The Laughing Policeman: My Brilliant Career in the New Zealand Police

by Glenn Wood

  I didn’t tell Mum or Dad about the incident - no point worrying them and I wasn’t sure how much damage had been done. Still, I think they worked out that things hadn’t gone to plan when I started swotting my old biology books and told Dad not to sell the dingy.

  The Demon Alcohol : Part One

  By now you’d have thought I’d done everything possible to screw up my chances of getting into the police, but I wasn’t finished yet, oh no.

  My next attempt at career suicide came as I waited, somewhat dejectedly, for the results of my application. My parents were going away for the weekend and my sister was also away. This left me alone in the house.

  Mum and Dad agonised over this prospect for weeks - not because they didn’t trust me (the fools), but because they had bought a new television and my track record of breaking things made them fear for its safety. In fact, the only instructions they gave me before going were: ‘Stay away from the liquor cabinet and don’t blow up the television.’ Not unreasonable requests and I assured them they had no cause for concern. Sadly I was wrong.

  Everything would have been fine were it not for Geoff Redfern, a good friend from school whose ambition in life was not to join the police. Geoff didn’t have criminal leanings but he did have a rather liberal attitude to rules. This had got us into trouble before - nothing serious, but from a parental perspective, Geoff definitely fell into the category of a bad influence.

  From my point of view he was a cool guy who was heaps of fun and exactly the sort of chap you’d invite round, if you found yourself alone in the house. Naturally, once you’d invited Geoff you also had to invite Quentin, another of my friends, who had the uncanny ability of being a really bad influence without seeming to be. He was one of those guys that your parents think is the sensible one. How often I’d heard the words, ‘You can go if Quentin’s going; he won’t let you do anything stupid.’ They were right; he wouldn’t let me do anything stupid: he’d do it, and I’d get the blame. Still, he was my best mate and he normally brought the beer.

  So, there we were, alone in the house with lots of alcohol and no parental supervision. We had everything we needed for a great night, but something was missing. Girls.

  Tragically all three of us were without girlfriends and it was the cause of great concern. After all, we were young, handsome (in the right light), fitish, and technically sane men. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t want to go out with us? Almost the entire female population of New Plymouth appeared to be the answer. What was wrong with them? How could they not see how funny Quentin’s impersonation of the forward pack of the New Plymouth Boys’ High School rugby First XV was? We were confused. We had so much to offer and there were so few takers.

  The night got later, the beer stack grew smaller, and our eligibility increased. Then, just as we reached the zenith of our irresistibility, Geoff came up with a plan. It was a great plan. And like all world-beating ideas it was brilliant in its simplicity. All we had to do was drink more alcohol then go for a walk, where we would find the streets lined with women who would instantly recognise our, oh so obvious, charms.

  This was the kind of thinking Geoff was famous for.

  Quentin was quick to spot a flaw. We were out of beer.

  We sat and pondered the problem and when it looked like there was no solution, Quentin decided to go home. This turned out to be one of the finest decisions he has ever made, because just after he left, Geoff came up with another plan. It involved Dad’s liquor cabinet.

  A little voice whispered in my ear, ‘Don’t blow up the television set and don’t touch the liquor cabinet.’

  Isn’t it funny how the memory plays tricks on you? That evening I could swear Dad’s instructions had finished with the phrase ‘but it’s up to you son.’ Besides, the television was undamaged and a 50 per cent pass is acceptable in most tests.

  Now that I’d nullified that concern we decided it was safe to hook into Dad’s whisky, rum, vodka and most fatally, saki, (a present from one of those generous shipping lines).

