JACKSON, PAUL (1967 - ) Community policeman. I've never, regrettably, enjoyed the happiest of relationships with the local police. The neutral observer might think they'd be eager to utilise the asset on their doorstep, but since childhood, my offers of assistance have been rebuffed. While my powers have made me a household name in parts of North America, Europe and Australasia, I can stroll through Glasgow or Edinburgh without attracting a second glance.
Professional detectives feel threatened by the encroachment of gifted amateurs. No particular talents are really necessary for the roles fulfilled by our policemen and women. Their purpose is largely janitorial and requires nothing more than basic levels of integrity, diligence and physical fitness. The most effective police officers are those who accept their limitations and, whenever necessary, defer to powers superior to their own.
Paul Jackson, Drumfeld's community police officer, I will concede, has fully accepted his limitations. Unfortunately, the only duties he has concluded himself competent to fulfil involve etching numbers onto property as a precaution against future theft (an inevitability if Jackson is the only deterrent) and organising football matches between teams of indigents and drug abusers. Quite simply, the man is a disgrace to the uniform he wears in the slovenly manner of a pop star experimenting with a new 'look'.
On the various occasions I've required Jackson's assistance, he's dithered and prevaricated, more than once locking himself in the toilet. Passing a drunken fracas outside the Red Lion last December, I noticed his frightened, fat face peering at proceedings through a hedge. When I urged him to intervene, he muttered something about correct procedure and threatened to have me charged with 'obstruction' if I gave away his location.
Jackson failed to redeem himself when my life was threatened by fellow psychic, Kevin Of Summerston. Apparently irritated by comments I made during a radio interview, Kevin arrived in Drumfeld accompanied by leering cohorts and, from the vantage point of the war memorial, bellowed his intention of engaging me in a 'square-go'. As a master of the various techniques of Cung-Coe, my over-riding concern in such a scenario was less for my own physical safety than Kevin's. I suspected, however, that having made his grand gesture, he would lose interest. Unfortunately, I was mistaken.
Over the following weeks, Kevin and his accomplices became frequent visitors to Drumfeld, swaggering around the town, blatantly violating the by-laws against public consumption of alcohol and threatening anyone who attempted to chasten them. When I telephoned Jackson to register a complaint, he muttered something about a family bereavement and suggested that I "just fight him and get it done with." This, incidentally, was also Spencer's solution, one reiterated by goading chants of "Hamilton's a shite-bag" with which he and his friends kept me awake when returning from one of their binges. Kevin eventually desisted when the Virgin Mary appeared to him in a dream and cautioned him against his behaviour. A timely intervention: my patience was wearing thin.
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