by Haroun Khan
‘I know, just trust me.’
Happy that the situation was in control, the officer proceeded, ‘Ok, as I said, I have grounds to search you, based on the information I’ve told you. The fact is, a theft has occurred and the individuals involved were three males with your description.’
Shams butted in, ‘We’re here outside the estate just doing our own thing and you think your job is to intimidate us. Why do you guys never come into the estate, you just leave everyone to rot.’
‘At this moment we’re dealing with this. We can discuss any issues that you gentlemen have with the estate afterwards,’ said the policeman, in that exaggerated tone that was supposed to exude training and control.
‘You know, you guys just poke, poke, poke. Petty tings everyday, until it builds up and someone lashes out and then you claim the high ground. You guys are just trying to vex us up, waiting for the slap,’ said Shams.
On the ‘p’of ‘slap’ both officers’ gaze fastened on to Shams. Ishaq’s fingers coiled biting into the palm. ‘Shams, just leave it, you’re not helping.’
The other officer twisted his neck and started talking in the radio perched on his tactical vest. Something about IC4s. The men’s walkie-talkies made abrupt noises; electric static and a screeching fizz that crawled into Ishaq’s ears.
‘As I’ve explained, we’ve got grounds, and there’s an authority from our Superintendent that we have a power under Section 60 as there has been violence in this area. If you’re not involved you’ll be on your way.’ The man held Shams firmly by his wrist. ‘I’m PC 8921 Jenkins from Lavender Hill Station. You have been detained for the purpose of search under Section 60 of the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act.’
Another police car arrived, all blues and twos, parking at an angle. The siren and bleary flashing of lights brought attention from people in the chicken shop. The siren let out one final primal scream but the lights still went on undulating, gathering people at this now nocturnal hour.
One onlooker not impressed with the scene, box of chips in his hand, wiped ketchup from his lip and, in between considered ruminating chews, said, ‘Five-O, why you trying to aggravate, treating us like animals.’
The officer ignored the comment and gestured towards Shams. Shams pushed his arm away, and then pushed the policeman in the chest and stepped back. ‘I said don’t touch me.’
The officer gave his partner, and those newly arrived, a quick look. Their handcuffs came out and they pulled Shams down to the floor with force. One kept him pinned down, a second was at Shams’ side, and a third was on top of Shams’ struggling body. Shams strained, trying to push them off, with his body arched like a crawling caterpillar, keeping his arms tight underneath his torso and not releasing.
‘Relax, give us your arm.’
‘What the fuck for? What have I done?’
‘Just relax, give me your arm.’
The policeman nearest his head reached round under Shams’ neck and used a knuckle to put pressure on his mandibular angle. Shams let out a yelp, his body twitched, collapsing flat. One arm came free, and this was enough to get both out and cuff him with his arms pulled to the rear.
Hoisted up to a kneeling position, Shams was asked, ‘Are you going to be quiet?’
Shams looked downwards distressed, flaccid hair covering his eyes, refusing to answer. Taking this as assent, the police positioned the others in a line.
Ishaq took a look at his friend’s indignity. The police won’t listen. Shams doesn’t listen. There’s no point pretending in the possibility of control or reason. He looked on as an ambulance sped down the high street, lights blazing, but it didn’t stop. It was rushing on to some other Friday night scene in South London.
A blinking infinity of eyes cast out from the shopfront window, bulbous and cyclopean like charms used to ward off the evil eye. Cars slowed; Ishaq locked eyes with the drivers. Some nodded in acknowledgement or beeped their support while taking in the show. An officer started to pat them down. Ishaq felt disembodied hands examine his pockets. One floating on his head, another holding an arm and a third ruffling through his clothing and then touching him from behind.
Ishaq looked up to the stars for a firm point of reference. They always held the potential to navigate a way out, but all he could see impressed upon the firmament was a purpley-black bruise of throbbing industrial light. He tried to give Shams a reassuring look, pleaded with his eyes for him not to blow up again. Ishaq had been through this enough times to know the score. This was a rite of manhood. A form of ritual humiliation. In other societies they had bah mitzvahs and fraternity hazings, but those had some sort of implied consent. They came from within the tribe. This was London’s largest gang enforcing a rite against unwilling participants. An admonishment that they are of age, and a contingent threat. A process of enforced tribal scarification by outsiders, putting them in their place.
