Steve Braunias: The Secret Diary of ... Police Commissioner Andrew Coster

OPINION:

MONDAY

"This illegal protest making unreasonable demands for peace and love," I said, and slapped the desk for emphasis, "ends now!"

"That's what you said yesterday," said the Prime Minister.

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"No, you said to them, 'You have to go home now', and weirdly enough none of them listened. I was busy drawing up strategies, designing a plan of action. This is war. It demands brute strength, but it also requires stealth, tactics, advance thinking. Intel. Undercover work. All that sort of thing takes time, plus we've had to wait for a new order of riot shields, and the shipment from China has been held up at the wharf."

The Prime Minister walked to the window of her ninth-floor office, and looked down on the rebel forces cooking sausages on the parliament lawn.

"Put out the fires, Andrew," she said. "Put out the fires."

Police Commissioner Andrew Coster. Photo / Mark Mitchell

TUESDAY

"Pepper spray," I said.

"Check," said assistant commissioner Richard Chambers.

"High-pressure hoses."

"Check."

"Body armour."

"Check."

"Riot shields."

"A problem getting through Customs. No, just jokes. Check."

"Raw recruits on more or less their first day on the job."

"Check."

"My reputation and everything I've worked for on the line in full view of public scrutiny, with dire consequences if it goes wrong."

"Check."

I looked at him.

"Just jokes," he said. "It won't go wrong."

I remember the fires. The very bad language, and the wild faces. Photo / Mark Mitchell

WEDNESDAY

I remember the fires. I remember the smoke and the gas canisters exploding. The forklifts removing their cars, and our staff ripping out a great many tent pegs. I remember the hiss of pepper spray and the screams. I remember the fires. The very bad language, and the wild faces. The faces of the truly deranged, and the man wearing a gas mask and holding up a sign that read MAKE INFLUENZA GREAT AGAIN. I remember the fires. Our staff sweeping down Hill Street in an awesome show of force and unity. The forklifts lifting up Portaloos, and the smell of shit and petrol. I remember the fires. Our staff pushing the protesters down Molesworth St past Kate Sheppard Place, and the protesters throwing black bags full of rubbish. The protesters ripping up concrete slabs from the road, and throwing them, then throwing chairs, bottles, bricks. I remember the fires. Everything on an edge, and then going over the edge. The new recruits showing courage and restraint. The new recruits showing courage and what I might term enthusiasm but others might have another term for it. The protesters trying to hang onto their possessions. "If we can't have it they can't have it," one woman in a dressing gown said. The tents piled up in a heap of rubbish. The bare lawn. The blue sky. I remember the application of brute strength, and the collapse of something feral and weird.

THURSDAY

I remember the fires.

FRIDAY

"Good work," said the Prime Minister.

"Thank you," I said.

"You said it would end, and you ended it."

"Yes."

She walked to the window of her ninth-floor office, and looked down on the scorched earth that was the Parliament lawn.

"They're out there somewhere, aren't they," she said.

"We know," I said, "exactly where they are."