Reflections from a Scottish police cell

As police officers E445 William Arbuckle and Q271 Linda Brown read out the charge of breach of the peace outside the hired van waiting to take us away, I looked at the laminated sheet PC Arbuckle was reading from. There were alternative wordings to use according to the situation ­ mine was “lying in the road”, and I was interested to see that blocking the road with a wheelchair was one of the typed options Heh! Rock on Ros, Neil, Morag and all you other wheelchair blockaders!

The police had carried me all the way to the cemetery where the vans were parked up. At one point they said: “Wouldn’t you like to walk? All your friends are walking.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No we’re not. See for yourself.” They put me down for a minute and I looked up the road. Everyone else was walking and they were miles ahead.
“Sorry, guys.” They’d drawn the short straw. I’m no lightweight, my plastic rainmac was wet and slippery and I kept complaining about my arm and shoulder.

Eight of us were arrested by about 8.30am. It took another 2 hours to get us to the police stations. The boys were dropped off at Dumbarton station, and the rest of us were taken to Clydebank. In the reception area, the walls were adorned with instructions to “hold your prisoner”. This made it hard for me to empty my bag, get my coat off etc. but instructions have to be followed and the young WPCs held on tight. Like I’d try and make a run for it. Honestly! The custody sergeant was struggling to enter my details on a dodgy computer, the monitor of which had squished the screen to half its normal height. The toilets in Dumbarton had a sink with a tap which wouldn’t turn off. Nothing in the police force seems to work very well.

“You’re charged with breach of the peace and resisting arrest.”
“Am I? They only read a charge of breach of the peace outside the van.”
“Well, resisting arrest has been added now.”
“OK.”

We had a discussion about my fruit and herb teabags which I wanted to take with me into the cell. “You can’t, I’m afraid. There might be funny stuff in those.”
“But you give prisoners tea and coffee. Those are drugs. Mine aren’t. Not everyone uses drugs. If you won’t let people take in their own teabags, then you should at least provide drug-free alternatives to tea and coffee.”

Young WPC: “It’s just that we don’t know what they are. We’re not used to things like this.”
“No, you need more diversity training really, don’t you?”

I suggested a compromise ­ that I should be allowed the teabags which were in sealed sachets. This was agreed, but unfortunately I only had two with me. Someone tried to argue that my glasses should be removed but was overruled by the custody sergeant… thank goodness. 24 hours in a blurry haze wouldn’t have been much fun.

As I’m being led into the cell: “You’re just in time for breakfast.” Great! What we didn’t realise was that accepting breakfast at 10.30am meant we didn’t get offered any lunch. Breakfast turns out to be a cardboard tray containing veggie sausages, a surprisingly spicy burger, a hash brown and a small portion of baked beans. Burger and beans are welded to the bottom of the tray in an unappetisingly congealed mass; breakfast has obviously been waiting for us for several hours.

The blankets provided - to make up for confiscating most of our clothes - are woven from some synthetic material that crackles with static electricity at every move. After an hour or so dozing to make up for the very early start this morning, I fold up my mattress into a chair with a backrest and use one of the blankets as a throw. My neck and shoulder are aching from the manhandling. Serves me right ­ I should’ve walked.

It wasn’t til the skylight started to darken that I have any good idea what time it is. I could ask of course, but I’m worried that it’ll be much earlier than I thought. Apart from the occasional crash of a cell hatch being slammed shut, all is quiet and I wonder what the others are doing catching up on missed sleep, reading, writing, drawing? I also think that maybe the younger arrestees have been released during the afternoon. I hope so. 24+ hours in a 6 by 8 cell with only a toilet for company is a sobering experience.

I think about all the others who’ve been left at the base gates, probably getting cold and wet. The Merched Beca had all looked great with their costumes, banners and toll gate, but where did the media get to? They’d promised to be there at 7 apparently. I hope that someone will manage to get photos back to the media at home.

Tea, when it arrives, is veggie curry, not great but an improvement on last time I was in a police cell, when the best vegan meal they could manage was lukewarm chips and beans in a polystyrene box filched from the staff canteen. I did get an apple with that though. Strathclyde police don’t offer dessert. The curry and rice is very dried out so I pour some of my hot water onto it. I keep pouring with no discernable effect - it’s all been completely soaked up. There must be a marketing opportunity for something so absorbent.

