How Not To Drive A Tank

It was no big deal. One of our younger citizens had been arrested for riding a stolen moped. On the down side he had no helmet, no licence, and no insurance. On the up side, the bike was stolen over a year ago. He had borrowed it from a mate who had bought it off another mate who had swapped it for a wristwatch with someone who's name no-one remembered. He wasn't going to be charged for the 'stolen bike' part of the problem.

He had some other points in his favour. He was polite. He actually called me 'sir'.

I don't require that level of respect and deference from teenagers. That might surprise some people, but the world has moved on. Being called 'officer' or 'constable' is welcome but I don't bat an eyelid if a sixteen year old calls me 'mate'. Anything is preferable to the usual. The usual is being referred to as a part of female anatomy.

Citizen 36709 displayed a pleasant attitude for his age. It didn't get him out of a trip to the Village police station, but it did mean that neither of us would have to see the doctor when we got there.

Another item in his favour: he was scared silly of his Mum.

"Please don't call her," he begged.

Citizen 36709 was only 16. Mum turned out to be an annoyed but very reasonable parent. She explained that her son had fallen in with the wrong crowd. She was worried about him. She told me he wanted to join the army. She asked me to have a chat with him regarding his recent bad behaviour.

I checked the records. Citizen 36709 had come to police attention several times over the last few months. He seemed to have made some new friends in the Village. These friends had files much longer than his. They were well known to me.

We sat in the room. Citizen 36709 sat quietly while his Mum fumed beside him. The matter of the moped had been put to bed. Our impressionable lad would face nothing more serious than charges for driving offences. I turned off the tape recorder.

It was time for that chat.

"You're a bright lad," I opened. Start with the positive. "Why have you been getting into trouble so much?"

Citizen 36709 looked at his Nike Airs (or whatever teenagers wear these days to run away from police faster).

"I want you to listen to your Mum and Dad from now on," I said. "They're trying to do what's best for you. You worry them by getting into trouble."

He didn't like that.

"You want to join the army?"

Citizen 36709's eyes lit up. He came to life right there in front of me.

"I want to drive tanks," he gushed. "I used to build airfix ones when I was little."

"I don't think," I said slowly, "that Her Majesty's Royal Tank Regiments would want to employ a car thief. Do you?"

He looked momentarily stunned. He hadn't thought of that.

"It's up to you, Citizen 36709. If you want to make a success of your life, then stay out of trouble. Jail time tends to get in the way of a career."

He appeared pensive. He assured me he would think long and hard about stuff.

"That was impressive," said Number 8. "Stern but fair. I think you might have straightened him out. That could be the difference between him growing up to be a valuable member of society with a contribution to make... or becoming an armed blagger."

"I hope you're right," I said. It's subtle things that save souls.

The next morning I peeled my bloodshot eyes open for Parade. On the power-point presentation that formed our intelligence briefing, I saw a familiar face.

Citizen 36709...

...arrested in the dead of the night. Charged with burgling an old lady and threatening her with a kitchen knife.

"I guess he won't be driving tanks," I mumbled.

It was no big deal. We lose battles like that all the time.