Peter James - Death Comes Knocking - Policing Roy Grace's Brighton

With the Palace fans safely gone, the time had come for the Brighton supporters to be marched up to a separate train and away. This is the thing about football policing at its worst; so much time is spent separating opposing fans only to deliberately bring them back together later on. That said, we have more control at the Amex stadium, not least because it sits in an island flanked by a railway line, a fast road and acres of farmers’ fields.

Once everyone had spilled out of their trains onto the tiny platforms at Falmer station, both sets of supporters were escorted on the short walk to the ground and shepherded into their respective enclosures, where the stewards took over. All trained to the highest level, the stewards were able to use their innate abilities to diffuse tensions, setting the fans clear expectations. Not far away, just in case, were pockets of police ready to rush in and help.

This was all so unlike our normal approach to the fans but we had to show we could deal with any threat they presented.

In the scheme of things, the game itself was reasonably uneventful in terms of crowd trouble. There were still venomous chants, threats and oaths to kill yelled between fans but the segregation arrangements were impossible to get around and any attempts to breach them would be swiftly foiled.

As full time approached, the score was one-one. For me, it could not have been better. Both teams had seen their side score, both would come away with a point, but there were no bragging rights to claim.

My mouth has often got me into trouble and as I heard the Silver and Bronze commanders issuing their orders for the post-match deployments, I couldn’t help basking in the ideal result.

‘One all,’ I gloated to anyone who would listen. ‘That’ll take the wind out of everyone’s sails. Ha, only a few minutes to go, I couldn’t have planned it better.’

‘Guv, Palace have just scored again. They are two-one up,’ announced a public order tactical advisor, smirking as he watched me deflate.

‘Shit.’

Hurriedly the same information was relayed to all officers. Those in the ground did not need telling. If they could not see the pitch, the crowd noise told them all they needed to know.

This was a game changer in every way, the worst possible outcome. For Crystal Palace to come to Brighton’s brand new stadium and nick a victory in the dying moments would inflame the home fans into a frenzy. They would be looking for swift and brutal revenge.

As the officers were reorganized to the pinch points around the stadium and in the city, salt was ground into Brighton’s wounds.

‘Palace have sealed it. They’ve got another. They are winning three-one now, guv,’ said the same advisor.

With just a minute or two to go, any hopes that Brighton would score twice and restore the status quo were dashed. We were going to have a battle, for sure.

I had already made the decision that we didn’t have enough staff to hold back the away supporters until the Brighton fans had cleared, and we had been let down in our request for a special train to take the visitors off straight after the game. That meant that both sets of fans would meet on the concourses that led to Falmer railway station.

During the construction of the stadium, the station was effectively rebuilt. Originally it was intended to cope with just the placid arrival and departure of students frequenting Sussex and Brighton Universities. Its new role, to accommodate up to 26,000 jubilant or angry football supporters, required a fundamental redesign. The designers did as well as they could but certain factors, such as the nature of the track and the proximity to the main A27 road, prevented it from becoming totally fit for purpose.

To mitigate this, a network of sturdy bridges and spacious footpaths guided fans to where they needed to be. Normally this was fine as the good-humoured banter and the sense of occasion the club and police promoted was well established by the end of the game, whatever the result.

Today was different. Gloating South Londoners and vengeful Brightonians were about to have their last chance to settle old scores. The short distance from stadium to station meant that we would be decanting rival fans from the pressure cooker of the ground to the cauldron of the platforms with no cooling-off time in between.

At the end of each game Darren, together with his British Transport Police colleagues, always adopted a position on one of the bridges. From here he had a fabulous vantage point to spot troublemakers, pick up the signs of crush and, crucially, be seen by the crowds.

As they made their noisy way to the trains, the Palace supporters had to walk over that bridge to get to the side of the track allocated to them while the Brighton supporters went under it. Behind these bridges is a footpath that leads to the Moulsecoomb council estate. Many locals use this path to reach their cars that they have illegally left in the surrounding streets.

As the bulge of Palace fans reached the bridge, Darren became aware of missiles being thrown from behind him. The cops on the ground were working miracles in controlling both sets of supporters, but no-one had noticed a hard-core group slip away down the footpath.

Darren spun round and saw around twenty of his ‘usual suspects’ hurling stones, broken bricks and bottles at the Palace supporters on the bridge. This sparked a ferocious reaction and the Palace crowd turned as one to face their foe.

As they did so, the Brighton fans below also turned and glared upwards. Darren quickly registered that some of the debris being thrown was going over the heads of the targets and landing on the home supporters below. They, in turn, assumed they were coming under attack from the opposition, not realizing that their comrades were over-throwing.

It was obvious to Darren, and to the four officers with him, that this called for urgent action. There was no time to summon reinforcements; there probably weren’t any free anyway.

He and the four others battled their way down the ramp through the thicket of angry supporters, and ran off the bridge towards the group hurling the rocks. There was not much five police officers could do but draw their batons, snarl, shout and run like hell towards the mob. This was all or nothing; if the crowd fought back Darren and his mates would be toast.

But their battle cry, their controlled aggression and the cowardice of the antagonists resulted in the group scattering like scared children into the darkness.

When they returned to the station, the train company and police had done their best to evacuate the crowds onto trains heading to Brighton city centre. We, of course, had a welcoming party there for them.

As the fans alighted at the main Brighton railway station, they were poured into yet another cauldron of fury. Thankfully, all the pubs had followed our advice and closed early, meaning that at least they could not further fuel the hatred, but this gave both sides just one focus.

We were prepared for one last confrontation, and we were not to be disappointed. As the trains spilled the fans onto the platforms, the majority had to dash to make their connections but for some the presence of their adversaries proved too tempting.

Despite the proximity of electrified rails and hundreds of tons of rolling stock, the rivals clashed once more. It was only kicking, punching and spitting, but these people, who tomorrow would be back behind their desks — we once famously ejected a City of London hedge fund manager from the Amex for disorderly conduct — became mindless morons again. We quickly crushed this and with tremendous courage separated the fighting fans.

Soon the city returned to normality but I had to contend with the post mortems in the press and from my bosses over the following days. All were reasonably satisfied, despite the idiocy we had to control.