They did the same with Marwane and a now acquiescent Shams, who was back on his feet but still cuffed. One officer trawled one, and then a second, mobile from Shams’ puffer jacket.
‘Why have you got two phones?’
Shams shook his head as if trying to regain some of his senses. ‘Everyone carries two phones. One for family and one for work.’
Marwane and Ishaq exchanged glances, looking to each other for confirmation that Shams had said he was unemployed.
Handling the battered Nokia candybar, a policeman asked, ‘And the family in this picture, who are they?’
‘Uhhh…they’re relatives of mine…’
The policeman nodded and passed the phone to another, who dipped his head inside a patrol car, chatting away and typing on some machine. Ishaq had caught sight of the photo. It was a low-res pic of a couple with two kids. Even with the low granularity the wife and child definitely had blonde hair; the whole family was white and Ishaq was pretty sure that the father was wearing an England football top. He spat out a whisper in the direction of Shams, ‘You dozy twat.’ The main officer asked if Ishaq had something to say, but Ishaq shook his head and responded with, ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
The guy with the chips had finished munching. Dropping his empty box on the pavement, he wiped his greasy hands on a brick wall and gave a final self-satisfied swipe on his cargo pants. He took out his phone and started to film. ‘Look here…proper police harassment, I’ve got it all on video. YouTubing this, you know. Police brutality, aye.’
One of the silent policemen was young. Not far from their age. Healthy and rosy cheeked, he looked nervous. ‘Stop filming. You’re not allowed to film us.’
‘Boss, I know my rights under the law so mind your own business. I’m peacefully standing here minding my own, just filming you guys harassing these lot. Make sure Five-O don’t do wrong, bruv. So what’s your names for my records?’
‘You don’t need to know anything else.’
With his phone the man stepped nearer and filmed the badges on their shoulders. ‘Officer 4901. Officer 4679, and ‘I’m a man not a number, ‘8921’’, aye, got you. Better mind your p’s and q’s.’ Brandishing the smartphone with a perilous sweep near their faces, both officers turned their back on him.
The officer from the car returned, covered his mouth with a hand and whispered to the guy in charge, who walked back up to Shams.
‘We’ve done our checks on the IMEI code and they’ve returned that the phone was reported as stolen on November 17th. As this was found in your possession you are now being arrested for handling stolen goods.’
Ishaq turned his neck to Shams. Shams refused to look back. They heard another wail and all swung to see another police car park up. He spied the yellow dot stickers at the back that indicated it as an armed response vehicle. Ishaq looked on, his mind refusing the image, as yet another policeman came towards them. This time with a Glock 17 in a holster on his leg, a yellow taser held on a utility belt, and wearing ballistic Kevlar body armour. He was also carrying a Heckler and Koch assault rifle that was balanced a
cross his arm, with the tip facing down, his trigger finger on the outside.
Ishaq stared at the sleek weapons, their attractive and inviting burnish. If a copper ever went full automatic, and had the ammo, he could shoot eight or nine hundred rounds a minute, shredding the high street. Ishaq imagined what it would be like to have a bullet rip through you. He caught the officer in charge’s look of surprise, and his signalling the new man to go away. A member of the now enlarged crowd shouted, ‘Budget Robocop coming. OCP. Gunshot. Charles De Menezes.’
‘Listen,’ Ishaq said to the main officer, ‘this is getting stupid. Why the gun?’
‘It’s just part of their uniform, you’ve go nothing to worry about.’
Another discarnate voice cried, ‘Nothing to worry about? That’s what that Brazilian electrician probably thought before he got pinned down and shot seven times in the head. Up the road from here, wasn’t that De Menezes?’
Ignoring the comment, Ishaq heard the officer say to his younger colleague, ‘Why the hell are they here. Tell them to get lost,’ and then talk into his radio, ‘Control, cancel any further units. Situation is under control. Sufficient on scene.’
