Confessions of an Undercover Cop. Ash Cameron

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СКАЧАТЬ knew all about the mines. I’d lived in a town bordered by a dozen working pits. In 1984 I’d given 10 per cent of my factory wage to the families of the strikers because that’s what those who were fortunate enough to be working did. The poverty of the proud pitmen, the despair of their conscientious wives, their children’s hungry faces – they flashed back as the baying crowd chanted venom into my face.

       ‘Pigs, Pigs, Pigs, Pigs, Pigs, Pigs.’

      ‘But I’m not their enemy,’ I whispered, fear catching at the back of my throat.

      A duty, a job. To serve Queen and Country. I naively never expected to become an object of ridicule, to face such hatred. I only wanted to help people.

      ‘Oink, oink, oink. Pigs, pigs, pigs.’

      Someone shouted, ‘Spit-roast porky-pig!’ and the baying crowd jeered and hollered, thumping the air with lascivious encouragement. A kazoo sounded and a mounted officer danced his skittering horse to the back of the police barricade.

      I looked around and saw two other policewomen. That made three of us in a crowd of 400 or more officers. Perhaps there were more hidden in the melee but I couldn’t see them.

      Wide-eyed and bewildered, I asked my sergeant, ‘Why do they hate us so much?’

      ‘We represent authority. We’re the link between them and the powers in charge.’

      ‘I know that. I’m not without sympathy. I understand. But it’s not our fault.’

      ‘Don’t matter; they can’t get at Maggie Thatcher so we’re the next best thing. We’re as bad as she is … to them. Maggie’s bootboys. Whether we personally support her or not.’

      The atmosphere worsened as the crowds swelled, people pressing against steel barriers that were weakening at the surge of protestors and police officers.

       ‘Pigs, pigs, pigs, pigs, pigs, pigs.’

      ‘Keep your head down when the shit starts flying. Link arms and stay linked,’ Sergeant Bruce shouted above the horde.

      The inspector approached, tall and stern, yellow flak jacket standing out against the sea of bodies.

      ‘They’re out for it tonight, copper’s blood. Remember Tottenham. Look out … and good luck.’ He moved on, passing the unwelcome news along the line. Tottenham. It was only four months earlier that PC Keith Blakelock had been killed. He was at the forefront of every officer’s mind. Barriers rattled, straining at the bit. A firecracker split the air. Cheering resounded in the inky night. Another battle-bus arrived, spilling open another packet of policemen tooled-up in riot gear. A heave forward pressed Sargeant Bruce and I against the metal barriers like we were cattle waiting to be herded into a truck. I was very afraid of being trampled.

      A hand flew out, grabbing my hat. Someone pulled me backwards as the Velcro straps beneath my chin ripped open like weak packing tape. I clamped my hand down onto my hat and managed to keep on the only protective cover I had. Mike flung me behind him.

      A sparkle of colour lit the night, showering reds and greens in shooting umbrellas of light that extinguished before they could settle on the restless mob. Cordite hung in the air as the fireworks intensified. Loud pops fired like showground rifles. Bangers whizzed and wailed, falling out of the sky and smattering into the crowd. Rockets speared the atmosphere like a dare. The taste of hatred, thick like treacle, clung to the insides of my mouth. Sour. Bitter. There was nothing sweet about this initiation.

      Another yellow-coated inspector wound his way into our crowd, jostled among sweating police officers chomping and stamping, every creature farting and belching fear.

      ‘Gold Command has ordered reinforcements. Rent-a-mob are expected to turn up. Most of the bloody force is out here tonight. Essex and Kent are on standby.

      ‘Get her to the back of the crowd, Mike, it’s no place for a woman.’ He thumbed in my direction and moved on, spreading ill cheer.

      ‘OOO, OOO, OOO, oggie, oggie, oggie.’

       ‘Pigs, pigs, pigs.’

       ‘Lesbo, lesbo, lesbo.’

      Horns, hooters and whistles blew as fireworks continued to shoot. Nails, stones and broken bricks began to fly through the night; a maelstrom of powerful tools mingling with offensive diatribes. Police officers pushed from the rear as the shields, horses and dogs made their way to the front.

      ‘Okay, Ash, when the shields get here, we’ll move back,’ Mike shouted.

      ‘Right, sarge.’ I had no intention of moving without him.

       ‘Pigs, pigs, pigs, pigs, pigs, pigs.’

      ‘I’m forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air …’ struck up a chord from the back of the mob.

       ‘OOO, OOO, OOO, oggie, oggie, oggie.’

      Heat emanated from both sides of the fence. Adrenalin flowed as sardine-packed policemen and strikers filled the streets. A police horse forged a way to the front of the crowd and I felt the animal’s terror. I watched beads of fear roll down the smooth chestnut body of the beast, spittle flying from its mouth as his rider reined him in. The overpowering smell of leather, manure and hatred clung to me.

       ‘OOO, OOO, OOO.’

      The opposing team swelled by a few hundred more and the West Ham signature tune built to a crescendo.

      The first petrol bomb fell wide and flames rendered the air orange with licks of fire.

      ‘OOO, OOO, OOO, oggie, oggie, oggie.’

      ‘Heads down!’ a voice behind me ordered.

      Our team crouched on command as another milk-bottle bomb flew our way. It landed at the forelegs of the stallion. He reared up, grand and foreboding, huge hooves turning as he spun. The metal arch of the horseshoe glinted as the rider was flung to the side, his foot caught in the saddle.

      I skidded on fresh manure and rolled into the officer to my right as a hoof skimmed my left shoulder. The beast’s other leg smashed down beside Mike. The poor horse fell onto his forelegs. I saw that the mounted officer had been pulled free from the horse by some officers and was being passed along the crowd like a hot potato, out of reach of the grabbing hands on the other side of the fence. Too hot to handle, he was jostled up into the air and thrown again and again into the back of our crowd.

      The battle raged as Mike and I were carried out among the wounded, statistics from the strike. Eight officers were seriously injured, many more hurt. Fifty-eight arrests. Genuine protestors and police officers feeling the pain. Everyone scarred.

      Twenty-five years later and 300 miles away, I watch on my television as a fire extinguisher is dropped from a great height onto waiting officers dressed in yellow jackets and black trousers, busy bees scattered across the foyer of a government building. A youth climbs a flagpole and defaces the Union Jack. Hundreds of students gather and protest against the proposed rise in university fees.

      People complain about police tactics СКАЧАТЬ