Elms attempted to lock the ambulance and the random clicking noise from the ambulance indicated the central locking system was working as normal. Any combination of open or locked doors would now be possible and would only hinder them when they tried to get back into the ambulance with doors which refused to open.
A sharp wind funnelled through the narrow streets carrying away the smell of burning rubber and red hot brakes. Grimacing as the morning wind bit into Wyse’s bare arms, he regretted not wearing the service jacket but he would not back down on his impression of their new uniform. His view though was in the minority, even when he had pointed out that the new cargo trousers did not fit into a trouser press and a shirt which did not need ironing was not a shirt. In protest he refused to wear the fleece which had replaced the perfectly respectable v neck jumper and made it quite clear under no circumstances, including the virulent Health and Safety would he be wearing boots at work. His black patented shoes skimmed through the scattered puddles which threatened to drown his socks and dashed the reflection of the new lime green uniform with relish.
A moss covered garden gate barred their way and refused to be pushed or pulled open but eventually relinquished to a sharp kick from a very vigorous Elms who stomped along the garden path, whilst the crazed driveway attempted to mislead any visitors to various clumps of indestructible weeds and formed a formidable barrier for any possible future landscaping.
Reigning in Elms, Wyse stood before a Tudor cottage which was in stark contrast to the rows of doppelganger houses of the new housing development it found itself surrounded by. The threadbare thatched roof polluted grey by the smog of London, provided little protection from the elements and a chimney stack now precariously balanced on its last few remaining bricks. Most of the weather worn exterior plaster had abandoned the walls in large patches, exposing the hidden framework beneath and it was difficult to discern where the cottage actually started or finished as it blended in with the outside environment.
Even in its state of disrepair Wyse admired what once must have been a resplendent cottage. It was reminiscent of a more idyllic era and despite the obvious neglect had withstood the passages of time with a sense of dignity and grandeur which would be difficult to duplicate.
The comparison to his own life did not escape him.
Before Wyse could stop him, Elms unrestrained bound up the steps of the cottage two at a time and rapped furiously upon the warped front door. Screeching against rusted hinges the front door slowly opened and an elderly gentleman filled the doorway holding a flickering candle before him.
At six foot and two inches with a straight back Wyse was not diminutive, even so this octogenarian exuded a gargantuan sense of proportion over him. Wearing a full black tie ensemble, the gentleman’s bald head was left floating decapitated by the surrounding darkness. A furrowed mono brow obscured his eyes and a pencil thin moustache outlined a mouth desperately trying to keep up with a torrent of words.
Quickly retreating back down the steps and standing shoulder to shoulder with Wyse, Elms whispered, ‘He’s a giant! Look at the size of those hands, they’re like shovels.’
‘Come in now, please, my friend,’ sobbed the man, who had finally allowed his breath to catch up with his words.
An action Wyse had fully intended on doing so until he was stopped in his tracks.
‘He’s dead, murdered!’
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