You don't have to be mad to work here, but it helps

Before I start, let's get one thing clear: mental illness is a serious matter and blights those from all backgrounds. I am not too proud to confess that I myself have suffered with mental illness to some degree.

I recently watched an interesting Panorama documentary about people suffering with mental problems and the police. Although short (only 30 minutes) it was an accurate and surprisingly pro-police (not always the case with these documentaries) insight into how the long arm of the law is twisted behind its own back and forced to care for sufferers (it’s on the BBC iPlayer if you want to check it out).

The police have two main powers in law when it comes to people they believe are displaying signs of a mental health issues:

Section 136 of the Mental Health Act - This gives them the authority to take a person from a public place to a ‘Place of Safety’, either for their own protection or for the protection of others, so that their immediate needs can be properly assessed.

Mental Capacity Act 2005 – If someone lacks the ability to make decisions regarding their own wellbeing, then an officer can in effect make that decision for them, such as to insist the person in need receives relevant treatment, even if it against their wishes at the time.

Section 136 is the power most commonly invoked by me and my colleagues. It is no exaggeration to say on average, in the medium sized town I police, at least one member of the public is every day Sectioned 136 by the police (cue the joke “…and he’s sick of it!”. I mean at least one different person).

‘Public Place’ is highlighted above as this power cannot be used in the afflicted’s home address, or anywhere else the public doesn’t have access to, free of charge or via payment. How to get the troubled individual into a public place is an ethical conundrum that many a police officer has faced  (often the person who is self-harming, overdosing, threatening suicide is the same person who dialled 999 in the first place from the comfort of their own sofa!). Generally this either involves tricking them into coming outside with you, perhaps for a cigarette say, and then quickly slapping the cuffs on; or arresting them for some other offence, to prevent a breach of the peace maybe, before surprising them with a quick ‘sectioning’ just as they’re about to get in the panda car. Neither of these methods is ideal, and certainly would not be condoned by those in their air conditioned offices in HQ, but sometimes needs must and not many experienced officers could honestly deny ever using a ruse to cajole their subject outside.

When under ‘a 136’, the person is in the custody of the police and, until a mental health professional is convinced to take them off their hands, the officers are responsible for their detainee. What happens next (if the detainee is not intoxicated or violent) is they will be taken to a ‘place of safety’, which is usually a specialist secure unit at a hospital or other NHS building. Now, the next step depends on the Force responsible and their arrangement with the local health authority: some Forces I’m lead to believe are allowed to leave the detainee to wait for their assessment and carry on hunting for their next potential 136 candidate as long as they are ‘low risk’; however most Forces and health authorities require the officers (because ideally they’ll be two for safety reasons) to wait with the detainee until the assessment team is ready. And this is where the system falls down. In my county the mental health team (comprising of doctors, social workers and other health care professionals) aim to make the assessment within four hours. Four hours. That’s four hours! And that’s if you’re lucky - I’ve waited over eight hours for an assessment team to materialise! The whole time waiting is spent in a sparsely furnished room, complete with décor consisting of wipe clean walls displaying inoffensive pictures of flowers, a sink, kettle, no milk or tea bags and plastic cutlery. Naturally the detainee slowly becomes agitated, probably disillusioned, almost certainly irritable, inevitably more depressive, likely a little claustrophobic, definitely emotional, before all this culminates in a violent outburst and a roll around the floor with the two officers who are by now an hour late of duty.

The above is actually a best case scenario for the mentally challenged individual. If they are intoxicated and or violent – which unfortunately most of them are - then the assessment team will not see them. So instead they are taken to a police station custody suite where we have nowhere else to put them but in a cell, so they can spend the next few hours bouncing their head off the steel door until they lapse into unconsciousness either because of concussion, or sheer exhaustion. Only then will they been assessed either at the police station or via the disparaging cycle at the hospital (see above). Police stations do not have padded cells, despite what you’ve seen on TV.

Getting back to the content of the Panorama episode, the problem is the buck stops with the police. If a member of the public doesn’t know what to do with a person or in a certain situation, they naturally call the police. The front line police – who ultimately have to respond to the public’s calls – have very little training in dealing with sufferers of mental health. And, even if we did have the training, we still wouldn’t be the right people to remedy these poor, unfortunate souls – have you seen a front line copper lately? We look increasingly like paramilitaries dressed all in black, with webbing style tac-vests, combat trousers and an array of weaponry strapped to the front of us. More ‘Call of Duty’ than call for help. Hardly conducive to relaxing therapy.

To summarise, the police do not have the time, resources, training, equipment or facilities to deal effectively with the sufferers of mental health issues. But, despite pledges by various governments, there seems no indication that anything is changing for the better any time soon; in fact, due to austerity cuts, things seem to be going in the opposite direction.

