The Guardian Angel

By Len Cooke

A collection of thought-provoking short stories that range from travelling backwards in time to find a bride to discovering your girlfriend's father is about to assist an alien takeover of the planet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Panda Press
• Release date: Nov 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540193506

Len Cooke

As with many writers, Len regards the art as being very much part of his DNA. After taking early retirement from his work on nuclear submarines, his passion for justice and decency led him to work as a volunteer in one of Her Majesty's Prisons and that collective experience, together with his travels to many parts of the world, has given him an unrivalled maturity, and at times, wicked sense of humour that can often be seen in his work.  

Book preview

The Guardian Angel

And Other Tales

of the Bizarre

Len Cooke

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Published by Red Panda Press 2012/2016

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any events, persons, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters are fictitious products of the author’s imagination

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Copyright Len Cooke 2012/16

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Also by Len Cooke

September

The Time Travellers’ Guide to Total Chaos

(or Harry, Sandy and the Zandron)

The Illusionists

The Jupiter Three Dilemma

The Mind Hunter

The McEndrick Option

The Extraordinary Adventures of Charlie Frank

Table of Contents

The Fixer

The Time Traveller's Folly

The Guardian Angel

Jennifer

The Friends

About the Author

The Fixer

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'You're how much in debt?' asked Ben Jackson incredulously.

Mick Whitworth looked at his red-haired friend of over twenty years and, despite himself, grinned. 'About two hundred and fifty,' he replied, returning his attention to the remains of his beer.

'Thousand!' gasped Ben.

'Thousand,' agreed Mick, glancing insecurely around the near-deserted bar of the Fox and Hound Inn to see if anyone else was listening to his grim revelation.

'Pounds?' continued Ben; still looking as shocked as though he had suddenly learned his friend was a visitor from another planet.

'Pounds,' agreed Mick, before swallowing the remains of his beer, two hundred and fifty-thousand of them.'

'Good God!'

'So I'm told, but in my case,' Mick shrugged, helplessly, 'in my case, perhaps not so good.'

'How?' asked Ben, 'I mean...well...what I really mean is – how?'

Mick smiled again and handed over his now empty beer pot. 'Fill this up and I'll tell you.'

***

It was two-thirty in the afternoon of the following day when Mick's phone rang; it was David Halton, his solicitor.

'Mick?'

'Yes?'

'I've just had your wife's solicitor on the phone,' said Halton, 'she'll settle for the house.'

'We've gone through this twice already,' protested Mick, 'I can't afford to let her have the house, I've got to have half of it or I'm stuffed, financially.'

'It's either the house or prison, if you agree to the house then she'll drop the assault charges and you won't go to trial and therefore – you won't risk going go to prison.'

'That's blackmail.'

'That's reality,' advised Halton.

'But I didn't assault her,' said Mick. 'I've already told you, she must be trying to protect someone; either that or she got someone else to do it to provide her with leverage, it's working too.'

Halton sighed. 'I think we've also been round this buoy before, Mick, during a number of former reality checks. Your wife was definitely assaulted, quite badly so, therefore I think the theory of a put-up job is rather weak. No, I'm afraid that you're the only one in the frame. So, you either let her have the house and she'll drop the charges, or you can run the risk of a court case and end up with a criminal conviction for a serious assault on a female. If you do the latter then my guess is you could spend anything up to five years eating porridge, or whatever it is they feed prisoners on these days.'

'Shit!'

'Yes, yes, I think you're probably right,' agreed Halton, 'apparently the daily budget allowed for a prisoner's food is almost criminal itself.'

'I meant – shit! As in – Oh shit!' corrected Mick.

'So, what do you want me to do then; what, as they say in my profession, are your instructions?'

Mick shook his head, despairingly. 'Do I have a choice?'

'Not if you don't want to be wearing green trousers and sewing mail bags for ten quid a week; knowing your appetite that won't even keep you in Mars Bars.'

'Green's not my colour; by the way, do convicts still sew mailbags?'

'I've no idea; you can let me know when I visit.'

'No thanks, you'll charge me for your time. Anyway, it sounds as though Sally's playing pretty dirty; I'm surprised, it's not like her.'

'I've been told it's her new boyfriend,' said Halton, 'he's having something of a bad influence on her, thinks he can smell gold. You must also remember that Sally was just marginally upset when she came home and found you with the big blonde, in her bed and while said big blonde was wearing, or rather half-wearing, her freshly ironed nurse's uniform.'

Mick was silent for a moment. 'Yes, yes I know, that was not the best day of my life it has to be said. The problem was she'd never wear it for me when we were___'

'Are you in a lot of debt?' asked Halton, not wishing to hear any more.

