Standing to Attention

This short story is republished to coincide with the retirement of Andy Cooke from the Police force. While the narrative draws loosely on broader cultural attitudes and institutional debates of its time, all characters, events, and situations depicted within are entirely fictitious.

Andy Cooke was known, in some circles, for his support of controversial recruitment practices within the Police—particularly discussions surrounding the appointment of individuals perceived as ill-suited to the demands of the role, including those connected to senior officers. This work does not seek to document or represent any real individuals or cases, but rather uses fiction to explore themes of power, perception, and personal identity.

Content Warning: This story contains explicit and potentially disturbing material, including psychological distress, coercive dynamics, and dark thematic elements that some readers may find uncomfortable.

Grown-up Child

Standing to Attention

The day began well—clear sky, a rare stillness over Crosby. The air felt paused, as if even the tide had reconsidered its rhythm. He rose early, as he always did, and decided on the beach. Routine suited him. Routine confirmed him.

He was Head of PE.

It mattered—this fact. It ordered his life the way the timetable ordered his school. By thirty, he had risen to it, and everything since had arranged itself neatly around that achievement: the house near the esplanade, the marriage, the measured comfort of two good salaries and careful planning.

His wife had once trained to teach as well, though she never followed through. The children had frightened her, she said. She preferred structure of another kind—uniform, rank, reports. Her father, a Chief Superintendent, had made sure she found her place in the police. A safe place. A suitable place. She had always needed that.

Together they had settled in Crosby, close enough to her parents to reassure her, far enough from his own beginnings to feel like progress. They ate out on South Road, watched easy films at the Picture House, shopped without thinking too much about cost. Their lives moved forward without friction. Even their weekends were predictable: lunches with her parents, polite conversations, the steady reassurance of routine.

He liked it that way.

He told himself others did too.

There were small discomforts, of course. His wife disliked visiting his family in Everton—too rough, she said. Too unpredictable. He didn’t argue. It was easier to agree, easier to let distance grow. Old friendships had faded anyway. People drifted. Or perhaps they resented him. Head of PE at thirty—that could do it.

Still, certain moments lingered.

A Sunday lunch. His mother clearing plates. His sister’s friend—Sal—offering to help, asking questions. Too many questions. About toys, about childhood, about what things meant. His wife hadn’t known how to answer. She rarely did when things became complicated.

Sal had unsettled the room without raising her voice. Later, he had overheard her—polite, but cutting. Babyish, she’d said. Too young for her age.

It had stayed with him longer than he cared to admit.

Now, years later, he walked along the beach past the iron figures—silent, identical, facing the horizon. Another Place. He liked them. They stood as they should: upright, fixed, unquestioning.

Like him.

He moved with purpose, his tracksuit neat, his posture deliberate. People would look at him and know—Head of PE. There was a solidity in that. A certainty.

Yet Sal returned to him.

She had been there at the beginning—on placement. Confident, composed, capable in ways his wife had not been. Even he had noticed it then, though he had chosen otherwise. His wife had needed him. That mattered more.

Didn’t it?

Sal had gone on to something vague—art, exhibitions, writing. Nothing concrete. Nothing measurable. He dismissed it, as he always did.

And yet she persisted.

The wind picked up.

One of the iron men had been defaced—graffiti scrawled across its chest. He frowned. Disrespectful. Disorderly. He looked around, half-expecting someone to take responsibility.

No one did.

Further along, another figure bore a different mark—crude, intrusive. He felt a sudden wave of discomfort, something visceral and hard to place. He turned away quickly, jaw tightening.

His thoughts became crowded.

Sal’s voice. His wife’s laughter—too light, too small. The police investigation he’d heard about. The awkward conversations. The way things didn’t quite align anymore, no matter how neatly he tried to arrange them.

The word echoed—something Sal had said, something others had repeated. It pressed against him, unwelcome.

He walked faster.

Out toward the tide, the statues disappeared gradually beneath the water—first their legs, then their torsos, until only heads remained, watching, waiting.

He stared at them.

Submerged. Silenced.

A thought came uninvited, sharp and sudden. He imagined control—absolute, unquestioned. The removal of irritation, of contradiction. The quieting of voices like Sal’s.

His body reacted before his mind caught up. A surge of something unfamiliar—violent, electric. He stood still, breath shallow, unsure whether it was anger or something worse.

The sea stretched out before him, grey and endless.

For the first time, the order he relied on felt fragile. Beneath it, something else shifted—something he had never named, never examined.

Something rising.

The wind strengthened, whipping across the shore. The iron men stood as they always had, facing the horizon, unmoved.

But he was no longer certain he was the same as them.

And still, he stood there—rigid, unyielding—

standing to attention.

Afterword

Andy Cooke served as Chief Constable of Merseyside Police from 2016 to 2021, before assuming the role of His Majesty’s Chief Inspector of Constabulary and His Majesty’s Chief Inspector of Fire & Rescue Services on 1 April 2022. Following his recent retirement from policing, he is said to be settling into a quieter life in the parklands of West Derby Village.

During his tenure, he became associated—at least in certain critical perspectives—with support for contentious recruitment approaches within the force. Standing to Attention draws on such perceptions in a wholly fictional and exaggerated manner. The characters and events portrayed in this story are inventions, intended to explore institutional culture, bias, and the consequences of unchecked assumptions.

The narrative reflects, in satirical form, anxieties about how priorities within policing can become distorted—particularly in sensitive areas such as the investigation of sexual violence—when competence, independence, and professional rigour are perceived to be secondary to internal loyalties or image.

It is hoped that, in time, institutions evolve toward greater accountability and effectiveness, and that those affected by serious crimes are served with the care, focus, and professionalism they deserve.

Further Reading

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