On a brighter note, my new book is starting to take shape. Below is a short excerpt from it if anyone’s interested:

I hate foot chases. They’re so undignified and I always look ridiculous when I try to run after someone with these great big clumping boots on, stab vest and appointments flapping, whilst sweating profusely in the hot weather and unforgiving black uniform. It’s not like on TV when the handsome, athletic machine of law enforcement leaps over boxes, hurdles fences and scales walls in a single bound, whilst the fleeing villain bowls down passer-by’s and pulls over stacks of market merchandise in a vain attempt to inhibit his pursuer’s path.

I’ve only been running for a few hundred metres and already I’m knackered and blowing out my arse. I’m just lucky that as a result of years of substance abuse, the scrawny, heroin riddled, little thief I’m chasing is equally as poorly conditioned as me, otherwise he’d be long gone with the ladies purse. Neither of us can manage much more than a brisk jog now as we leg it down the pedestrianised section of the High Street, past Debenams and that weird modern art sculptor that looks like King Kong’s hand. It’s only public perception preventing me from stopping to take a breather whilst allowing the CCTV camera operators to keep tabs on his movements.

Whilst desperately trying not to sound on the verge of a coronary episode I pass updates to my colleagues over the airwaves: “He’s going along the High Street, past Subway, turning right onto Alexander Place, over…” before releasing the transmit button on my radio as well as the lungful of air I was holding in.

Rounding the corner I must confess a feeling of relief that I have lost sight of my prey and there are several directions he might have departed in. I can finally slow to a walk to consider my options, proudly in the knowledge that I gave it my all and chalk this down to bad luck that he got away – not a complete lack of fitness.

“He went that way,” a helpful member of the public points, realising the perspiring officer must be chasing that man he just saw dart off, “down the alley.”

“Thanks,” I reply, cursing his damn intervention, whilst trying my best to sound grateful as again I call my tired legs into action and reluctantly set off once more.

Following the contours of the alleyway I catch sight of him again, now just a few metres away from me. As he sees me he shakes his head unwillingly, having hoped like me the chase had ended, before turning on his toes and setting off away from me.

“Stop! Police,” I futilely yell.

This has now become the slowest foot chase in policing history. Both of us stumble along like asthmatic zombies, arms flailing and legs faltering. It’s only a matter of time before one of us gives up and collapses in a heaving, sweaty mess on the ground beneath.

“Alright, alright; I give up!” he yells, petulantly throwing his arms up in the air and coming to a halt just as we enter another shopping parade. Members of the public turn to look at the commotion and pay homage to the daring, resolute lawman who so courageously chased down his suspect. Little did he or they know that had mere seconds more passed then I was about to theatrically grab the back of my leg and feign some sort of hamstring injury and let him become the one that got away.

But I have somehow managed to maintain some semblance of decorum and, even more surprisingly, win the war of attrition as the thief cannot go on any longer and surrenders himself.

I think I might throw up.

“You… arrest… purse… nicked it… yeah?” is all I can stammer, gulping for oxygen as I come to rest next to him. Bradley, like me bent at the waist and gasping for lungfulls of air whilst wheezing like Darth Vader after the one hundred metre dash, nods in acknowledgement. “You… do not have… to say anything…” I start, before giving up on the Caution. “You know the words,” I sigh, flapping a dismissive arm at him.

Again Bradley nods as I place my handcuffs on his wrists. Indeed he has heard the words - probably more times that I’ve said them. There’s no fight left in the prisoner, resigned to the familiar fate, he slowly walks back with me towards the High Street.

“One in custody,” I announce down the radio, oxygen slowly returning to my blood stream. “Where’s the purse?” I ask Bradley.

“What purse?” he less than convincingly answers.

Just as we lumber back onto the High Street a police van in the distance negotiates some bollards before pulling up next to us.

“Been for a jog?” asks Cam as he steps down from the driver’s seat.

Still not fully able to reply, my mate takes the prisoner from me and escorts him round to the back of the van and the awaiting cell.

“Been out on the rob again, Bradley?” Cam asks as he opens the van door, but Bradley observes the right to remain silent.

“Put your arms up,” instructs Cam.

Bradley complies and lifts his still restrained arms up above his head as Cam thoroughly searches him; no sign of the missing purse though.

“He must have chucked it somewhere when you were chasing him,” Cam turns to me. “D’you wanna go back and have a look for it and I’ll meet you in custody with him,” nodding towards Bradley who is now in the back of the van.

I agree and set off to retrace my steps.

My books are still available from Amazon and a few other online retailers. Please click HERE to check them out. Thanks and stay safe!