Liverpool Lime Street, The British Transport Police And I

***The following incident occurred on Monday, January 22, 2007. The discrimination shown in the forthcoming story should not be thought of as being limited to the British Transport Police, for some of us have to fight prejudices and preconceptions every single day, from people who belong to no particular organisation and people whom we have never met.***

I boarded the stopper service at Warrington Central. Although I dislike the fact it takes twice as long as the two express trains that go through Warrington Central, it does have it's pleasures. It is seldom busy. It doesn't go as fast, so you can take in more of the beautiful countryside, especially the open field just before and just after Widnes. I sat towards the front of the train. For most of the journey I was sat in the front compartment. Alone. Peacefully watching the, birds, the fields, the trees, the stations go by.

A slight jerk to the right. A slight jerk to the left. Up the embankment the train struggled. Up towards Allerton Junction, to join the main line into Liverpool Lime Street. This is a Northern Rail service, and announcements are rare. But so are new stations.

"The next stop is Liverpool South Parkway. Liverpool South Parkway the next station stop." Quite a few people got up to alight at this point. I was sat facing down the train. I stared at those waiting for the doors to open. They stared back. I knew what they were thinking. Still, perhaps I might get off there one day. The 86 bus stops there. It might be quicker than going into Lime Street, and then getting on in town.

But not today. The journey was too pleasant. Too peaceful.

As always on nice journeys into Liverpool, I rued the moment the train hit the tunnels. Then there was nothing outside. Just the reflection of neon lights from the train, and the occasional flash of neon lighting from another train. On the express trains, people get ready to leave the train as soon as the dark of the tunnels arrive. On Northern Rail services, no one stands up until the last second, and then everyone stands up almost as soon as the first person has.

Platform six. Damn, why not platform eight? Now it's through the ticket barrier. Well, it's not the ticket barrier I mind, it's the idiot in front of me who can't find his ticket. I'm always stuck behind him! Surprise! Not today, and it's not a he, and she's not that bad. A business women, I think. Everyone from platform six has walked around together and we're all through the ticket barrier together.

And then the dog comes. An unusual sight on the marble floors of a busy train station. He seems keen to welcome us. Hang on, he's dragging a police officer along. Tut. Lucky dog! Getting to stuff around that nice lady. Why's he coming to me? Like my suitcase do you, buddy? Get any closer and you won't be so fond of my size 10.

That police officer is saying something. I'll take a headphone out and look at him. I still can't hear him. Bloody tannoy! Too loud, I'll have to take the other one out as well then.

"Have you taken any class A, B, or C drugs in the last forty-eight hours, sir?" What? Me, drugs? Is this guy having a laugh. I manage to fumble a 'no'. Now I'm a bit scared. my answer isn't very convincing, but that doesn't matter because it's the truth. I haven't done any drugs in the last nineteen years, never mind the last two days.

Actually, that's a lie.

I had to have some paracetamol about a month ago, for a headache, I think. But that's not illegal. At least, it wasn't a month ago.

It turns out that dog is trained to smell the scent of illegal drugs. Hmmm, ok. Well now I am shaking. "Can you just step this way please, sir." I'm trying so so hard to act cool, but inside I'm in a million pieces. I know what's coming: a thorough search. In a moment of madness, I thrust my suitcase at him. "Yeah yeah, you're welcome to search it -- sorry -- me." Wow, now I sound like I'm on drugs. By this time I think we've reached our destination of the seats, but we haven't. "Just follow me please, mate." Mate?! If you were my mate you wouldn't put me through this.

I know I have nothing on me. I never have and I never will. But I feel a second away from being arrested. I think it will be a matter of minutes before I'm being interviewed under caution.

Eventually, we stop. In between platforms six and seven. Not, as the officer thinks, a discrete place. Then my details are taken. One officer is asking the questions while the other writes out the answers I give. Name, date of birth, &c.. Date of birth! I remember when I was younger my dad taking me to the hospital and asking what my date of birth was on the way. "You'd better know it" he said, "'cos they're gonna ask you it." I had to work it out then. I had to work it out now. Most of this is a blur now. "You about six foot one," one of them asks. As said yes immediately. Hang on? Six-one? For a copper that guy's a bad judge of height. At least another two inches please! I didn't correct him.

Then the question asker turned into searcher.

First he went through my pockets. He took my wallet out at one point and had a good nosey round. I wanted him to take a look at the red card in the top right hand corner -- the one with a rose on and the words The Labour Party Membership Card on. Perhaps then he might get an insight into my character -- an insight which wasn't based on the clothes I wear and the length of my hair. But he didn't. After he was convinced I didn't have any more pockets, he went for my university bag. "Highlighter. Good to see," he remarked. Why the highlighter? Why not the pad, or the other pens? The highlighter is probably the least useful of them all (ask Ross Dawson).

And then the big one. I fumbled the locks open. He asked what I had in there as I did so. I told clothes... oh, and some food. That last declaration probably saved me a lot of trouble and a lot more questions.

He found a suspicious package. It had been opened, but was now heavily taped back up. What was in there. There was a substance in there. Please, dear God, don't open it! "It's the best tea I've ever tasted!" I thought. I couldn't bear to see it go to waste!

He put it back. I let out a smile. The other officer then looked at me. I wiped that smile from my face immediately. To relieve myself of any embarrassment, I avoided eye contact with the officers. I looked over towards the AMT Coffee stall (at least I think that's the name of it). I saw a lot of faces looking at me as they walked past.

I'm a criminal. I don't have any drugs on me. I never have and I never will. But I'm a criminal. In the minds of all those people walking past and watching, I, the man in the leather jacket, guns n' roses t-shirt, combat pants and boots, I...... am a criminal. I've never actually broken the law in my life, but that doesn't matter. I'm a criminal.

The search is almost complete. My right leg has almost stopped shaking. The other officer is talking into his radio, and another officer, handling the dog, has appeared. I stare at the dog. I don't hate animals, and I don't hate that dog. I hate the people who 'trained it'. The officer on the radio turns to me: "You're not been to Ormskirk, 'ave ya, ladd?" Erm, no. I answer like that. This time the 'no' is more assertive, more confident, that our initial exchange near the ticket barrier.

As he put my suitcase back together, he searching officer just explained they were running my details against the national police computer database. Scary. Then they gave me a slip of paper. And that was it.

That was the end. They didn't find anything. But if that dog has been trained properly, then there are only four other possibilities:
1) The dog is stupid.
The most likely possibility, I think.
2) I took drugs in the last forty-eight hours and that's what got the dog interested.
But I know that's not it.
3) Someone else in that group of people had drugs on them.
In which case, the officers in charge should be ashamed they let their prejudices get the better of them. Instead being able to pick out the person with drugs, they were only able to pick out the most visibly aesthetic as far as drug taking was concerned.
4) Someone else in that group of people had taken drugs in the last forty-eight hours.
Again, the officers should be ashamed their prejudices won out.

The officers did not apologise. They were only doing their jobs. Badly, And with prejudices. And they added twenty minutes onto my journey. They did not apologise.

I can only imagine what it is like to be black.

Yours, wherever you may be,
Daniel C. Wright