worked in a school, and did not have to sit through a 1 hour meeting about child safeguarding. If a meeting with the basic message of 'don't fuck kids' went on for so long, a real life case would go on for much longer. I appreciate my family's optimism, but it was all driven by false hope. This false hope would continue throughout the course of my ordeal, and although it was uplifting to see people somewhat confident, I would always have to remind them of how long these investigations would actually take.

The case was drawn out further due to the fact that Christmas was fast approaching, and the police were confident in the fact that no crime would be committed over Christmas. Clearly, none of them have ever had to cook Christmas dinner, or have participated in festive family fun board games, in which your traitorous wife decides to play the '+4' card in Uno, breaking any trust you once had in her. The I.D. parade was not done until the new year, at least 2 months after the crime had originally taken place. Memories fade over time, and I am certain that the victims didn't have enough time to perfectly sketch the notorious 'Ash Manor Meat Beater'. On a dark November night, it would be difficult to accurately describe someone, especially if the only source of light is probably from the criminal's car. Indeed, why are teenage girls walking around a nature reserve on a Wednesday night? It's a school night after all! Think I might be a better detective than the ones at Surrey Police.

This is where I received my comprehensive police training, every weekday at 11 on 'Drama'

At the end of every week, I would call my solicitor in the hope that something had changed in regards to the investigation. Progress was extremely slow, as a clear lack in witness cooperation stalled integral stages of case development, thus increasing fears that something more sinister was afoot. There then came a point when, after sending an email to my solicitor, an automatic response saying that the inbox was closed. Through further enquiries, it turns out that my duty solicitor had left Taylor Street Solicitors, to which I was not informed. Neither she or the law firm told me that the woman who was defending me had gone off to pastures new, leaving me, at that moment in time, utterly defenceless. Yet a new solicitor was chosen for me, and he showed such professionalism and determination to set things right that I am eternally grateful to him. I am sure you are never likely to read this Richard Dawes, and are probably blissfully unaware that 'Absolute Shambles' actually exists, but thank you.

I have learned many things from this traumatic experience, such as when there are cases involving sexual crimes, the system works... well, mostly. The fact that my devices were seized, my family were quickly questioned and I was suspended by my school meant that the right steps were taken in regards to ensuring that justice was served and children were kept safe (even though I was innocent). I knew that this would be a long process, yet I was amazed of the police's cold shoulder towards Taylor Street Solicitors and myself. The passive hostility began mere hours after I was detained, as the custody officers on duty refused to give me further information in regards to being interviewed by detectives, constantly telling me 'let me just quickly check', before slamming the slot shut and leaving me alone in my cell. I was left with my book on the Kray twins and the Italian Mafia, my only point of solace.

The inability of the officers/detective to quickly conduct witness statements and the I.D. parade further deepened worries that the police were conducting some sort of psychological war against me, as if they had no other leads and were just desperate to reach their quota on arresting sexual criminals. When child welfare is at stake, especially when crimes relating to sexual assault on children and adults are on the rise (the Office for National Statistics recorded 138,045 sex offences had been committed between September 2016- September 2017, a 23% rise from the year before), these sorts of investigations need to be given some sort of priority. Yet compared to cases of terrorism, murder and possible regicide, sexual crimes are far down the pecking order. That is surely the reason why my devices were not actually checked until late February/ early March time. Yet does the apparent lack of severity in my case give the police an excuse to release my car to Alton based JD Motors on 4 January, and not be told until 18 January that Kianu was ready to be collected? Police ineptitude was on firm display.

Enough to topple a bollard, according to Surrey Police

My mental state over the last few months has certainly not been at its strongest, and was certainly fading during my time in a cell. Across the hall from me a man was screaming of the injustices in the world, that him being arrested meant an end to his life. Hearing him scream and curse put me on edge, to the point that I pleaded to be moved to another cell. My request was granted, and the hushed surroundings I now found myself in was certainly comforting, especially since I was given meals throughout my stay and coffee was on hand at request (I'm not addicted, but it is great). An officer skilled in dealing with concerns over mental health was also happy to speak with me, as I told her of my past dealings with depression and how I harboured fears that this was a targeted attack against me. Disgruntled students or attention demanding teenagers may have made these accusations as a way of defeating boredom, but for me it was life changing. Scared that I would be quizzed by neighbours who had seen me taken away by the police, or even ask why I was spending so much time at home, the outside world was now a far scarier place. I never did call the Samaritans, the primary point of contact to those suffering from mental hardships, but there were times when I would spend hours just staring at the number, wondering if they could actually help me.

Indeed, it was how to tell those closest to me what had happened. Some were told immediately, others not for weeks or even months. It is a delicate subject to talk about, and even though there was a large amount of support from friends and family, I couldn't help but wonder if they were silently judging me. Nobody knows, unless you work for an intelligence agency, what someone looks at in their spare time, and the Internet is full of some very dark websites. This is not an attack on those that supported me (I have the deepest respect for them that I would not dare through around such accusations), but you never know who could be attracted to the younger member of society. When working with children, you have direct contact with them, and some are inclined to seek your advice and tell you of their concerns, whether it's with bullying or whether it is moral to attend an after school club when you're ill and could possibly infect other pupils. That happened once, and it was admirable to say the least.

Mr Goscomb was impressed

Accusations have a very powerful effect. As I have mentioned countless times before, these kinds of accusations are extremely serious, but any accusation in general has to be taken seriously. When meeting with my solicitor on 15 March, he explained to me that the word of the accuser has to be taken as the truth. I could walk up to an officer and say 'that guy hit me', and he would have to now proceed with questioning the apparent assailant and any potential witnesses. Although I am lying, obviously because my fists of fury could deal with any potential attacker, the police have to take me seriously. In more serious circumstances, such as accusing someone of murder or rape, it can destroy someones life. Even if the claims against them are false, proper steps have to be taken, whether it's through arrest, seizing devices or even appearing in court and having your life placed in the hands of a team of jurors who have never met you. It's a terrifying prospect, and it is a fate that I never wished to be forced upon an innocent person.

