The flip of a copper

One was very nice.  He came quickly to my burgled flat and took the situation in at a glance.  He saw the forced window, the mess, the absence of the stolen goods, the hopelessness of ever getting any of it back.  He saw me, rather pained at this irruption into my privacy.  His face was a picture of subtle sympathy - nothing over the top, but simply there. He said the right things.  He was everybody's perfect uncle: wise, helpful, his dark blue uniform exuding safety and calm.  He did everything but make me a cup of tea.

The other one was a nasty piece of work. He told me to get out of the car. He marched me across the gravel and made me sit in his.  He got out his pad, showed me the timing equipment, boasted of his practised skills in measurement, and almost dared me to question its accuracy.  He seemed to speak in three word sentences and neither invited nor responded to my replies except by writing things down.   His face was as hard as the peak on his cap.  His dark uniform looked black, his massive hand white as it clenched the scratching biro. I half-expected handcuffs.

So after the crash I was completely confused.  One moment the car was moving, the next it was stationary.  My neck hurt.  Somehow I got out of the bent heap of metal and stood by the mess in the middle of the junction.  People were standing around; some tried to help.

The police were there remarkably quickly - or perhaps my sense of time had been damaged too.  At first the officer was solicitous but formal.  As part of the routine, he explained, I had to take a breath test.  I blew into this strange little bag, hyperventilating slightly.  His brow darkened: had I been drinking? The preliminary test showed I had: just one, I said.  His manner began to change imperceptibly; I was edging closer to the line.  We waited for what seemed minutes for the final verdict from the little bag: it was alright, I was well below the limit.  I was the right side of the line.

The witnesses were unanimous in blaming the other driver, so the officer could be sure now.  And being sure, he became nice.  That avuncular look came into his eye when he regarded me.  He made lots of helpful suggestions, called an ambulance for me - just to be sure.  As I got into it I half-noticed the policeman and his colleague giving the other driver the full nasty treatment.
 
The camps who think that all police are either routinely pleasant or unpleasant are both naive; even those who think that some are naturally pleasant and some naturally unpleasant miss the point, which is that all, or nearly all, policeman are both, because they inhabit a world which is starkly bifurcated.  Either you are the right side of the line, an upright member of society, or else you are not, in which case you are a felon, a threat to good order and all those upright citizens.  The fact that we are all both at various times is irrelevant for the policeman or woman.  Their job is about enforcing lines of demarcation; lines, by their nature, are meant to be clear, not fuzzy.  The line between the nice and the nasty policeman certainly is.

(15.3.92)

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