  Once Geoff and I agreed that we had consumed the required amount of alcohol (there was none left), we set out into the night, in search of... something. We’d forgotten the first plan by now and were winging it. We decided that it must have been a burger as the munchies were setting in. A combination of the cold night air and the nasty mixture of drinks we’d consumed seemed to exacerbate our drunkenness and make everything seem extremely funny. We weaved down the street, laughing at the hilarious footpath and giggling at the incredibly amusing other footpath. Once the pavement had run out of jokes we set off to find a new source of fun. This came in the form of a large fence outside New Plymouth Girls High School. The fence had obviously been constructed so that drunken people could climb up it and sing to the girls in the dormitories. So this is what we did, completely forgetting that it was the school holidays and the only people we were likely to rouse were the cleaning staff. Even if we’d remembered we were too far gone to care, and it was only when the top bar of the fence broke and sent us toppling to the ground, that our tuneless serenade ended.

  I thought Geoff’s fall had been particularly good so I pulled a large stalk of grass out of the ground and gave it to him as the “Brave Man Award”.

  He was touched and accepted the award proudly. After a moving speech in which he thanked his mother, his agent, his motorbike, a lamp post and the person on the other side of the road, he set off to share the award with his adoring public. He did this by staggering drunkenly into the middle of the road waving the stalk of grass wildly above his head. Eventually the fact that he was in immediate danger of being squashed like a bug eked its way into Geoff’s booze-soaked brain and he joined me back on the footpath.

  Then we remembered the reason we were out - hamburgers. The search for true love had well and truly been surpassed by the need for food.

  We headed towards town.

  On the way we passed the Devon Motor Lodge. At first glance you wouldn’t think there was anything remarkable about this establishment. It was a perfectly respectable Motor Lodge, with a perfectly respectable motor (presumably) and perfectly respectable lodgings. But it did have one thing that set it apart from the rest of the street - a fountain. Quite an impressive fountain too. With three tiers. The bottom level featured a big round pool which was decorated with pottery fishes that squirted streams of water out of their mouths. The second tier was made up of the metal wings and harp of a flying angel. The top tier was the head of the angel and I’m pretty sure she wore a beautiful crown with water squirting from each of its prongs.

  I must pause at this point to apologise to anyone who has seen the Devon Motor Lodge fountain, for any inaccuracies in this description. I’m quite old and I’ve taken quite a few blows to the head. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that the Devon Motor Lodge hasn’t even got a fountain. All I know is that we were in the presence of a large wet fountainy thing and it was somewhere in the vicinity of the Devon Motor Lodge. Anyway, for the purposes of this story let’s just believe everything I say.

  As any intoxicated person knows, it is physically impossible to go past a fountain without jumping into it. So in we leapt for a jolly fine frolic. I was quite happy splashing around with the fishes at the bottom but Geoff wanted to plant the Brave Man Award in the angel’s crown. This had a lovely poetic feel to it so I gave him a leg up to the third tier. He scrambled to the top and sat down happily trying to insert the stalk of grass into one of the water pipes. I was just about to go up and help him when a flashing blue light caught my eye. I turned around to see several police cars and a dog van zooming past us on the other side of the road.

  ‘I wonder who they’re after?’ called Geoff from the top of the fountain.

  ‘I dunno,’ I replied, hopping out to investigate.

  I watched as the police cars disappeared down a dip in the road about 500 metres from where I was standing. A dripping wet Geoff joined me at the edge of the footpath.

  ‘Wher
e’ve they gone?’ he asked.

  It was a bloody good question. They’d gone into the dip but hadn’t appeared at the other side of the hill. I got a very bad feeling about this. A feeling that intensified when I looked behind me at the fountain. The crown was badly misshapen and water was squirting everywhere. A couple of the fish I’d been chatting to weren’t looking that healthy either.

  ‘It’s alright, here they are.’ yelled Geoff as the patrol cars roared up the road towards us.

  As the first car screeched to a stop it dawned on me that we may be in a bit of trouble. It was a weird feeling because we didn’t think we were doing anything wrong. As far as we were concerned we were spreading joy and love everywhere we went. We certainly hadn’t meant to upset anyone or damage anything. However, I had the presence of mind to realise that explaining this to the police officer who was leaping out of his car might be a bit tricky, so I decided to take the only option left to me - I was going to run like hell.

