Wyse spun round, standing before him was Officer Rogers. His frame silhouetted by the hallway light showed off his rat like features and not a particularly endearing rat.
Officer Rogers had often hinted he was ex-military and although he maintained he was unable to confirm or deny being in the The Regiment he would always stroke his Hereford moustache and smile.
It was Wyse thought an odd sought of clue to your past mysterious military background. Sporting such a popular style of moustache which was abruptly masculine in its short trim appearance should allow no broker for comparison between deadly assassin and drag queen. Used to affect a certain air in its namesake county especially in nightclubs, it inferred you were part of the Special Air Service. A secret which should probably be kept very private, especially with deadly enemies seeking revenge after the various clandestine operations in foreign climbs one would have encountered. Unbelievably Rogers seriously believed people thought he had actually been part of the SAS and predictably had maintained his Walter Mitty delusions.
‘What, are you, doing here?’ demanded Wyse.
‘Why, I have to do my fair share of nights, as well you know. It’s not easy being at the top but then you must have forgotten about that by now,’ said Rogers.
Wyse had not forgotten the responsibilities of such lofty echelons and still lived by these values in and out of work, well aware that behind his back there were whispers and even accusations he didn’t have any sort of a life, except for the Service. He understood the jealousy which founded these prejudices all too well having constantly battled them throughout his life, knowing with the greatest humility his example was one few could ever hope to comprehend, let alone emulate.
‘That’s not what I meant as well you know, why are you here Rogers? We didn’t request an officer and frankly, we don’t need one.’
‘I’m here for your support old friend. It’s just you seem to be taking longer to do the simpler things and as you hadn’t reported back to ambulance control, I was concerned,’ a slyness crept across Rogers face, ‘you know, I’ve even asked control to let me know where you go so I can keep an eye out for you, just to make sure nothing is wrong.’
‘Nothing is wrong with me,’ Wyse said, ‘In fact, if I were...’
‘If you were wrong it wouldn’t need pointing out, because it would be so obvious, eh Wyse?’ said Rogers.
‘No, that doesn’t make any sense. For then it would never be pointed out I was wrong and therefore to assume I was, would be to say I was wrong all the time, which is obviously not the case.’
Rogers started to form his next words but stopped. He would never admit Wyse had a superior intellect over him but arguments with him were never straight forward, even when you knew you were right. Confused as to what he should be arguing about he retreated to the safety of intimidation.
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