by Jason Ayres
He was aware of the existence of certain toys designed purely for that purpose, but that was a different matter. People did that sort of thing for pleasure, not that it was an area that Kent had any experience of. On the one occasion he had suggested exploring that side of things with Debs, it had been made crystal-clear that not only were such practices off the menu, but also they were never to be mentioned again.
But today Kent was to strike a blow for all those millions of people who had ever uttered their empty threats to shove something up someone else’s rear end. Today, it was really going to happen. It wasn’t going to be easy, but he had the element of surprise on his side.
Dressed and ready for action, Kent headed over to the cabin where he had eaten the previous night. He had gone back over the details of the day with a fine-tooth comb and was ready for everything Summerfield had to throw at him.
Kent remembered that it had seemed as if the man had had a personality transplant overnight. The easygoing, jovial persona of the night before had been replaced by a cold, austere and disapproving stance.
The criticism had started right from the moment Kent had walked into the breakfast hall. Arriving there now, he was all ready for his first encounter with Summerfield. He was really going to enjoy this.
Hung-over as he was, he was all ready to load up on the breakfast buffet. The training centre was heavily into healthy eating, with whole and natural foods dominating the selection. The walls were adorned with posters, proudly proclaiming the organic and free-range nature of all the food. Thankfully, despite all this rabbit food, Kent had been extremely relieved to see that there was also a hot buffet.
Kent couldn’t give a toss about whether his eggs were free-range or not, he just wanted a fry-up, washed down with plenty of coffee and orange juice. He remembered from his first visit that the sausages and bacon were excellent, from hand-reared pigs on a nearby farm, and made a beeline straight for them.
He piled his plate high, forming a pyramid of pork products alongside his fried eggs and baked beans. There wasn’t any black pudding but he hadn’t been expecting any. Kent had noticed over the years that the likelihood of black pudding appearing on a breakfast buffet decreased the further south he was in the country.
Next he headed to the juice machine. Ignoring the locally produced organic smoothies on offer, he grabbed one of the ridiculously small glasses and stuck it under the tap of the juice dispenser.
The glasses were barely more than thimbles so he stood there, filled it up and downed it about four times, before moving on to the toast machine.
There was a selection of breads on offer but it didn’t include any white bread. Reluctantly, he picked up two slices of wholemeal, which seemed to be the only sort which didn’t have seeds or bits in it. He put them onto the conveyor belt and watched them disappear slowly inside the machine, hoping that they would not emerge either anaemic or burnt. Kent had not had a lot of luck with these machines over the years, even setting off a fire alarm on one occasion.
It was at this point that Summerfield approached him, just as he had before. The commissioner was dressed immaculately, with no sign of any ill effects from the previous night’s drinking. His appearance was in sharp contrast to Kent who was looking scruffy and unshaven.
Summerfield was wearing his trademark red and white striped shirt with a thin yellow tie and a light grey suit. His hair was immaculately swept back, moulded together by what looked like about half a jar of gel. The look was completed as ever by his red-rimmed designer glasses. He clearly spent a lot of time and money on his appearance.
He was carrying a tray on which he had a glass of fruit smoothie and two bowls. One of these contained some sort of muesli which looked to Kent as if it had just been gathered up from the forest floor. The second bowl was filled with a mix of fruits, topped with organic yogurt.
Summerfield looked disapprovingly down at the mountain of dead pig on Kent’s plate.
“You know, one of the key things that’s needed in the modern police force is fit and healthy officers,” he began, as he picked up two slices of organic multigrain bread and put them into the toaster. “Do you really think that’s the sort of food that’s going to help you keep in shape?”
As he spoke, he cast a blatant glance down to the spare tyre around Kent’s middle.
First time around, Kent had been flummoxed, mumbled a lame apology and just stood there while the man belittled him. This of course had been exactly what Summerfield had planned. But this time he had come prepared and wasn’t going to be intimidated. This was his first opportunity to show that he wasn’t some lame duck that could be trodden all over.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Kent, with a total lack of sincerity. “I didn’t realise that my job description now included what I am and am not allowed to eat. My mother always told me that breakfast was the most important meal of the day. ‘Breakfast like a king,’ she used to say. Certainly not like a sparrow,” he added, mimicking the look Summerfield had directed at his midriff, as he cast a derisory glance at Summerfield’s muesli.
The police commissioner looked shocked. He wasn’t used to people answering him back. After a couple of seconds he regained his composure and managed to string together a response.
“You know, I don’t think that’s an appropriate way to talk to your police commissioner. I’ve got my eye on you, Kent. Think on.” As he said this he put down his tray and did that annoying gesture where he lifted two fingers to his eyes and then turned them around and pointed at Kent.
“Whatever you say, sir,” replied Kent as his toast popped out of the machine. It was done to perfection. He decided not to push this encounter any further. He didn’t want to mess his plans up for later on. It was important that Summerfield continued on exactly the path he had before. If Kent took him to task too much now, it could have a knock-on effect that would alter his later behaviour.