The process of arrest, device seizure and suspension was the correct one, yet the slowness of reaching the conclusion that I was innocent is beyond a joke. As of 12 April (2 weeks after I had been 'set free'), I had yet to receive any of my seized possessions, let alone a letter from Surrey Police informing me that I was no longer under investigation, meaning that I can't actually return to work since the police haven't given the all clear. Yet a day later, on Friday 13 (great omens, really), I had to attend an interview between myself, another Taylor Street solicitor (my suited hero with remarkable lawyer skills was held up with another case) and the lead officer in order for the handover of possessions to be completed and one last interview due to 'a certain substance' being found in my room. Hey, how would I know that the police would ransack my room!

Officers and detectives work on a rota, and frustrations certainly mounted every time I was told that one was on holiday or would not be back at work for another week, 'but we will chase it up for you'. That was the phrase I had heard the most throughout my forced exile from the adult world, and the only chasing that happened was in pursuit of shadows. Is it a lack of funding? Is there a clear fault in the system that is sworn to protect the innocent civilians of this nation, perhaps through lack of manpower or a willingness to help? Could the Royal Mail lack the skills required to sort and deliver mail? These are questions for another day.

He would have delivered it on time

If I were still working as a greenkeeper, then my life would not have come to such an abrupt standstill. My decision to pursue a career in education again was brought about since I wanted to put my degree and other acquired skills to better use (I did love being a greenkeeper though), thus making it seem like the correct decision. Yet, at this very moment, I wonder what would have happened if I turned my back on my desire to spend my days surrounded by historical literature, and pursued a life of greenkeeping. This time last year, I was reading about the structure of the Level 2 course in Golf Greenkeeping, knowing that it wouldn't be entirely difficult due to being used to writing essays/reports and having at least a year of practical experience under my belt. It would have been a seismic shift to my future plans when I enrolled at Plymouth University in 2013, but life is never as linear as one might think. Things change, people come and go, and accusations of a sexual felony can put a sizeable spanner in the works.

I do not wish to dwell any longer on whether this was just a case of mistaken identity or a targeted attack by irritated students or even teenagers that have grown bored of posting pictures of their Starbucks. All I know is that it happened, it was awful and now I once again feel as if I have to start afresh. The prospect facing me now is to continue down the path of education, placing myself in more debt due to the lack of decent funding for any other trainee teacher outside of Maths or Physics and having to dance to the tune of the powers that determine what is worth/ not worth learning. My earnings will be slim, and the parts of history that have I a great interest in fall firmly in that latter category. Yes, there are plenty of subjects to get through in a limited time, especially with holidays and exams, but to be unable to properly explain the course of events feels like I am cheating pupils out of a full appreciation of what has happened in our past. You could encourage them to do some further reading outside of the classroom, but would any child choose to read Alison Weir's Lancaster and York: The Wars of the Roses over putting in some hours on Fortnite?

I'm old, my choice is obvious

This isn't going to descend into a rant on the limitations of education within a classroom, or a discussion on what I want to do with my life. No, that would be a massive change in course over the main point of this post; I was falsely accused of doing something terrible, and have since been forced into exile from the adult world. But I have not wallowed in sadness- far from it. The time I have spent at home has not been wasted, as my writing skills have drastically improved. I have managed to play and review Wolfenstein: The New Colossus, Assassin's Creed: Origins and even the loyalty testing Assassin's Creed: Unity, which led to an entire post on the issue of loyalty itself. I put Star Wars: The Last Jedi under a microscope and concluded that it was a story that had populist/ socialist undertones, and even gave the Doctor Who Christmas special a chance, as a way of getting the whole series to redeem itself. There's even been some political ramblings, with American gun control being in my cross hairs. It hasn't solved my crisis of what I want to do with my life, but I have certainly improved as a writer, especially when compared to the very first post I ever did.

Plugging aside, my ordeal has been made easier by the ones around me. My family, although overly optimistic at times, were there for me, whether it was to watch Disney films, lend me their laptop for a large period of time, or even to be on hand to rescue me from the police station. Friends, even ones that I had not seen for multiple years, gave their support, hoping that the situation would be resolved as soon as possible. People were keen to give character references if required, further proving that the support around me was as solid as Han Solo frozen in carbonite. The fact that nobody shunned me, even if they were parents, worked in education themselves or had younger siblings that could be 'at risk', made me thankful for what I had around me. The gratitude I have in knowing these people has no measure, and their ability to make the conscious decision of maintaining good relations with me is something of a miracle in itself.

I could look at this whole nightmare with the view that life sucks, and that ineptitude is abundant. My faith in the abilities of those sworn to protect the innocent may have dwindled to the point of non-existence, but that would be an awful life lesson to take away from this. But thanks to the support of those around me, not to mention the conclusion that 'Ben, you're not a paedo, but you have way too many memes on your phone' was finally reached. Thursday 29 March will remain in mind for as long as I live, not just because it was the day that I finally went curling, but it was the day that 'divine intervention' made an abrupt, but relieving, appearance in the turbulent life that is Benjamin Goscomb.

Finally

Ben G 😁 xo

P.S. My 100 km walking challenge is slowly approaching, so for all you animal lovers out there, head on over to this page, and donate! I will be forever grateful!

P.P.S. It is truly wonderful to have all of my devices back, but it does mean that I have a hell of a lot of podcasts to catch up on.