  I suggested loudly to Geoff that he do the same and then legged it.

  I didn’t stop to see what my mate was doing, I just sprinted as fast as I could down the side of a nearby house. I carried on through someone’s back yard and then leapt over a fence. There was a lot of noise behind me and I knew the cops were chasing me. I was operating on survival instinct now and just kept running - through another back yard, down the side of another house, across a side street and into an alleyway. It was dark and I was terrified but I was so pumped full of adrenalin that nothing was going to stop me. I knew that if I got caught it would be the end of my police career and I reasoned that if Geoff and I both escaped the authorities might not be able to identify us. Geoff was quite nippy and I thought there was a good chance of us eluding capture.

  I heard a dog bark behind me and I raced out of the alley and into the yard of another house. I was running as fast as I could and just as I’d reached full stretch someone grabbed me around the neck and threw me to the ground. I lay there stunned, gasping for breath and looking wildly around for whomever it was that had dropped me. I expected a policeman to jump on me and slap handcuffs on my wrists but nothing happened. There was no-one in sight. I got up cautiously and realised what had happened. Stretched between the side of the house and the fence was a long plastic rope. I’d been apprehended by a clothes line.

  I rubbed my neck, it was sore but there didn’t appear to be any permanent damage. Thinking back I was lucky I didn’t break it (my neck, not the clothesline).

  The fall brought about a change of tactics. Instead of running like hell I decided to sneak quietly off into the night. My initial burst of speed had put some distance between myself and my pursuers but I could hear them searching the houses behind me and lights were going on all over the place, including in the house I was standing beside. I had no idea where I was but I wanted to get away from the houses so I snuck across the road into a field. Creeping along the tree line and moving very slowly, I kept going until I could no longer hear the commotion behind me. Finally I climbed over a fence into what I thought was another field. It wasn’t, it was a grave yard. This seemed appropriate because if I got caught then my police career was dead.

  I sat on a gravestone and felt miserable. I was afraid to stay where I was but equally feared going home in case the police were waiting for me. I was also scared of what Mum and Dad were going to say. They were due home at lunchtime the next day and suddenly my faith in their being reasonable about the depletion of the liquor cabinet had evaporated. What started as a misdemeanour had quickly become a capital offence. I was also beginning to worry about Geoff - maybe he wasn’t as quick as I thought.

  I stayed where I was for about three hours until the risk of piles and the approaching morning forced me to move. It was a long, lonely, trudge home, however I cheered up a bit when I turned into our street and saw that it hadn’t been cordoned off and there weren’t any police cars outside our house. I rushed inside, expecting to see Geoff there. Then we’d have a good laugh and tell fantastic stories of our miraculous escapes.

  The house was deserted. All that remained were empty bottles and the sickly stench of spilt booze and poor decisions. I flopped hopelessly into the lounge chair and tried to figure out my next move. I couldn’t ring Geoff’s parents. It was still very early in the morning and he was supposed to be spending the night with me. Besides, he could still have been hiding somewhere. To alert anyone now would sink us for sure. I toyed with the idea of ringing Quentin’s place in the vain hope that Geoff may have gone there but didn’t want to risk waking his parents. In the end I decided to go to bed and hope for the best. I’ve used this ploy many times in my life and can safely say it has never worked. It was spectacularly unsuccessful on this occasion as I was woken a couple of hours later by the phone.

  I stumbled out of bed just as the hang-over from hell made an appearance. The sun tried to burn its way through my skull and the phone’s piercing ring sent severe jolts through every nerve in my body. I answered the call. It was Geoff’s dad. He wanted to speak to my father. This was not a good sign. I explained that I was the only one home and I wondered if I could help. I was informed that I’d done more than enough already. I guessed that Geoff must have turned up somewhat worse for wear (I’m extremely intuitive) and asked if I could speak with him. I was curtly informed that I was never to contact him again. The sinking feeling in my stomach had now reached the lower strata of the earth’s crust and was contemplating a mission to the seventh level of Hades.

