Feeder

Over the past few days I've not been sleeping, and trying to work out why. As an actual, real life diagnosed insomniac with the meds to prove it, this isn't in itself unusual. It's something that happens regularly. However I've found that trying to work out what might be bothering me or keeping me awake can help.

Like exploring a cavity in a painful tooth, this isn't always pleasant and can throw up surprises you didn't want and weren't expecting.

One of the things I ended up thinking about was a call I took a few years ago.
It had been a long summer and even fans of the heat like me were looking forward to shorter days, cooler temperatures, and longer tempers. At forty minutes to going home time, a call came out for a child being assaulted by their parent.

This by itself is not an unusual call - most of them turn out to be not an assault at all, but in fact a parent (rightfully) chastising a misbehaving child.

Not this one though.
As we made our way towards the call, sighing inwardly at how we thought it would turn out, the control room called up with more info. A second call had come in from a member of public that the child was bleeding and being thrown about. Our controller paused, then said "Area, this looks like a bad one."

A detailed description of the adult was given, and sure enough as we TOA'd (Time Of Arrival) at the scene, a male grabbed a young toddler some distance away and started waddling away. Me and my partner, Dan, stepped out and broke out into a jog to catch up. As we did, the male started running - with a two year old in his hands, he wasn't going anywhere.

Other units were already running at this point, but I called up and updated on the male making off. As we ran across the car park, sweating already in the humid heat, two more marked Police vehicles arrived on blues and stopped, doors slamming as the officers moved to head off the male.
All this whilst being watched with blank expressions by groups of people - at least, the ones that weren't out and out eye fucking us.

The male ran into a block of flats, one of many on our sink estates with no security or key fob to get into the communal areas. As he ran in, he dumped the toddler on the ground - why not, he was only being slowed down carrying the child.

We didn't see this, not until we ran into the building. We were still some distance off, but not far enough to not notice the reaction of the local residents.
Seeing us running, and seeing now where we were going, groups of our local gang members and druggies were drifting into the building and melting away at speed.

As me and Dan hit the door and went into the building, we were in time to see the last four or five melt away into the shadows of the stairwell. I'd estimate perhaps twenty five people had headed away from us. They'd seen the Old Bill were here, and decided that perhaps their outstanding warrants/pocket full of drugs/illegal weapons/house full of counterfeit goods should remain theirs for the day and so had made their exit sharpish.

Every one of them, without hesitation - and every one of them passing the crumpled form of a beaten, bleeding, bloodied body of a two year old boy dumped unceremoniously on the stained concrete floor. Lit by the yellowed but still working strip lights, it was impossible to miss the child lying there. Left in the middle of the corridor, the residents had obviously stepped over him in their rush to keep their gear secure.

I knelt by the child, and sent Dan forwards: "Go. Go, get the fucker!" As more coppers filtered past, I checked for signs of life. Breathing, movement, and open eyes filled with tears and terror. And blood everywhere.

Yes, we caught the suspect. He tried to hide and on being approached by Police Officers used street furniture as missiles before being very definitely arrested.
I wasn't involved in any of that; instead I had abandoned any pretence of professionalism or duty and had insisted on riding in the ambulance, had insisted on cradling the child all the way there and holding on until the nurses at the A&E managed to convince me to let go.

The only thing that really stayed with me from this call was the response of the people on the estate. Not one of them stopped to check the child, and instead chose to cut and run. After suffering an assault from his stepfather, the child had had to endure a lesson in London Estate politics, and lay broken and bloodied on the floor, watching as adult after adult abandoned him and left him to his private pain.

I only post this now, as two of the other officers involved have left the job for good, and the other main participant doesn't even own an internets, let alone use one.

Incidentally, I worked out what was keeping me awake. I reckon it could well have been the beer I'd been drinking during the day after all...

Need a Drink

Many officers, on blogs, in books, and even face to face admit to being affected by their job in many different ways.
The side that is usually only touched upon as briefly as possible is the emotional side.



Although, as with all emergency services, we 'toughen up' and the vast majority of things become day to day, there will always be things that effect us.