To pass the time, I rearrange my furniture several times to see what looks best in my new home. I consider the possibility of squishing everything (including me) into the corner that can’t be seen from the hatch but reluctantly decide that perhaps my gaolers might not see the funny side of this joke, so I settle instead for a chair by the door for a while. Then I spend some time doing yoga and my physio exercises… and handstands. There’s nowhere in my cluttered house to easily do handstands, so this is a great pleasure. I go for a jog in circles one way and in circles the other, sometimes bouncing off the walls to add momentum, then I skip and hop and see how high I can jump. Out of puff, I start to read my book ­ Gormenghast ­ chosen to transport me into another world. But before long, Titus is incarcerated in a tower as a punishment for venturing beyond the castle walls. I consider his crime ­ a metaphor for all civil disobedience perhaps.

I think about what I’m doing here and its effectiveness or otherwise. The blockade certainly didn’t last long ­ the second time we didn’t even get on the ground. Is this really going to help bring about an end to the nuclear arms race? Like most things though, it’s never easy to judge the implications and effect, especially in the longer term. The increased level of policing at Faslane, the arrests and detentions day after day, must be putting a strain on the Strathclyde police force. This could bring about pressure for change, especially if the cost of the extra policing becomes public knowledge. Maybe Mair and Phil’s media work back home has been as important as anything else ­ getting the message out to people across North Wales. And as Mair says, the process of us all working together on this project is important and positive in itself.

Oh, I’ve been moved to a new cell in a different corridor. There doesn’t seem to be anyone very close to me ­ both the cell doors I can see from my porthole are open so I have no idea where the others are, although I can hear the odd voice that sounds familiar. The light in this cell is much harsher, so I’m worried about getting a migraine. It can be switched down but I want to read and write a bit longer, so I put up with it for a couple of hours before asking for it to be dimmed and turning in for an early night. By the time I decide that darkness would be better, I can’t be bothered to get up and press the buzzer. I’m disturbed once or twice by loud shouting and someone hammering at the hatch of their cell.

Soon after 6am, I’m woken by the new shift. The hatch opens. “Good morning! Are you all right?”
“Mmm, yes thanks.” The rude awakener slams the hatch and switches off the light. Uh? What’s the point of that, eh? I lie in bed until the skylight starts to lighten. The constant hum of the ventilation/heating system ­ two vents: one in, one out I presume ­ breaks into my consciousness for a while, then fades, then re-asserts itself. I long for silence.

Liz and Awel send me notes which cheers me up no end, but I’m told that “I’m not delivering any more so don’t bother writing back.”

I get washed with half a polystyrene cup of water and some tissues. I’m annoyed that the government spends millions on health promotion - Wash your hands after using the toilet and before meals. Brush your teeth twice a day ­ but denies these basics to me. At breakfast time, I demand (politely) to be allowed out of my cell to wash my hands at the sink and to clean my teeth. I get out of the cell to wash my hands and use the opportunity to holler a loud, echoey “Good morning!” down the corridor to everyone else. It’s so nice to hear people shouting back. Later it turns out that I’ve completely misjudged where they are ­ the corridor and cell acoustics are really weird and it sounds as though everyone is to my left, although in fact they are all to the right. I’m given a nasty chemical thing to wipe my teeth with.

I can’t face another soy-fest breakfast, so I ask what else there is. Turns out that the police have only frozen ready-meals for breakfast, dinner and tea, which for vegans consist of (1) the soya stuff I had yesterday morning, (2) the veggie curry I had last night, or (3) pakora and potatoes. I want toast or banana and bread but it seems this is impossible, so I end up with curry again although I can only manage the rice.

Liz shouts “See you later” as she walks past, so I think she’s been released, but it turns out she’s just been moved to another cell so hers can be repaired; this creates a welcome diversion as two guys turn up to do the welding and I watch the fireworks through my porthole and under the door.

Then some singing starts…very faintly at first, and I think that everyone else must be miles away, but it gets louder and louder til I feel inspired to join in, and although the song I know is a bit different, it fits in with the round. Our voices ­ yeah, even mine ­ sound fantastic echoing against the hard cell walls.

Theirs goes:
Wouldn’t it be a wondrous thing
If the people of the world… (couldn’t catch the
rest)

Mine goes:
Stand up, people/women make your choice
Create a world without nuclear death
Now, together, we are one
Break the nuclear chain

Building bridges between our divisions
I reach out to you; won’t you reach out to me?
With all of our voices, and all of our visions
Sister we can make such sweet harmony

A couple of cups of water later, the cell door clangs open and it’s time to go, back to the desk where my heaps of belongings are returned to me and I’m given a letter from the procurator fiscal telling me that he’s decided not to take me to court this time, even though my “criminal” activity would justify it. There’s no mention of resisting arrest on the letter, which just refers to a breach of the peace. He says he won’t take such a lenient view next time. I dump my stuff in the reception area and go outside to find Liz happily dancing around in the rain.