  Fortunately, Mrs Redfern, who must have been standing near the phone, urged her husband to take pity on me. He yielded grudgingly and let me speak to Geoff.

  The person who came on the phone was a far cry from the ‘devil may care’, fun loving rebel I had been with the night before. This new Geoff Redfern was promising never to drink again and proclaiming to have given up his evil ways. Only after several minutes of regret and remorse, which I assume were for his parent’s sake, did I finally find out what had happened.

  Geoff had come to the conclusion that fleeing was the best option seconds after I had. Unfortunately, in his saki-addled state, he had been less accurate than me in selecting an escape route. He turned around and ran smack bang into the side of the dog van, then fell semi-conscious onto the footpath. From there the police simply picked him up and threw him in the back of a patrol car. Possibly their easiest arrest ever. On the drive back to the station he said the cops kept asking who his mate was. My stomach heaved and I felt sick. Then Geoff perked up as he proudly informed me that he hadn’t dobbed me in and had told the police he was alone.

  A glimmer of hope.

  ‘So they don’t know who I am then?’ I asked optimistically.

  ‘Well I didn’t tell them,’ he replied, ‘Unfortunately, when dad arrived at the station he said ‘Was Glenn Wood with him?’

  The glimmer died. That was it; I’d been fingered by Geoff’s old man. I was history. I might as well pack the striped toothpaste because I was on my way to the big house to spend the rest of my days with a large room mate who wasn’t too particular where he placed his penis. Forget the New Zealand Police: I was about to become employed by the chain gang.

  Geoff finished by saying he had gained the impression that the police were a bit upset and wanted a word with me. I replaced the receiver and went into the bathroom for a panic vomit then crawled into bed and pulled the covers over my head.

  For the next few hours I weighed up the pros and cons of running away and becoming a peasant farmer in Chad. In the end I decided that looking pathetic and pleading stupidity was probably a better option.

  My first obstacle would be Mum and Dad and I put off phoning the police until I’d fessed up to them. They weren’t due home for another couple of hours and the time moved as slowly as a snail with a groin injury. Finally I heard the car in the driveway. I was sick with nervousness and, I suspect, a minor case of saki poisoning.

  As soon as Mum saw me she knew something was wrong. Mothers a
re good like that: they have an uncanny knack of spotting a carefully constructed and sanitised story before you can even open your mouth. She cut to the chase.

  ‘What have you done to the television?’

  I told them the TV was fine but they should expect a visit from the police shortly and that I’d probably be spending the rest of my life eating liver and maggot stew and making number plates.

  Mum looked relieved about the television.

  The thing they were most angry about was that I had disobeyed a strict instruction. There were protracted discussions about loss of trust and ruined lives but they eventually calmed down and tried to work out if anything could be salvaged from the mess I’d created. Dad said the first thing I should do was to ring the police and confess. I was also to make a suitably humble apology to Geoff’s parents.

  The police were surprisingly relaxed when I phoned them. To me this was life or death stuff - my whole future hung in the balance - but to them it was just another drunk and disorderly. I was informed that they had my details and a detective would be around to see me the following Tuesday night.

  I was secretly pleased about that: a detective, wow. I guess if you are going to stuff things up you might as well do it big time.

  Dad set the wharfie network into action and had a chat with a few of his police mates to see how much damage I had done. The general consensus was that as I hadn’t actually been arrested, it would be up to the detective in charge of the case as to what action, if any, was taken. Those two words “if any” gave me a sliver of hope which I clutched onto with both hands. Everything that had happened had inflamed my desire to join the police. I hadn’t enjoyed being pursued but it made me think how cool it would be to be the ones doing the chasing.