Sometimes these are things that you wouldn't expect to have that effect; something or someone you've dealt with many times before. These take you aback as much as they upset you. I think personally that part of that is because as coppers we have to accept that there is a chink in our armour, that sometimes, something does get through.

Not too often luckily, else we'd never be ready to go to the next call.

One of the things guaranteed to be difficult for blue light responders is dealing with children; especially sexual abuse cases, or anything at all to do with babies.

In the incidents I've been in which have involved young children, every officer has done the job proud. Training kicks in obviously, as does experience. But humanity is the most important trait at times like that and it is one of the times it is important to use it rather than keep it out of the equation.

Seeing the parents is always the bit that gets me; I've never teared up yet at work, but I've definitely felt washed out completely afterwards.
At one incident, I was sent halfway through a night duty to what was described as a "six month old baby not breathing, LAS on route."

Not a nice thing to happen, and not a nice thing to hear over the airwaves.

I arrived on scene to be greated by a hysterical couple, clutching a baby that was turning purple as I watched.
Suffice to say that whatever you think you know about CPR, doing it on a baby of that age takes a lot more concentration than on an adult.

Once again, thank you thank you thank you to the LAS for arriving promptly, and actually taking over.

The baby girl was pronounced dead after nearly an hour of an entire resus department at A&E working on her, and I stupidly volunteered to tell the parents - they knew anyway, but it needed to be said.
They reacted as any loving parents would.

I walked away to give them a few minutes, and to get some air myself. To be honest, this is when I started feeling it, and frankly what I wanted was a bed and a few shots of whisky - not necessarily in that order.

What I actually had to do though, was pick up the baby and take her to an observation room, tear the parents away for a while and then inspect the body for signs of abuse.
Praying all the time that I wouldn't find any, and luckily my prayers were answered on this occasion.
During all of this, recording my actions in an IRB (Incident Report Book), and then taking details from the parents, getting an initial account of what happened from both, whilst trying to console them.

I'd about reached breaking point myself, but everytime the I felt like taking a break I looked at the parents and reminded myself that they couldn't "take five."
A subtle knock on the door interrupted the quiet sobbing, and a nurse poked her head around the door. "Sorry to intrude, but your son, Jason, he's just turned up"
Cue panicked looks from the parents. The Mum spoke; "He's only fifteen - how am I going to tell him?"
After a long and uncomfortable silence, I sighed soundlessly to myself. There wasn't much else I could say: "Do you want me to tell him? I don't mind."
Not pleasant.

In the wonderful way of the job of course, after I had handed the parents over to the specialists after a couple of hours, it was back to the nick for a statement and then back on the streets again.
To be fair, if I'd asked I probably would have been allowed home. But what would be the point? I wouldn't be sleeping anyway, so being out on patrol made more sense than sitting by myself in a darkened flat trying to keep quiet.

I don't mind admitting that the nightmares took a little while to stop afterwards though. Seeing a father cradle his baby daughter in his arms for the last time is not something that is easily imagined, and even harder to forget.

School Playtime

There was I, navigating the small rat-runs of an estate on our patch and trying not to crash the police car. My Sergeant had given me strict instructions: “try not to crash the police car.” I was doing my best, as I hate it when I get the disappointed look from him.

I heaved the car around a corner and saw a male that I recognised. My colleague also recognised him, that much was obvious, as he said “it’s that bugger again!” and immediately leapt out of the car.

It’s not uncommon for people to get out of the car when I’m driving, but I felt it safe to assume that there was actually a reason for my colleague’s hasty departure rather than sheer blind terror.

There was. The radio crackled into life: “BX, chasing suspects on foot, he’s wanted for a GBH that occurred last week…” I floored the accelerator and counted to five as the knackered out turbo vainly fought against the forces of gravity to try and haul the car forward (note to self, when accelerating from 5MPH in a hurry, change down from third gear).

I passed the miscreant and my colleague, pulled up and jumped out to join the chase. The suspect ran down an alley and we followed, my colleague keeping up a commentary. “Control, he’s going down Pickney Avenue, towards… oh no, it’s Sampson Community School.” Having learnt my lesson in the last foot chase about trying to sigh and run at the same time, I controlled my urge, but in my head I let out a long exasperated sigh.