Mick told him.

'How did you manage that?'

'Bad investments, gambling debts and the total disintegration of the property bubble. I have an empty buy-to-let property in Manchester that's now worth a fraction of what I originally paid for it, in fact it's completely unsellable for anything approaching its purchase price, but I still have to service the mortgage.'

Halton made sympathetic noises then came up with something a little more substantial. 'I have a contact who may be able to help.'

'How?' asked Mick.

'He's a sort of – financial advisor,' said Halton.

'Sort of?'

'Well, unqualified on paper is what I mean; but he's very, very good all the same.'

'How do you know?' asked Mick.

'Because he's helped out a number of my clients in similar circumstances; in fact, since being put in touch with Harry they've all done really, really well for themselves.'

'Really?' said Mick, resisting the temptation to chuckle.

'Do you want to meet them and ask them?' asked Halton, sounding slightly irritated.

'No, no, sorry, I believe you. Did you say he was called Harry?'

'Harry Labile,' replied Halton, 'an old university friend of my father's.'

'Another lawyer?'

'No, Harry read economics.'

'And he's unqualified?'

'To practice as a financial advisor – yes.'

'How does he help people?' asked Mick.

'Can't tell you that.'

'Can't or won't?'

'Can't, because I don't know; part of the contractual deal people make with him is the strict honouring of a confidentiality clause he makes his clients agree to.'

'How much does he charge?' asked Mick.

'Again, I don't know.'

'But he does charge of course?'

'All I can tell you is that there is a fee but I haven't got a clue how much,' said Halton. 'It all depends on the individual case, in other words, his charges are non-standard.'

'Then I'm buggered, I can't even afford the price of a pint at the moment.'

'You won't have to pay him up-front,' said Halton. 'He's far from stupid; people who see him for help are always on their uppers and he knows it; he works on a payment by results basis; long-term results; if you like a sort of extended – no result – no fee arrangement.'

Mick sighed. 'Well, I could have a chat with him; it can't do any harm I suppose.'

'Shall I fix it up for you to see him? It normally takes a couple of days.'

'Where's his office?'

'He'll come and see you.'

'Doesn't he have an office?'

'Does he need one?'

'What's in it for you?' asked Mick.

Halton was silent for a moment. 'I receive a referral fee for every customer he takes on.'

Mick smiled, grimly, and shook his head; of course he received a fee; Halton was a lawyer, not a member of the Citizens' Advice Bureau. 'Okay, why not? Like I said; it can't do any harm, now can it?'

Two Days Later

Punctual to the minute, Harry Labile arrived at Mick Whitford's home at three o'clock on the afternoon of the 25th April. Unlike his slim, tall and blond potential client, Labile was a short, dumpy, bespectacled man in his late fifties with greying, short, wispy hair and an unhealthy complexion scarred with the evidence of severe, adolescent acne. He was wearing a, seen-better-days, pin-stripe business suit that badly needed cleaning and had the air of a man who washed infrequently, was always intolerant, grumpy and in a hurry. Instantly unimpressed, Mick nonetheless ushered him into the lounge and waived him towards an armchair.

'Can I get you a drink?' he asked. 'Tea, coffee, something sharper perhaps?'

Labile shook his head as he opened a small conference case. 'No thanks, not a lot of time so, if you don't mind, I'd like to get straight down to business.'

'Of course,' replied Mick, sitting opposite his guest in another easy chair.

'What has David told you about me?' he asked. Mick told him. 'So you know there is a fee for what I shall help you achieve?'

Mick nodded. 'But not how large a fee.'

Labile held up a silencing hand. 'You will not have to part with so much as a bean until I have successfully helped you and even then payments are deferred, often for years. In the meantime, tell me, what is currently happening in your life?'

'I'm getting divorced, there are no jointly owned liquid funds as such but my wife is insisting on being given the house with all the accrued equity that's now tied up in it.'

'This place?' asked Labile.

'Yes.'

'Why isn't she living here?'

'She left after the beating, she lives with her sister.'

'Beating?'

'David didn't tell you?' Labile shook his head. 'Someone broke in and assaulted her when she was alone. She never saw her assailant but she's always blamed me for it.'

'Why?'

Mick shrugged. 'I came home just seconds after the attack and found Sally, that's my wife, unconscious on the floor of the kitchen. I was tending to her when her sister walked in through the back door. Nothing was taken so burglary was ruled out; my wife had not been sexually assaulted therefore rape was not a motive. So, Julia, the sister, knowing that we'd been having a