My dad was a spy, and we used to talk about it

First off, if he was still alive, he'd come in here and say he wasn't a spy. He was an "internal security official", which in layman's terms means that he was the fellow in the Fez who would chase Sean Connery through the bazaars of Istanbul rather than Sean Connery himself. Still a spy, though. Just a spy who is out looking for other spies all day.

Like this is him doing spy things:

That picture is taken of him at night.

On a rooftop.

He told me about how he infiltrated criminal organisations, did surveillance work and even caught a Polish spy ring. Got to storm in to their headquarters with a gun in his hand and everything. He had strange things laying around the house. Holsters, diving equipment, gas masks, old uniforms and, of course, one time, be brought home his service weapon. The 9mm Walter PPk. Same handgun that Sean Connery would shoot KGB goons and the minions of eccentric millionaires with. My eyes lit up at this. As I was a little kid at the time, thinking he was just like the fellow in the movies we used to watch. But that was an ideal. It depicted a world of good and evil. Of order and chaos. Where great men risked their lives for a cause greater than themselves. Who would fight for the justice and freedom that we take for granted every day.

So to my astonishment, when I was becoming of age, my father stood over me and said "I'm not a hero."

At this point in time, my father had been in the police for over 20 years. But he was talking about those days too. He was even talking about his time in the army. But for context's sake, he said "Police officers do not serve the people; Police officers serve the state."

He left it there and got back to his cooking. I didn't really understand what he meant as I was no older than 10 years old at the time. But his words stuck with me. I think the first time he told me about the dark undercurrent of his work was when I asked him about torture. He laughed and said "No, no, no. When you torture a man, that man will tell you anything he thinks you want to hear."

Instead, he explained, that the wise course of action is the opposite of torture. To convince the captive that you're trying to win their trust. You put them into a nice penthouse room, give them something to drink, perhaps a cigar, and then call in a couple of girls. And then, you simply video tape him as he is, in my father's words, "being whipped by them whilst wearing a dog collar", and threaten to show this footage to any family members or spouses. That's how you get the truth out of a man.

I was a bit shocked by this. Suddenly this world of good and evil seemed somehow murky. This, amalgamated by his previous remark about serving the state began to form my world view. My father was a man far removed from the ideals of his work. To him it had become a way to provide for me and my mum. He'd spend a lot of sleepless nights after arguing with his commissioner. He'd take me to his precinct and have hushed conversations where he complained to me about how racist his colleagues were, and once I remember telling him a joke that gave me some inclination of where he actually stood.

I said "Hey dad, how do you get rid of all crime?"

And he asked "How?"

And I said "Make crime legal!"

He smiled for a moment, and then suddenly he got serious. He looked at me and said "You know, there's actually a lot of truth to that."

My father could never openly be radical. Talking to his friends at work years after his passing, they had no idea about this. My dad would casually quote socialist authors when I was alone with him. He'd tell me about the atrocities carried out by organised religion. He'd always keep a book on the Spanish Civil War with a dog ear next to his chair in the living room. He had a personal library of volumes upon volumes of history books. My father was the first radical Marxist I ever met. I wouldn't be who I am if it wasn't for him. In his life, for the sake of putting food on our table, he had to hide it from everyone but me.

But in truth, even within the heart of the state, there are people who grow disillusioned. In fact, I think he wanted me to turn out like this. Because one final conversation I'd like to disclose is one time when I told him about how I wished to grow up to be just like him. He went down on a knee and put his hand on my shoulder, looked me right in the eyes, and said:

"Son, never walk in my footsteps."