Most coppers identify with teachers, as the poor buggers deal with our “clients” all day every day, whereas we get days seeing new suspects, hence why Mr Chalk is on my sidebar. However, every patch has an “anti” school – anti police, anti cars, anti parents, anti social services, anti rules… Not usually down to the teachers, but there is often an angry headteacher tucked away somewhere living her life vicariously through her young charges. As in this case. We had recently been told to ask permission from the head before going into the school, as our senior officers had received an ear bashing from her when police officers had taken a few moments of rest by chatting to the kids in the playground (and no doubt causing chaos whilst doing it).

I knew we were going to go into the school. And I was pretty sure the suspect wouldn’t stop so we could ask the headteacher’s permission. The suspect leapt the gates at the side of the school and my colleague balked at the challenge and ran to the front of the school. I like to destroy my uniform trousers every now and then as it means I can actually get a new pair, so I jumped/clambered after him. The suspect ran into the school grounds, and I took over the breathless commentary: “jumped the wall…running towards Tweedy Street Entrance…Male IC1…” I could hear two tones on the radio, mirrored in sound by two tones on the nearby streets, of units getting closer. My colleague headed off the suspect and the suspect turned directly into the school entrance.

Uh oh.

I squeezed what little stamina I had left and put everything into getting hold of him. Whilst chasing outside I had felt fairly confident, I knew the estate very well and there were units closing on us who would be there in minutes. Inside the school, with a violent suspect, and children… not a situation I wanted to be in.

The suspect turned into what turned out to be a classroom, followed closely by two slightly desperate coppers. He stopped, nowhere to go, my colleague had his asp out, “Stay there, don’t move, DON’T MOVE!” someone shouted. I realised it was me and I was holding down my transmit button on the radio still, my hand shaking.

That was because my hand had assessed the situation quicker than my brain could – I suddenly noticed a queue of young primary school children to my left lined up against the wall, either ending or starting a lesson. The suspect started to move, I was between him and the children, I didn’t know which one of us he was going for but wasn’t going to wait to find out. I pushed him back, radio still in my hand. He grabbed my wrist, tried to hit me and I fell on top of him.

What happened next is still slightly hazy. I continued barking (ignored) commands at the suspect, combined with shouting at the teacher to “get everyone out of here NOW!” My colleague was joining in, the suspect wasn’t in the mood to stop fighting.

You know the metal framed plastic chairs we all dread sitting on? You know the little dinky ones in primary schools? One of my lasting memories of that incident was seeing these chairs fly about the room as we scrabbled to keep the guy still and get him cuffed.

My other lasting memory? Thinking “this is a career killer” whilst still fighting.

Two other officers ran in, God alone knows how they found us, we cuffed the suspect and held him on the floor and tried to get our breath back. As we lay there, gasping for breath, in the middle of the chaos we had created in the classroom, the heroic head teacher entered. “I have an agreement with your borough commander you know, you are supposed to ask my permission before entering school grounds. I will be mentioning this.”

I know it was wrong. I really tried not to. But, lying on the floor, in the midst of upturned mini tables and chairs, with a line of engrossed children watching open mouthed, a suspect cuffed and wriggling and a colleague wiping blood from his nose, I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing directly at the head teacher - I actually had tears streaming down my face.

I was still giggling as the van pulled up and we loaded the suspect in. And when the lovely young teacher apologised for the head’s behaviour: “She’s been going through menopause for the last decade I think.”

And I even started again when the Inspector pulled me in to say that the head had complained about our conduct. My poor guvnor. I was trying to hold it in and snorting then bursting out laughing every few seconds. “Have you finished yet Area?”
“Yes sir.” (no)
“Are you sure?”
“Yes sir” (no)
“Ok then… she says here that you made a complete mess of the seating arrangement… Oh, pull yourself together for God’s sake Area…”
“Sorry sir” (I’m not)
“At least pretend to care about this”
“Snort, snort, giggle, sorry guv, giggle giggle”
“Oh bugger off Area, I don’t want to see an overtime state from this one." Long pause, whilst I try to keep a straight face and fail. “Thanks sir…snort…”

In fact, and I know this is sad, but I keep giggling as I'm writing this now.

Sorry.

(I'm not.)