Читать книгу Confessions of an Undercover Cop - Ash Cameron - Страница 16

I’ve policed many football matches when the Premier League was known as the First Division, and policed various marches and demos, but none so scary as my first, the Wapping dispute in 1986.

Two of the important roles of a police officer are to protect life and protect property. Whenever there are large demonstrations, marches and protests, it’s everybody to the helm. Days off are cancelled, operational tasks rearranged, and whatever his or her regular posting, every officer needs to have a uniform ready for when duty calls.

The blistering, bubbling air was heady, heavy, as the capital prepared. In the bitter night, London waited. The festering pit of strikers, policemen and rubberneckers were gathering and sharp cracks of anticipation were interspersed with tingles of fear. The normally quiet streets of east London were like a boil about to burst.

Tired green battle-buses trawled through the streets as tetchy crowds swarmed on both sides of the metal barriers guarding News International. The cavalry arrived on glossy-coated beasts, many hands high and emblazoned with Metropolitan Police regalia. They incited fervour as they stomped and snorted excitement and fear, while their lord-like riders tried to still the rearing hooves. Fresh manure permeated the air, filling flared nostrils. Discordant horns and hooters joined the cacophony: sounds and smells of conflict.

Quiet chat grew to a low chant: ‘Pigs, Pigs, Pigs, Pigs, Pigs, Pigs.’

Keeping up the rear, dog-handlers struggled to keep anxious Alsatians in the back of their battered vans until the order for release came. It would, without doubt, come soon. Every animal instinctively sensed distress and unrest. Scurrying rats had long deserted their familiar streets and riotous disturbance chased foxes from urban undergrowth. Howls echoed in the night, as Man became Beast.

Like the last night of carnival, alive and electrifying, agitated tension filled the air as both sides prepared, the big wheel of misfortune turning. Hook-a-duck; hook-a-pig.

Politics had become lost, had nothing to do with the violence that converted convoluted words into an excuse for those wanting, waiting to fight. Genuine strikers, honest police officers and hearty politicians had no place in Wapping on 15 February 1986.

I was but a girl, naive and inexperienced, wearing a uniform tunic and skirt of heavy serge, with thin tights clinging to my legs because there were no trousers for women officers. Not then. My meagre arsenal comprised a handbag, a whistle and a little wooden truncheon, far smaller than those issued to the policemen. My new hard bowler hat had recently replaced the soft black and white peaked caps and I was thankful for that, at least.

Mike Bruce, my sergeant, must have seen my anxiety.

‘We’re the enemy, whether we like it or not. It’s nothing personal,’ he said, squeezing my hand. ‘It was like this up the mines. Just stay close to me, Ash.’

I 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 of kettling the crowd. A posse of schoolgirls guards a police van to stop vandals from ripping off doors and smashing windows.

Some months later a man is shot dead by police. There are lots of questions to answer. Lots of people angry. Rioters who have no idea why they are rioting take to the streets and loot and maim. Senseless violence. Many innocent people hurt.

I’m compelled to watch; I can’t turn it off and can’t turn it over. I’m there. On the streets. Fighting again.

I watch the scenes unfold from the comfort of home. I watch, remembering Wapping; the Poll Tax riots of 1990; the BNP march of 1993. And many others. Nothing is simple, nothing black and white. It might have been many years ago but nothing changes. There are always the police to blame.