Toast on plate, happy to have got the upper hand in this opening skirmish, Kent walked off towards a table where he could see Dan Bradley, a D.I. from Banbury, sitting on his own. He liked Dan. He was even more old school than Kent so he would feel quite comfortable having breakfast with him.
Behind him, he heard Summerfield curse “Bloody hell.” He looked back and was amused to see that he had burnt his toast.
“One up to me, I think,” said Kent under his breath. “Enjoy your breakfast, Gideon.” Chuckling to himself he made his way over to see his portly colleague who had a plate piled even higher with artery-clogging food than Kent’s.
Thankfully there were to be no heart attack-inducing outside activities on this second day. That was all done and dusted. They were to be cooped up in the conference suite for the day, a slightly smaller hut than the restaurant set-up for training purposes. It was also where the wedding ceremonies took place.
Kent made sure he got to the room bright and early to reacquaint himself with the layout. It was not that different to the average hotel conference room, except instead of the usual panelled walls, the sides of the room were made from vertical timber beams.
At the front of the room was a raised platform with a lectern in the centre. He noticed there was a top of the range brand new Apple Mac on top, which would undoubtedly be Summerfield’s. He hadn’t noticed that the first time he had been here, four months before.
How hypocritical of the man. It had been around this time that Hannah and Adrian had pleaded with him to get some new computers in the office. The ancient laptops they were using were creaking with age. Kent’s was the worst of all. It still had Windows Vista on it. When he had put a request in to Summerfield for some new equipment it had been refused. Apparently there was no budget for it. And now here he was with a sparkly new Mac.
Behind the stage was a seriously impressive-looking big screen onto which the laptop was projecting. There didn’t seem to be any of the wires or overhead equipment that Kent remembered from his haphazard attempts to present things in the past.
His last effo
rt had been a couple of years ago when he had tried to display some new guidelines at a Pubwatch meeting. On that occasion the laptop had stubbornly resisted all attempts to connect to the projector. When he finally did get it working the slides were upside down, much to the amusement of the assembled pub landlords.
Why did these things always have to be so complicated? mused Kent. Back when he was training at Hendon he had given a presentation as part of his final examination and he hadn’t had any problems then. The whole thing was done on printed-out slides, photocopied onto clear acetate and projected manually onto a wall. It was simple, and short of the bulb going, nothing could go wrong.
Gideon Summerfield clearly wasn’t going to have any such problem. Kent didn’t know how he was connecting to the screen but it was doubtless with some modern, easy technology not available to the likes of him. Bluetooth, probably, something he still didn’t fully understand and didn’t want to after the incident with the know-it-all assistant in the electrical store.
The screen unsurprisingly read “Embracing Change” which was what they were here for. The mere title infuriated Kent. He didn’t want to embrace change. He liked things just the way they were. The old-fashioned way of policing suited him down to the ground and had served the country reasonably well for decades. Why was there always some upstart like Summerfield trying to throw a spanner into the works?
He could understand the benefits of some changes such as improved technology, not that much of it ever found its way to his station. But trying to change the entire culture of the force just for the sake of change? Kent could see no purpose to it other than inflating the hideous man’s already bloated ego.
Kent turned his attention to the other end of the room where the rest of the delegates were filing in. The room had been set up for the day in four rows of tables with around ten seats in each row. Each seat had already been allocated to a specific attendee with a name tag. There was paper and complimentary pens adorned with the logo of Greenland’s Training Centre, as well as jugs of water, biodegradable paper cups and some complimentary mints.
These were all things you would expect to see at such an event. But also on the table were some additional items that you certainly wouldn’t find in the average conference room and these were attracting a lot of attention.
Kent had been here before so he knew what to expect, but the others were perplexed. On the desk in front of every seat was a large, rubber dinosaur, each about eighteen inches in length.
Kent took his seat, listening to the others speculating about what the dinosaurs were for.
“Perhaps it’s a free gift, something to take back for the kids,” said one of the few female D.I.s present.
“No, it’ll be for some sort of game or training exercise. You’ll see,” said Dan Bradley, confidently.
Not even close, thought Kent. They would find out soon enough.
There were a variety of different dinosaurs present, including all of the old favourites that had fascinated children for generations. There were plenty of Pterodactyls, T Rexes and Stegosauruses on display. Kent was not at all amused to see that he had been assigned a Brontosaurus.
He was quite sure this hadn’t been just a coincidence. Everyone knew that the Brontosaurus was the largest, dumbest dinosaur with the smallest brain. Summerfield had clearly given him that one to make a point. Well, he would have cause to regret that later. The Brontosaurus may have been fat and stupid but it did have a nice, firm, long neck which would come in very handy.
The meeting was scheduled to start at precisely 9.30am. Right on cue, Summerfield walked confidently, almost arrogantly, into the room, taking his place behind the lectern. Then he launched into his speech.
“Embracing Change,” he announced. “What do we mean by that? Are we talking about technology? Are we talking about new regulations? Or maybe changes in the law?”
