A Fair Cop. Michael Bunting

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СКАЧАТЬ out of the van, Mick. The gaffers will be too bloody scared to upset folk by having us out of the vans. We don’t want to look too aggressive now, do we?’ Paul made no attempt to hide his sarcasm.

      ‘What do you mean, mate?’ I asked.

      ‘Well, all they’ll want now is for this to pass over without any more drama. They don’t give a shit about locking up the villains. The gaffers don’t need to worry about them in their world, do they? So long as we don’t get criticised. Wankers.’

      As we spoke, our sergeant ambled back from the station to our van.

       ‘Right, lads…’

      ‘And lasses, Sarge,’ came a voice from inside the van. Helen, the only female officer in our serial, peered out of the side door and smiled at the sergeant.

      ‘Sorry, Helen. Anyway, lads and lasses, listen in please. I’ve just been speaking to the chief super and he wants us to go to Neville Street and basically show a presence. We’re under strict instructions not to get out of the van. I’ve been told to remind you that the press are buzzing around, so be aware, please.’

      ‘Does he know how bloody hot it is in that van, Sarge?’ Paul sounded angry.

      ‘He’s got pips and crowns, Paul. He doesn’t need to think of things like that. Right, I suggest you all get a quick drink and we’ll set off.’

      As we walked across to the station, Paul continued making comments about what he thought was in store for us. I prepared myself for a long and uncomfortable shift.

      Neville Street wasn’t far from the station and when we arrived, there was a crowd of about two hundred youths in the street and approximately ten police vans, all with the windscreen protectors down. There were no officers to be seen out on foot. There was a dirty smell of burning rubber lingering in the air from the previous night. The crowd was chanting at us: ‘Come on, pigs, pigs, pigs.’

      Every so often, a brick would be launched from the middle of the crowd towards the vans; occasionally one would land on our roof. The noise each one made was deafening and menacing and every time it happened, our conversation was temporarily silenced. Every ten minutes or so, the senior officer at the station would ask to be updated on events. The crowd grew bigger and the number of missiles thrown increased.

      ‘Are we sitting here like cannon fodder all day, or are we gonna start to lock these toe-rags up, Sarge?’ asked Paul, with an ever-increasing sound of exasperation in his voice.

      ‘I can only go by what I’ve been told to do, Paul, and that is that we sit tight until told otherwise.’ From the sergeant’s tone, I sensed he was intimidated by Paul, who had over twenty years’ service.

      ‘It’s bloody ridiculous, this. Why have they got us all over here if they’re not gonna use us?’

      ‘Look, just wait and see what they want us to do. I’ll let them know that it’s kicking off a bit out there.’

      By now, the frequency of bricks hitting us had increased and there was a loud bang at least every couple of minutes. The van was getting badly damaged. The chants got louder. I saw some graffiti on a shop front. It said, Another Blakelock. I assumed that this referred to PC Keith Blakelock, who was brutally murdered in Tottenham in disturbances during the 1980s. This was often reported in the media as The Brixton Riots. Whoever sprayed this was either planning to do something very serious to a police officer, or he was trying to frighten us. He had succeeded in the latter, for myself at least, but I didn’t say anything.

      As I thought about this, we were ordered to travel up Neville Street to a rendezvous point to meet with other units, as we were going to be deployed on foot with shields to try to disperse the mob.

      ‘About bloody time,’ said Paul, as he zipped up his overalls and pulled on his balaclava. ‘Let’s get these idiots locked up.’

       We slowly drove up Neville Street only to be faced with about fifty of the crowd, blocking the road. To my horror, I saw a similar number of youths running towards the van from behind. We were trapped. Bricks and glass bottles rained down on the van, each one as frightening as the others had been. We all sat forward with our elbows on our knees and our heads down.

      ‘I’m stuck here, Sarge,’ explained the van driver, with panic in his voice.

      ‘Urgent assistance, Neville Street,’ bellowed the sergeant into the radio.

      We were at the mercy of the rioters who had circled us. Bricks and bottles continued to smash into the van. There was nothing we could do as they closed in on us from all directions. They used scarves and bandanas to conceal their faces. Some had arms full of bricks, whilst others brandished long sticks and baseball bats. Once in a while, one or two of the rioters would pluck up the courage and come right up to us and strike the van with bats.

      ‘Lock all the doors,’ ordered the sergeant. This, I can assure you, had been done a long time before he’d said it.

      The rioters were still chanting, but such was my fear at this point that I didn’t hear what they were shouting. We were completely helpless; our fate lay in the hands of these youths. I hoped they would have at least a shred of decency about them and spare us from harm. My fear was amplified when I saw some of the crowd lighting papers stuffed in the necks of glass bottles. We were about to be petrol-bombed. They came closer. They started to rock the van. I peered out of the one-way glass and the anger and hatred in the eyes of these people was terrifying. I noticed that even Paul was beginning to look troubled. We had to shout at each other in order to communicate inside the van. It rocked more and more and then I saw a great flash of flames up the side. The youths temporarily dispersed from that side, but were back within seconds. I felt defenceless. Escaping was in the hands of the gods. I kept my head down and tied the chinstrap and pulled the visor down on my helmet. I thought it would only be a matter of time before the driver of our van would plough into the crowd. It was a decision I was glad I didn’t have to make, as there would inevitably be casualties and consequences for the officer.

      Three or four men at the rear of the van were trying to force the doors open with a crowbar. The look of determination in their eyes was alarming. Paul banged on the doors with his fist and this startled them. They retreated. The van carried on rocking and I was becoming increasingly concerned that it would tip over. I looked up at Paul. He was a hardy character but he was looking frightened, too.

      More and more of the crowd came and banged on the van. They were like vultures at a carcass, every one fighting for his bit of space.

      Eventually, a stalemate occurred. The crowd seemed to have reached the limit of how far they would go with the violence. We remained stationary. It was impossible for us to know whether assistance was on its way, or whether we’d have to get ourselves out of this unsavoury situation.

      ‘Right, drive on and get us out of here,’ said the sergeant to the driver. It was as if he had sensed my quandary.

      ‘Okay, Sarge. I was gonna do it anyway.’

      With this, he revved up the engine until it roared above the din of the crowd. The rioters at the front instinctively ran out of the way. Seeing the potential escape route, the driver accelerated into the gap. We were off and within seconds there was a welcome calm as we got far enough away to evade the bricks. I looked back at the hundred or so rioters. They were quite obviously furious about our escape and had now turned their anger onto a row of shops, smashing the windows with the bricks and looting the stock.

      ‘That СКАЧАТЬ