It’s the following night. I’ve been allocated to Red Compound again. It’s just after the end of dinner service. I’m walking back from the mess when a man calls from behind: “Officer, officer!”
I assume he wants to use my lighter. I turn and walk toward him.
“Come quick,” he says, “man is smashing window near mess.”
What? I just came from there, and there are still officers inside. There’s been no radio chatter, no Code Black called. It doesn’t make sense, yet the man’s urgency is real. Something must be happening, somewhere.
I walk as fast as I can without running. I get to open ground and look to the mess, fifty yards to my right. There’s no broken window, no crowd, no noise. I’m glancing about, trying to figure out the who or what, when a man runs past me and through the Red Compound gates. The detainee who alerted me points after him and says, “Over there.”
“Is that the man?”
“Yes. Yes.”
My natural reaction is to chase after him, to try and stop him from doing anything worse than breaking windows. My step turns into a skip, but before I begin running I stop myself, calm myself, slow myself back to a walk — fast, but a walk. That’s our training. Never run. Detainees are only human, they’re bored and curious, they want to see and be part of whatever shit is happening, so you can guarantee a crowd to any incident if you run, and once you have a big crowd you have a potential mob: unstable, unpredictable and liable to be set off without warning. Don’t run, rookie. Don’t bring the crowd.
I’m just outside the Red Compound gates when the radios arc into life.
“Code Black, Code Black, internet room.”
That’s the direction the man was running. Then two Sri Lankan men sprint past me. What is happening?
“Response One, Response One,” comes the call over the radio.
This shit’s serious. They don’t call a Response One, summoning every senior officer in the centre, unless it’s getting out of control.
“Response Two, Response Two.”
Holy fuck. They’ve now called in about twenty officers. I’m fourth in line — Response Four — so were it not for the fact I’m already following some man who may or may not be involved, I wouldn’t be involved. As I near the internet room, I see a crowd, but the initial trouble looks to be over. I push my way to the front. There’s a broken window; beneath it a Sri Lankan man is sprawled on the ground, surrounded by a large pool of blood. He must have put his fist through the glass. His upper arm is sliced open and blood is streaming from the wound. He is awake and moaning, but motionless.
Other officers are already trying to help him, so I flank two officers on the north side of the corridor, pushing the growing crowd of detainees back. More officers arrive. I look to the other end of the corridor and see an even bigger crowd with just two officers stopping them — or not stopping them, as it is, for they’re watching the bleeding man, gawking at the spectacle, rather than doing their job of keeping the crowd at bay. I quickly walk across and start telling detainees to move back. I try to keep my voice calm, while strong and assertive. I realise the Sri Lankan man is going to have to be stretchered out at some stage, so the area needs to be kept clear.
Detainees keep pouring in. On the other side of the corridor a number of Sri Lankans jostle to the front. They’re extremely agitated. I hear the voices, angry and panicked; maybe they don’t understand what’s happening to their friend, maybe they see the blood and think officers are somehow responsible. Still the crowd grows, maybe seventy detainees now. It’s intense, at once exhilarating and intimidating.
I see Benedict, Darren and Paul, three of our most senior officers, sit the man on a chair. They hold his arm high above his head and push gauze padding against the wound. There is a lot of blood. The officers beside me are like the crowd, fixated on the injured man, on all that blood, the spectacle of it. They let the crowd push in on them. I too shoot a glance, then try to refocus.
“Back! Stay back!” I order.
I hear Benedict. He says they can’t wait for the nurses or a transport to arrive; the man is losing too much blood, an artery must be cut, they’ve got to move him now.
“We’re walking him out! We’re walking him out! Clear a way!”
I know it’s a mistake the moment I hear it. It’ll only stress his heart, pump more and more blood out of his wound, but it’s not for me to decide. They pull the man to his feet and it’s then that a fracas breaks out on the other side of the corridor. It’s the Sri Lankans. I see glimpses of a melee, of officers restraining men.
It’s happening fast. The bleeding man is dragged out amid a bundle of officers. They pass our position, at which point we flank the group, protecting the officers escorting the casualty. Sri Lankan men run back and forth. They’re hysterical — yelling, flinging their arms, dashing every which way. The officer on the left of the bleeding man yells, “Protect my back.” It’s directed at Gabriel, but Gabriel already has hold of a wild-eyed Sri Lankan man trying to push past. I drop in and flank the officer, walking variously sideways and backward, watching the crowd that follows.
About forty metres from the gates to the administration compound, the casualty collapses to the ground. His white shirt is soaked red. His upper arm is dangling meat. An officer reapplies pressure to the wound. Two others hoist his limp form into the air, an arm each under his legs and around his back.
“I’m slipping! I can’t hold him!”
I dash in, taking the officer’s place before the Sri Lankan man is dropped. We rush for the gates, the man cradled in our arms. With each step a bizarre thought forms: this man smells like a sheep carcass, freshly butchered. He smells like death.
We carry his unconscious body through the gates. His head lolls back.
“Watch his airway! Hold his head!”
We push through the medical centre doors, crash into all manner of tables and equipment, then unload him on a gurney. I don’t stop to stare. I’m back out the door the instant he leaves my arms. I hurdle the rail, pass through the gates and re-enter the compound.
A group of managers and first response officers are storming my way. Among them is Gabriel and Darren.
“Darren, do we still need people at the internet room?”
“You get back to your compound, Harris! Stay with Mary,” erupts Gabriel, before Darren can respond.
I don’t understand the anger behind the instruction, but do as I’m told.