He paused, for dramatic effect, waiting to see if there was any reaction from the audience, but nobody dared to say anything. The silence was broken by the man in the seat behind Kent sneezing very loudly and very violently. Judging by the tiny flecks of phlegm he felt hit the back of his neck, he hadn’t even bothered to put his hand over his mouth.
Nobody said, “Bless you,” not even Summerfield who ignored the sneeze and continued.
“No. I’m not talking about any of those things. I’m talking about you, the people here in this room. Now I’m sure you are all wondering why you’ve got a dinosaur on the desk in front of you. Well, what we are going to do now is play a little game to find out why. Stand up and pick up your dinosaurs,” he commanded.
“See, I told you it was a game,” Kent heard Bradley say to the female D.I. he had been talking to earlier.
The dinosaurs were much heavier than they looked and pretty bulky.
“Tuck them under your arm and walk up and down the rows,” ordered Summerfield.
They did as instructed. There was not a lot of space in the room, which was not much bigger than a squash court. With all the tables and chairs to negotiate and the rubber dinosaurs under their arms, the delegates kept bumping into each other. Kent, at eighteen stone, found squeezing past people difficult at the best of times and cursed as someone else’s Stegosaurus plates snagged on his belt, almost causing him to lose his balance. This had happened the first time he had lived this day, too, but even with foresight he hadn’t managed to stop it happening again.
“OK, that’s enough,” snapped Summerfield. “Back to your seats, the lot of you.”
Kent complied. He could have carried out his plan there and then but he wanted to wait until Summerfield had really pissed everybody off and there was plenty more to come. He wanted the audience on his side.
With everyone back in their seats, Summerfield continued. “So how did that feel?”
Again, nobody dared to answer so he continued. “Pretty difficult, right? Shall I tell you why I asked you to carry those dinosaurs around?”
There was the almost inevitable silence in response. It was like they were all scared in case they said the wrong thing, thought Kent.
“I’ll tell you why,” said Summerfield. “It’s because that’s what you are – dinosaurs. The way you do your jobs and the way you lead your lives is outdated, slow and plodding. There’s no room for the likes of you in the modern police force. Quite frankly, you all need a massive kick up the arse. I’m going to drag you into the 21st century if it’s the last thing I do.”
Summerfield paused, his eyes feasting on the sea of shocked faces in front of him. He had them right where he wanted them and their silence merely spurred him on.
“Now you’re either with me or without me,” he added. “If you’re not with me, I’ll make sure you end up as extinct as these dinosaurs. Do I make myself clear?”
There were a few half-hearted nods from the audience, who had just had the stuffing well and truly knocked out of them. As for Kent, he continued to bide his time and say nothing.
“Right then, we’ll begin,” said Summerfield, who showed off the fact that he had the latest generation of smartwatch by theatrically pressing a button on it to advance the presentation on to the next slide. It was entitled “The Way Forward”.
Over the next half an hour, Summerfield ripped the audience to pieces with one savage criticism after another. They were accused of racism and sexism, the previous evening’s sexist jokes at the bar being brought up as evidence, even though it had been he who had instigated them. They were also accused of being parochial and not seeing “the bigger picture”.
That was just one of a whole series of buzzwords that Summerfield threw into his speech. Almost every sentence was interspersed with some outdated marketing phrase or other. “Thinking outside the box”, “pushing the envelope” and “keeping people in the loop” all featured heavily. Kent was reminded of an old printout someone had once passed around during his training days entitled ‘Buzzword Bingo’ with all these phrases listed on it. The idea was that you ticked them
off as they were said in a meeting. He could easily have hit a full house today the way Summerfield was going on.
He sat patiently and listened, waiting for the two shock announcements at the end that would be his cue to spring into action. The first of these came at the end of a segment entitled ‘Evolution’ in which Summerfield had been talking about the employees.
“So to summarise, I’m looking to get some fresh DNA into senior positions. I want my D.I.s to be younger and fitter,” he explained, looking directly at Kent when he used the word ‘fitter’.
“I want them to be ethnically representative of the population. I want more women and I want more minorities in key positions. I will not have discrimination in this force.”
The man was totally contradicting himself with these statements, thought Kent. He didn’t have an issue with what Summerfield was saying in his second point. Of course the best people for the job should be appointed, regardless of their colour or gender. What he objected to was that in the previous sentence he had blatantly stated that he wanted younger people. Surely that was just as big a form of discrimination as the others?
“So in the months ahead I am going to be reviewing every station in turn and you are all going to have to reapply for your jobs. If you think you’ve got what it takes to be effective in my brave new world then you are going to have to prove it to me. Otherwise, it will be time for you to move on and make way for the next generation.”
The delegates were looking increasingly unhappy, especially the older ones. Kent could have stood up and challenged Summerfield there and then, but he decided to wait for the final devastating blow.
“Finally we move on to the subject of finances,” said Summerfield, changing the slide to one that read ‘Streamlining’.
“This police force is wasting far too much money,” he proclaimed. “And you are the primary cause of it. I will not have senior officers falsifying expenses to feather their own nests. I heard enough last night to convince myself that you are all on the fiddle. As a consequence, there are to be no annual bonuses this year.”