The man who was videoing bobbed up and down in excitement, weaving a flight path around the spectacle. ‘More of them, bringing bare mens down. Proper army down here, for what?’
‘Move out of the way, do all the filming you want, we’re dealing with the situation.’
‘No, this is police oppression, you get me?’
‘You’re not helping, just move back.’
‘Ok, just one quick question, just for community chat; where you from? Round here?’
The young officer paused then said, ‘I’m originally from Devon.’
The man started laughing and swapped resigned looks with the held boys. ‘No wonder. You country folk couldn’t tell the difference between a Mongolian and a Masai warrior.’
Whooping emanated from the crowd as the older officer shook his head at the younger. Ishaq scanned the mass of people and passers-by, some of whom rubbernecked. Elongating and twisting their necks in grotesque contortions, many chewing away like giraffes. He hoped that a family friend or acquaintance would not pass-on this whole embarrassing scene. He didn’t fear the shame or hit, on reputation, and the ensuing gossip. He feared his family’s concern.
Ishaq thought about what the right response should be. He could keep quiet, let the process wash over and take its toll, its pound of flesh. But was being quietly compliant just a form of defeat. Disappearing into an insensate fugue and allowing these people to go on, with impunity, does them no good too. Sometimes, you did need to challenge. Ishaq just wasn’t sure when and at what time.
The head policeman had been standing there trying to ignore the circus around him. Calmly, Ishaq said to him, ‘Do you really think that this helps anyone?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Causing this fuss over nothing. Look around, how many of these people here think you’re doing a good job?’
‘Your friend has a stolen item.’
‘A crappy phone that you can pick up for a couple of quid from anywhere.’
‘Just trying to do the best to help the community. Without us it would be bedlam. We speak to schools and to community elders all the time’
All three boys started laughing.
‘Community elders?’ Marwane interjected, ‘Breh, you’re having a laugh aren’t ya? What do you think we do, sit around in a circle passing each other the peace pipe? Every time someone like you opens their mouth, it shows that you don’t know nuthin’. Elders…It’s you who’ve been smoking something.’
Marwane looked away from the officer and spat on the floor by the officer’s feet. At that last action the policeman retorted angrily, ‘Well, that’s the price to pay when saving you from being blown up on the tube.’
Marwane’s nostrils flared. ‘Maybe we get saved from the bomb only to be shot by one of you lot. Great life that is. Missing explosions from nutters or avoiding dumdums from dumb dumbs in the Great Met Police. Like Forest Gate back in the day, where you mashed up a family’s house on made-up shit. What happened there?’
‘Don’t be silly. No one is getting shot here.’ The officer in command looked at Ishaq for a calming influence.
Ishaq pursed his lips and grimaced, ‘Yea, when you lot do it it’s a “mistake”. When we do anything it’s a crime.’
Marwane started laughing, the fear of getting shot accidentally. And it was always the dark guy. Seemed to happen everywhere. Always another ‘mistake’.
Marwane added, ‘Or that fake ricin plot. Fake weapons of mass destruction. Fake crimes. Fake, fake, fake. A long time, fake. Are you guys even policemen?’
One officer said, ‘Nothing to do with us, son. We’re outside a chicken shop in South London.’
The man videoing replied, ‘Yo, leave it out, man speaks truth.’
The officer shook his head, ignoring them as he went through some documentation with his colleagues. Not happy, Ishaq shouted after him, ‘As for your justice, some guys got just three years for firebombing a mosque. People got a decade in the Bradford riots for throwing pebbles, after people like you wanted the NF to walk all over them.’
Ishaq surveyed the scene. Every policeman was ignoring them. All of them white. The man filming with the mobile moved around the police like a court jester, dangling his phone in front of them like he was tormenting a baby with candy. Visibly shaken by the camera in his face, the young policeman’s rose-cheeked face turned even redder as he looked the would-be auteur up and down.
‘Take out your hand from your pocket.’
‘I ain’t got nothing. Just my wallet.’
‘I said. Let. Me. See. Your. Hands.’ Without giving the man time to respond, he continued, ‘I believe you may be harbouring a weapon. I’m searching you under Section 60. Put your hands out.’
