I can picture my morning commute if I was in uniform. Random strangers would complain to me about schoolkids putting their feet on the seats, or playing music too loudly. I’d hear how their neighbour doesn’t recycle properly or has a dog that keeps crapping in their front garden. If trouble did break out, how would I call for back-up without a radio? And if I made an arrest, where would I take the offender? Would I get overtime? Would anyone thank me?
I catch a Northern Line train to Borough, which is six stops, and walk two minutes to Southwark police station, stopping to buy coffee at the Starbucks across the road. The skinny barista is called Paolo and he keeps up a constant patter as he presses, steams, froths and pours. He offers the ladies ‘extra cream’， or a ‘sticky bun’， making it sound like a sexual proposition. His brother works the sandwich press and occasionally adds to the banter.
While I wait for my order, I think about my father and his sixtieth birthday party. I haven’t spoken to him in six years, and haven’t been in the same room with him for nine. I can remember that last meeting. Jamie Pike, the coolest boy I knew, was fumbling in my knickers in our front room. One moment he had his hand down my pants, acting like he’d lost a pound coin, and the next he was flying backwards and slamming into an antique sideboard, where a William and Kate wedding plate toppled from a stand and shattered on the floor next to him.
My father marched him out of the house and spoke so sternly to Jamie that he never so much as looked at me again. A few years ago, I bumped into him at a cinema in Leicester Square and he literally ran away. He might still be running, or hiding under his bed, or checking his doors are locked. My father has that sort of reputation. He is steeped in myths and stories, many of them violent, hopefully embellished, but all of them spoken in whispers in dark corners because nobody wants to discover if they’re true.
Jamie Pike isn’t the reason that I’m estranged from my father. My parents’ divorce set us on separate paths. I chose to live with my mother; and Daddy chose not to care, or care enough to fight for me. Yes, he sends me birthday presents and Christmas gifts and makes overtures, but I expect more from someone who broke my heart. I want him to grovel. I want him to suffer.
When I applied to join the Metropolitan Police, I had to list my connections with known criminals. I named my father and three uncles. I watched the recruiting inspector read my application and felt as though the oxygen was being sucked from the room. He laughed, thinking it was some sort of joke. He looked past me, searching for a hidden camera, or whoever had put me up to this. When he realised I was serious, his mood changed and I went from being an applicant with a strong CV and a first-class degree, to a fox asking permission to move into the henhouse and set up a barbecue chicken joint.
His face changed colour. ‘Money-laundering. Extortion. Racketeering. Theft. Your family is a pox on this city. Are you seriously suggesting I allow you to join the police service?’
‘I cannot be held responsible for the past actions of my family members,’ I said, quoting the regulations.
‘Don’t lecture me, lassie,’ said the inspector.
‘I’d prefer not to be called “lassie”， sir.’
‘What?’
‘That’s the name for a dog or a young girl.’
My mouth, running off again.
My application was rejected. I applied again. Another rebuff. I threatened legal action. It took me four attempts to gain a place at Hendon, where the instructors were harder on me than any of the other recruits, determined to have me fail, or drop out. My classmates couldn’t understand why I was singled out for such brutal treatment. I didn’t tell any of them about my father. McCarthy is a common enough surname. There are twenty-eight thousand of us in England and almost the same number in Ireland. A person can hide in a crowd that big. A person might even disappear, if only her father would let her.
At Southwark police station, I get changed into my full kit: stab vest, belt, shoulder radio, body camera, collapsible baton, CS spray and two sets of handcuffs. My hair-bun fits neatly beneath my bowler hat, so that the brim doesn’t tilt down and restrict my field of vision. I love this uniform. It makes me feel respected. It makes me feel needed.
Although only five foot five, I’m not frightened of confrontation. I teach karate two evenings a week at the Chestnut Grove Academy in Wandsworth, and occasionally on weekends. I can block a punch and take a fall; but more importantly, I can read a situation and stay cool under pressure. I don’t practise karate because I’m mistrustful of people or frightened of the world. I like the discipline and improved fitness and how it speeds up my reaction times.
Twenty officers gather in the patrol room for the briefing. Our section sergeant, Harry Connelly, has a quasi-military bearing and weight around his middle that puts pressure on his buttons. Certain jobs need to be followed up from the night shift. Crime scenes guarded. Prisoners escorted to court. A suicide watch at a hospital. Outstanding warrants to be served.
‘We had a confirmed sighting overnight of Terrence John Fryer, a violent escaper, wanted for drug use, supply and manufacture. He tried to break into his girlfriend’s house in Balham. You have his mugshot. He’s dangerous. Call for back-up if you see him.’
Paperwork and follow-up calls are the bane of a copper’s life. Every LOB （load of bollocks） from an MOP （member of the public） generates a report and a response. Forms in triplicate. Statements. Updates. Liaising with other services.
‘Morning, partner,’ says PC Anisha Kohli, falling into step beside me.
Kohli gets called ‘Nish’ and is the station heartthrob. Tall and lean with milk-chocolate skin, he was born in East Ham and has never been to India, but he still gets peppered with questions about arranged marriages, the caste system and cricket.
‘Why do people treat me like I’m fresh off the boat?’ he once asked.
‘It’s because you look like a Bollywood star.’
‘But I can’t sing or dance or act.’
‘Yeah, but you got the looks, baby.’
We sign out a patrol car, which doesn’t smell of piss or vomit. I’m grateful for that. Nish gets behind the wheel and I radio the control room. Our first job is a reported burglary in Brixton and a series of cars that were vandalised near Peckham station. Nish and I work well together. Instinctively, we choose who should take the lead in asking questions. Some of the more experienced officers aren’t sure how to treat female PCs, but things are getting better. One in four officers are now women, and the ratio is even higher in management.
The morning is a mixed bag of accidents, burglaries, a bag-snatch on a Vespa and a dementia patient missing from a nursing home. Nobody on patrol ever says, ‘it’s quiet’ because that’s considered bad luck, like an actor naming that ‘Scottish play’。
After three years, I can plot my way around South London based on the crime scenes that I’ve attended. A hit-and-run on this corner. A jumper from that building. Cars set alight on that vacant block. Some locales are more famous or infamous than others; and some crimes are so shocking that the victims’ names are seared into the history of a city: Damilola Taylor. Stephen Lawrence. Rachel Nickell. Jean Charles de Menezes. Most people look at London and see landmarks. I see the maimed, broken and the addicted, the eyewitnesses, the innocent bystanders and the bereaved.