Graham Bartlett - Force of Hate

Location: Corner of Bedford Place and Sillwood Street

Transcript: Her assertive driving and the incessant sirens forced cars onto pavements and into the side roads as Wendy pushed her way up the hill to the mosque. As they approached, the ferocity of the situation hit them. A sea of bodies blocked the road, clashing and charging at each other. Thrown punches, fleeing men, bins and rocks careering through the air snuffed out any thoughts of talking their way out of this one. Wendy stopped the car as close as she could, resigned to the fact it would probably end up trashed. Not for the first time. ‘Ready?’ she said as she drew her baton. ‘You bet. Stay in sight,’ said Dan as he did likewise and, as one, they threw open their car doors and racked open their truncheons. ‘Let’s go,’ shouted Wendy as both sprinted towards the warring masses, yelling ‘police’ for what that was worth. In the mêlée, Wendy broadly made out two groups. One consisted of white, fat, red-faced men, most with armfuls of tattoos and hate in their eyes. The other were darker-skinned, fitter men wearing traditional thobes and kofis. She waded in, flailing her baton at any arm holding a weapon, fending off punches and kicks as she pushed through. She’d spun her head to see where Dan was, as much for his safety as hers, when she was jolted forward against a stationary car. Through the passenger window she could see a young woman, terror in her eyes, trying to placate two hysterical toddlers in the back. Wendy shouted, above the din, ‘It’ll be OK,’ but knew the mum couldn’t hear – and even if she could, she’d know the promise was empty. Suddenly she caught a glimpse of Dan, his hand gripped round a white man’s throat, propelling him back towards a shopfront opposite the mosque. He was about three metres away but might as well have been thirty, such was the impenetrable crowd between them. Like a tidal swell, the crowd bulged in Dan’s direction lending Wendy a metre or two of space. At first she thought it was the start of a dispersal. Then, to her horror she saw it for what it was. Half a dozen white men had spotted Dan’s arrest attempt and were charging to their friend’s aid. ‘Dan! Behind you!’ she said, but her cries were swamped by the taunts and roar of the crowd. She strained to keep sight of her crew-mate and grabbed two men twice her size, flinging them out of her path, tears blurring her vision. In seconds her worst fears were realised and she jabbed the red emergency button on her radio. ‘Charlie Romeo Zero One, officer down, multiple stab wounds. I need ambulance and back-up urgently. He’s bleeding out.’