58 Tuesday 9 October

One man disappeared up an alley. The other, holding the glinting machete, dodged onto the pavement as Holly Little, frantically radioing for back-up, drew level with him. She was debating whether to keep pursuing in the vehicle or jump out and run after him on foot.

Pepper spray and a baton against a machete. Swing onto the pavement and run him over? What if he was innocent?

An innocent man doesn’t run through a city centre holding a machete. With blood on it.

But the IOPC might take a different view.

All these thoughts running through her head. A black man with a bloody machete versus, potentially, her career.

Screw you.

They reached the main road, just below the old Royal Alexandra Children’s Hospital building. He turned left, down the hill, going like the wind.

She overtook him. Swung the car onto the pavement. Screeched to a halt, blocking his path, and jumped out.

He dodged past her.

‘Stop, police!’ she shouted. Then she sprinted after him. He stopped. Turned towards her.

Holding his blood-stained machete high.

‘One step towards me, lady, and you are dead.’

She took ten steps, pulling out her pepper spray, aware the wind was behind her, and fired off its contents.

In his face.

The machete hit the pavement. His hands hit his eyes.

He was screaming in agony.

Two seconds later she had him face-down on the pavement. Using her fast-cuffs she snapped one wrist, then the next.

Two guys walked past, up the hill. One said, in passing comment, ‘Racist pigs.’

Another time she might have rounded on them and startled them, but not now.

‘What’s your name?’ she said to her prisoner, pressing her emergency location button.

‘Mickey Mouse.’

‘So what’s your alias?’

‘Donald Duck.’

She slipped her hand inside his jacket, found a wallet and phone and pulled them out. Holding him down with her knee, she flipped the wallet open and saw a couple of credit cards.

Both said D. Duck.

‘Work in Disneyland, do you? Or Disneyworld?’ she asked. He said nothing but continued to struggle.

She dug her kneecap into his left kidney to restrain him. He screamed in pain.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t hear your answer. What’s your name?’

He was silent for a moment. ‘Duck,’ he gasped, thinking about the false Ghanaian driving licence in his wallet.

‘Duck? As in Donald Duck.’

‘That’s my name. Donald.’

‘Nice to meet you, Donald. My name’s PC Little.’

He grunted.

She told him he was under arrest and cautioned him. Although she knew that, whatever crime this piece of scum had committed with his lethal knife, he would never get an appropriate sentence.

‘Come on, sista, we’re both black, lemme go!’

‘It’s not going to happen.’

He suddenly struggled violently, trying to pull free. She kneed him in the kidney again.

He yelped in pain.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Not nice, is it? I’ll keep doing it until you stop.’

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