The Third Policeman

by Flann O'Brien

Once he said something about ‘social justice’ but it was plain to me that he did not properly understand the term.

not much has changed

It was difficult to practise at first and often called for heroism but I persevered and hardly ever broke down completely. It is now many years since I said Yes. I have refused more requests and negatived more statements than any man living or dead. I have rejected, reneged, disagreed, refused and denied to an extent that is unbelievable.’ An excellent and original régime. This is all extremely interesting and salutary, every syllable a sermon in itself. Very very wholesome.

When I awoke again it was later in the day and a small man was sitting beside me watching me. He was tricky and smoked a tricky pipe and his hand was quavery. His eyes were tricky also, probably from watching policemen.

‘Never in my puff did I hear of any man stealing anything but a bicycle when he was in his sane senses,’ said the Sergeant, ‘- except pumps and clips and lamps and the like of that.

maybe you would like to see something else that is a medium fair example of supreme art?’

and turned to the policemen. ‘I require just one thing more,’ I said, ‘I want a small weapon suitable for the pocket which will exterminate any man or any million men who try at any time to take my life.’ Without a word the Sergeant brought me a small black article like a torch. ‘There is an influence in that,’ he said, ‘that will change any man or men into grey powder at once if you point it and press the knob and if you don’t like grey powder you can have purple powder or yellow powder or any other shade of powder if you tell me now and confide your favourite colour.

The Sergeant shook his head and tapped his forehead three times with his finger. Soft as porridge is I nearly choked at the sound his finger made. It was a booming hollow sound, slightly tinny, as if he had tapped an empty watering-can with his nail.

‘I saw colours often on eggs,’ I observed, ‘colours which have no names.

Flying beetles came against me in their broad loops and circles, whirling blindly against my chest; overhead geese and heavy birds were calling in the middle of a journey. Aloft in the sky I could see the dim tracery of the stars struggling out here and there between the clouds. And all the time she was under me in a flawless racing onwards, touching the road with the lightest touches, surefooted, straight and faultless, each of her metal bars like spear-shafts superbly cast by angels.

I swung round in amazement. Before me, almost blocking out the night, was an enormous policeman. He looked a policeman from his great size but I could see the dim sign of his buttons suspended straight before my face, tracing out the curvature of his great chest. His face was completely hidden in the dark and nothing was clear to me except his overbearing policemanship, his massive rearing of wide strengthy flesh, his domination and his unimpeachable reality.