Ash Cameron - Confessions of an Undercover Cop

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.

My first injury of significance was eight months into my probation. By the time it happened, I’d dealt with plenty of abusive, drunk and violent prisoners and I suppose I’d been lulled into a sense of security. When tackling someone who doesn’t want to be arrested, or someone who wants to fight, you rely on your wits, your colleagues and your senses, one or all of which are prone to letting you down.

Female officers were armed with a little wooden stick, a truncheon, that was usually used to smash the windows of houses to which we needed to gain entry because the occupants were either avoiding us, or dead. We didn’t have CS spray, or utility belts with heavy equipment to weigh us down. Nor did we have body armour. All that came later. Women didn’t even wear trousers, mounted branch excepted.

It was a Friday night duty and I was posted with PC Jim McBean. I liked him. We got on well. He was a family man with four years’ service and eight years older than me. He knew everything, everyone, and was what was known as an ‘old sweat’.

It was nearing one o’clock in the morning, our refreshment time, and all the pubs had shut, or were closed having a landlord’s private party, common practice in the East End on a weekend night.

Jim drove slowly past a block of flats on a notorious estate and I glanced into the car park as we passed by. I saw a stationary vehicle facing towards us, blocking the car park entrance. The headlights flicked off as we drove by.

‘Can you go back, Jim? There’s a car there. I don’t know if it’s stalled, or something. Maybe it’s nothing,’ I said.

Jim stopped and reversed back a few yards, pulling up in front of the car park. It was dark with the shadows of the building blocking natural light. The security lamp that was supposed to be lit had been smashed. We got out of the panda car and walked across to the purple Porsche. I heard the engine of the car ticking, cooling down. The driver’s door creaked open and a tall dark-skinned man climbed from the driver’s seat.

Jim called for a PNC check on the vehicle to see if it was reported lost or stolen and to find out who the registered keeper was.

The guy backed away into the car park, towards a stairway.

‘Wait!’ I shouted, rushing to the driver’s door, which he’d left open. The ignition barrel was missing. The car had been hot-wired.

I ran to the stairwell and blocked the suspect from going into the building. He was broad and well over six foot and I felt tiny as he looked down at me. He did that sucking spittle in between his teeth thing.

‘It ain’t what you think,’ he said.

Jim stood behind him.

The guy turned, waving his arms up in the air, as if brushing us away even though we hadn’t touched him. ‘You only stopped me ’cos I’s black.’