THE HARD CELL

Nicholas Farrell describes

the night he was arrested for doing nothing

MY own experience of rough justice at the hands of British bobbies is small beer compared to that of the Guildford Four but it has tainted my opinion of them just the same. All I got was four hours in a cell at Chelsea police station. Four hours is only 240 minutes, not much of a chunk out of someone's life even if one has not commit- ted an offence.

But 240 minutes is quite long enough to give a sharp insight into the ways of bobbies. It is also quite long enough to let one know who is in charge when that cell door slams shut. Bobbies can hold you for 36 hours without charge if they want to. If they think you are a terrorist they can hold you for seven days. It makes you start trying to please them if you have any sense. Chelsea nick, unlike the area it serves, is not posh at all nor are the bobbies there.

The drama began when I attempted to drop in on a girlfriend in Fulham at around 1.30 in the morning. I knocked on the door of her ground floor flat in a smart little street. There was no reply. So I went via a narrow connecting alleyway into the gar- den at the rear. I knocked on the window. She, the girlfriend, then awoke. `Go away. I'll speak to you tomorrow,' hissed the rudely awakened Sleeping Beauty. But it was a fine night. So I sat down on a wall in the garden, perfectly silent, sniffing the scent of flowers, pondering my next move.

Several minutes later I heard the sound of cars stopping hurriedly in the street nearby, then voices and radios and the ominous growl of large dogs, no doubt straining at the leash at the prospect of a good chase through flower beds and bushes and the chance to sink their teeth into a leg or two. Because I found the concept so ludicrous I did not panic but remained seated on the garden wall.

I let this go on for a while before standing up to deliver the following line: think you must be looking for me.' All torches, dogs, silhouettes swivelled in the direction of the voice. The police bagged the Fiend of Fulham.

'Got 'im sarge; snapped what I presume was a woman triumphantly, but to judge from her plier-like grip it was impossible to tell. Only the voice gave it away. It was now time for a spot of arm up the back, followed by a spot of bundling into the street and a spot of face up against the wall. 'Hands up: Keep your f—ing hands up,' shouted a lout who calls himself a detective. 'Name. What's your f—ing name?'

Unfortunately for the police they were soon to discover that I knew the girl and later it transpired that it was not she who called them but a busybody neighbour. That was still to come.

I realised the only way to avoid more violence was total co-operation. I dread to think what would have happened if I had said something like: 'Take your bloody hands off me!' or if I had exercised my right to silence after supplying the required name and address. So I answered their questions. I tried to please the bobbies because I was scared.

But more bundling followed, this time into one of the waiting police cars. Inside I was forced to sit with my hands on the back of the front seat while the detective placed one of his heavy hands on my shoulder. The creepy intimacy of that was one of the worst aspects of the whole affair. Mean- while his colleagues spoke to the girl who stood in her dressing-gown framed in the light of her open door. She did not help me much. Later, amused at the thought, she said she had told the police she had met me 'once or twice'. This was a bit of an understatement. But there is nothing like striking a man when he is down.

Only on the way to the station did I dare inquire what exactly it was I was being arrested for. 'What do you want? Attemp- ted rape? Aggravated burglary? Drunk and disorderly? Take your pick,' said the detective. Tor goodness sake,' I said. '1 can smell alcohol on your breath.' sneered the detective.

It is not an offence to sit in someone else's garden. It is not an offence to be drunk in someone else's garden. Would the police have reacted the same way if 1, a man, had been awoken by my girlfriend? Would they hell.

Once at the station more bundling took place, though less forceful this time. We then went to see the desk sergeant. In vain,

I tried to contact a solicitor by telephone. My belongings were confiscated. No one cautioned me. No one charged Me. I was being put in a cell to 'sober up'. This was absurd, I had had a few drinks. But I was not drunk. OK I had perhaps overstepped the mark.. The girl was asleep. But the police were satisfied she was a friend. Why not say: 'Just go home. Sort it out tomor- row.' The reason is obvious. Having failed to catch the Fiend of Fulham they decided to mete out summary justice.

My only alternative would have been to go noisily to the cell so 1 went quietly. The sergeant had also taken my matches so I could not even have a smoke. 'That's so you don't set fire to yourself or us,' he said cheerily. The cell door slammed shut. I was a prisoner. This was not justice. But I forced myself to say over and over the only way to get out of here sooner rather than later was to he a good little boy and stay quiet.

This was proved by the arrival in the cell shortly afterwards of a young man who came in very noisily indeed. This man, an Old Etonian, paced up and down scream- ing at the top of his voice: You don't know who my father is, damn you. He'll make your lives hell for this. You scum. You pigs. Bloody filth.' Like me he was inside for being drunk and disorderly. At least in his case this was true. He behaved like a caged animal. It was to cost him dear. That was made crystal clear when he put his face to the grill on the cell door to launch yet another salvo of yelling. A bobby on the other side came up and flung a cup of water in his face.

At around 6 a.m. the cell door finally opened and one of the bobbies said: 'Come on. Time to go home.' Not you,' he said to the Old Etonian. Once more it was time for a cosy chat with the desk sergeant. `Right, if you'd just like to sign here then you can go home,' he said pushing an innocuous looking document in my direc- tion across the desk. I asked what it was I signing, to which the sergeant said: 'Do you want to go back in that cell?'

I signed. What else could I do? A few minutes later I was allowed to go. 'By the way. what did I sign?' I asked. 'You've just promised not to get drunk in Chelsea for a week. I'm sure you can manage that,' said the sergeant, cheerily as ever. Later I discovered that by signing I had accepted a caution for being drunk and disorderly!

The episode made me understand only too well something many people would regard as ridiculous, if not impossible the man who confesses to a crime he has not committed. I had signed that document because I did not want to go back in that cell. Whatever it meant, if it ever came to court surely I would have nothing to worry about? The next day I telephoned the Old Etonian who had given me his number. Ile was not released until lunchtime, some six hours after me. It pays to be nice to bobbies.