Notice that the same elements prevalent in the previous post -- crime, drugs, horrific violence and the herding of varied racial groups together -- are evident here too. But there is one noticable difference: the indifference of the authorities. Here
Hackney resident Damian Duggan Ryan describes how crime and drugs have moved into his neighborhood . . . and how the police are responding.

We have got a new arrival in the next street. He’s only just moved in, but it seems he’s dealing crack cocaine. The street’s a bit run down, what with an illegal car traders up at one end, several derelict garages in the middle and a truckload of uncollected garbage scattered around the pavements and gutters.

Mr Patel, our local newsagent had been concerned for a while about the way the situation was deteriorating, before Cheryl, 15 years old, was mugged. She had gone to Mr Patel’s shop to buy a girl’s magazine.

In Hommerton Hospital she told her mother and a policewoman what had happened, how she had seen a strange man come out of the crack dealers house. She said he looked a little crazed, and when she crossed the road he followed her. When she screamed he went for her with a hunting knife.

Cheryl lost the £2.50 her mother had given her for the magazine, but the crack-head’s knife had punctured one of her lungs. The doctors were concerned about the way in which Cheryl appears to be coping mentally.

This is Hackney and we have some problems. But there is also a good bunch of people in the neighbourhood. We have recently formed a residents group. Cheryl’s mugging made us all very angry and we decided to do something about the crack dealer. We were particularly concerned about the lunatics that his presence in the area is attracting.

We talked about it for a while, then asked the neighbourhood sector Police Sergeant if he could meet us in our local primary school hall. Sergeant Gibson readily agreed and when our resident’s group co-ordinator had introduced him, one or two old ladies gave him a polite clap. A man who had survived the Blitz said that what was happening in our nearby street with the crack dealer was a disgrace – and what were the police going to do about it?

You could tell that the Sergeant had a bit of practice addressing bewildered residents groups, for he had a decent smile and spoke well above the diaphragm. Unfortunately, there was a bit of a problem at the moment with resources, he told us, and surveillance operations on suspected drug dealers were costly to implement. There were, however, certain things which we, as concerned citizens, could do ourselves.

Sergeant Gibson suggested, for instance, that we should keep an eye on the house of the suspected crack dealer. If we saw a lot of people coming and going we should try to work out how long each visitor stayed at the house.

If it was a short visit, then it was possible that drug deals were being done, and we could report our findings to him, leaving a message in his voice-mail if he wasn’t at the station in Stoke Newington.

Before we could ask any probing questions, Sergeant Gibson took a call on his radio. There had been an incident. He had to leave.

We heard an ambulance siren as we drifted out of the primary school hall and, as we approached Mr Patel’s shop, his wife was talking nervously to some locals. She was telling them about Cheryl’s mother and how, as she had left the off-license with a couple of cans of lager, she, too, had been set upon and robbed.

“It’s the drugs people,” Mrs Patel announced in a quivering voice. “They’re doing it all the time now.”

Cheryl’s mother was still unconscious, but Sergeant Gibson, who was supervising arrangements with the ambulance, assured us that she was still in a state of shock. “She’ll be alright,” he announced confidently as she was lifted onto a stretcher.

When we asked him what he was going to do about the assault, he promised to take a drive around the street where the crack-cocaine dealer was allegedly doing business. “We can’t do nothing on just hearsay, mind.” He told us in passing. “But we’ll keep an eye out just the same.”

Nearby, on Clapham Common, a Transit van full of traffic cops is parked in a small side road behind a boarded-up public lavatory. They are catching about every second motorist speeding down Stamford Hill at more than 30 miles an hour.

One of the officers clocks an offender with a radar gun and, as the motorist is stopped by his colleagues, civilians in fluorescent jackets approach to see if the speeding suspect’s tax disc is in order.

“It’s a joint operation between the local police and the department of transport,” a guy with a clipboard tells a curious onlooker.

“We’re starting to work together more because it’s an efficient way of optimising our joint resources.”

Cheryl, meanwhile, has had a relapse in hospital – while her mother waits to be seen on a trolley in an over-extended casualty department.
First published in The Sunday Telegraph 20-8-00