‘No, I’m doing jack. Fuck off.’
Before the others could stop him the officer grabbed the man. Begrudgingly, two others helped grapple him down.
‘See this?’ the man yelled, now prostrate, amongst bones and greased wrappings, his limbs splayed like a collapsed marionette.
The young officer said to the prone individual, ‘I am arresting you under a Section 5 public order offence’
The older officer rubbed his eyes with the beaten pinch of one wrinkled hand as a police van arrived. Ishaq watched on as Shams was led to one car, and the newly arrested interloper was led to another as the gathered crowd let out whoops.
‘We’ve found nothing on you two. I’ll just give you a copy of this form. It outlines the reasons why you were stopped. I need just a few details. What are your names and addresses?’
Ishaq replied, ‘You really nicked my mate for a crappy phone? I’m tellin’ you nuthin.
You’ve already searched me.’
‘I just need it for the form, and you’ll get a copy…’
‘I don’t want a copy. You can shove it. I’m not like my mate. I may have been quiet but that’s because I know my rights.’
The officer puffed; he looked fed up. ‘Look lads just give me your details and you’ll be on the way.’ Getting nothing from Ishaq, he looked to Marwane. ‘How about you?’
Marwane shrugged his shoulders.
‘One more chance, give me your details.’
Someone from the crowd called out, ‘Take them all in, why don’t you take us all in, pigs?’ The crowd started chanting, ‘Ooh’, ‘Ooh’, ‘Ooh’, gesticulating at the police, trying to capture a reaction.
Buoyed by the pack, Ishaq persisted, ‘No. You know you can’t do anything now. This is a joke. You’re a joke.’
Taking off his cap and wiping his brow, the policeman’s forehead showed deeply raked lines. The situation out of control, he just wanted a quick resolution to keep the peace.
‘Alright, Steve Biko, I’ll take that as threatening a police officer. Take them both in. Section 5, abusive and insulting language i
n a public place.’ He nodded at the young officer.
The young officer, beading droplets, his face dissolving in acid, looked at the two and, to everyone’s bewilderment, said, ‘Have you got anything in your shoes? Take them off.’
Ishaq laughed. From an early age local support groups had given out leaflets on procedures concerning being stopped by the police, or if your house was raided.
‘If you want me to take my shoes off you need to do it back at the station, or in a private place. That’s the law. I’m not doing that in front of all these people here. Are you just trying to be humiliating?’
‘Under Section 44, I can ask you to take your shoes off here.’
‘Mate, that’s to do with terrorism. You’ve stopped us under Section 60, then Section 5. This isn’t pick and mix. The street isn’t your sweet shop. Seriously. Read a book.’
One officer tapped the youngster on the shoulder and took him away to have a word, while another dealt with Ishaq and Marwane.
Marwane shouted after him, ‘You’re a proper muppet. Let you out of the work experience scheme early, hey? Didn’t swot up on your City and Guilds course.’
One at a time, to cheers and whoops, Marwane and Ishaq were led into the waiting van. The policemen’s faces had melded into one, it was difficult to discriminate between them, but one said,
‘Look straight ahead. No looking at each other.’
10.
He hated their looks, like shit on a shoe. Something repulsive to be wiped away quickly, processed out of sight. The policemen disgusted Shams. He fazed out as he was escorted into custody. While the Arresting Officer talked to the Duty Sergeant, he took a look at the waiting others. Mostly silent and sullen men, even younger than him, looking downwards, shuffling their trainers. Plasticised masks as faces, they looked like they had either stabbed someone or been told by their parents that they couldn’t watch TV.
One brooding juvie, in a black and gold Adidas tracksuit, looked up with raw baby blues. He caught Shams square with a defiance that dared for a challenge, right there in the station. Shams disregarded the dummied test and looked to the custody staff as they reeled off their rote questions. Their inflection worn, through weary repetition. Shams answered routinely and nearly pre-empting their queries. Are you injured? Have you ever harmed yourself? Are you seeing a doctor? Can you read and write English?