On the 18th inst, from the hour of 06:00 to 15:00, I was performing my duties as desk sergeant at Upminster police station.
At 09.15 precisely, the door to the police station was opened forcibly by a male IC1 aged around twenty years. Five foot ten, short brown hair, staring eyes. He was in a visible state of animation. His clothing was disheveled and ripped in the style of the youth culture.
He said to me “Officer, officer, oh thank God, officer. You must help me.”
I attempted to pacify said individual. I said: “There there, lad. Calm down. What appears to be the problem?”
“I want to make a … a …”
“A what? A complaint? I can furnish you with the appropriate documentation.”
He was unable to form adequate communication, possibly as a consequences of the large quantity of what was later determined to be human blood about his person.
“No, no, I want to make a …”
“An application for a gun permit?”
“No, not that.”
“Do you wish to report a crime?”
At this point in our conversation, the IC1 male looked over his shoulder at the door of the police station. In clear contravention of police regulations, he did lock and bolt said entrance way. I believe he was muttering something about “they’re coming, they’re coming, oh my God, they’re coming.”
I attempted to calm this individual so that the required form could be completed. Not knowing whether to register a complaint or report a crime, I proceeded to engage him in further dialogue.
“Where were you when this event occurred?” I asked.
“I was in the graveyard.”
I knew it well. “Ah yes, a popular shortcut between the housing estate and the retail premises. In which direction were you travelling?”
“The direction, laddie. It might be important evidence later on.”
His state of agitation appeared to be becoming more acute. “Direction? Oh, I don’t know. I was going to the shops.”
I duly noted this fact in the station log. “You were proceeding through the graveyard in a northerly direction.”
“And the graveyard was full … full of dead people.”
I suspected I could be the victim of a hoax. “That’s the whole point of graveyards, son. It’s their raisin debtor.”
He reached over the counter and laid his hands upon my jacket lapels in a mildly aggressive manner which could be considered to be assaulting a police officer. “No, no, you don’t understand. The dead are walking around.”
“I see. And are these dead people committing a public order offence?”
“They’re waving their arms about and moaning.”
“Waving arms. Moaning,” I said, as I committed these words to the station log. “In your opinion, is the moaning of sufficient volume to warrant an anti-social behaviour notice?”
It was at this point in proceedings that the IC1 male uttered an obscenity, unbolted the station door and ran out.
In an easterly direction.