Feature article in the Mail on Sunday and The Times, 2004
Another dad sat alongside me on the park bench and pointed to a group of men emerging from the rhododendrons. ''They want rounding up and shooting, don't they?''
The men, four or five of them, were sitting under a wooden shelter, just 20 yards from where children played on swings, or pleaded with grandma that they should have another ice-cream, please. They were dishevelled, eyes fierce, their skin yellow-white like a peeled potato. A car pulled up and a bag was hurled into the bushes. It was precisely noon. They ran over as if their lives depended on it and reappeared a few minutes later, noticeably more relaxed. One broke away and wandering in and out of the toilets, male and female. Meanwhile, roundabouts spun, ice creams melted, and we feigned that all was well in the world on this beautiful early-spring morning.
I was with my two young boys. The parenting gene had unequivocally kicked-in because I was possessed by a moral indignation I had not known before. The world suddenly had wide borders and washed-up on them were these wretched souls, itchy and scowling, commandeering large areas of a space set-aside for skate-boarders, lovers, children, amateur footballers, old-boys walking their dogs or playing bowls; the great and the good. Were there no derelict houses or demolition sites where they could indulge themselves?
Unlike the dad to my right, I had no desire for retribution. I actually held a degree of sympathy for them, but I was affronted by our assumed impassiveness. A park on a sunny Saturday morning was the most public place in town. There were more than 50 of us dotted around the children's play area. Did we not sanction and, therefore, normalise their behaviour by our indifference?
The police station in the town where I live is close to the park. As I do not routinely call on the police, I was unaware that officers no longer staff the reception desk. Instead, there is an officious, sigh, disinterested, sigh, middle-aged lady. She talks in a silver-poisoned tongue, mixing overwrought courtesy and abject condescension. ''Sir, I don't know if you are aware, but there is a drugs problem in every town in Britain.'' But, in the park, in broad daylight? ''Sir, just because in your opinion they were acting suspiciously, does not mean we can necessarily stop and search them.'' She did not log the incident, or promise to do anything about it.
I tried to apply her logic to other situations. Perhaps we should not, for example, make an assumption if someone charges by carrying a tray of gold rings and behind him is a broken jeweller's shop window and its staff in frantic pursuit. The wind might have blown the window in. He could be a rep from the wholesalers. They might be yelling that he should double their original order. Best let him slip past, then.
Back home from the park, I was wracked by anger and frustration. It did not leave me all weekend. Friends were surprised by the nonchalance of the police, and one or two suggested we could 'police' the park ourselves. It was just fanciful talk. We are, thankfully, not a nation of vigilantes. We don't 'take care of business'. We empower and trust others to do it on our behalf and when they fail us, we moan, shuffle our feet, and write letters to the local paper.
On the Monday, I rang my local paper and told them I planned to write to
them. If the episode was made public, the drug-users would know their rendezvous
spot had been noted, and it would force them out of the park. The paper said
it would only publish my letter if it included my name and address. This was
an absurd edict, since it would have made my family a target for possible
reprisals.
Within a few minutes, the reporter rang back and said they would kindly waive
their usual protocol since they knew the letter to be from an authentic source.
During our conversation, he mooted the possibility of a news story, though
he was decidedly downbeat about the worth of even addressing the issue.
''They haven't got enough police, it's as simple as that. There's nothing they can do.'' His fatalistic tone was irritating. He talked of police community liaison panels and community drugs teams. I should write letters to them all, though it was all ultimately futile because it was the government's fault for under-funding the police.
He made me feel like a busybody and an idealist. I was admonished for breaking rank with the great British indifferent. The blind eye had become the only eye. I had been bullied into my role as a moral zealot, drawn into a torpid discourse on policing, drug taking and the government.
I had just wanted the police to know that it might be worth monitoring the
park at noon the following Saturday. It hadn't seemed much to ask. If I were
to continue my protest, I should resign myself to extensive letter writing
and meetings. I could even form a 'Friends Of The Park' group. It wasn't my
style. I had a life to live, two children to play with; though perhaps in
the back garden next time.