 
The Guardian Angel

And Other Tales

of the Bizarre

Len Cooke

Published by Red Panda Press at Smashwords 2012

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

Copyright Len Cooke 2012

Also by Len Cooke

September

The Time Travellers' Guide to Total Chaos

(or Harry, Sandy and the Zandron)

The Illusionists

The Guardian Angel

And Other Tales

of the Bizarre

Table of Contents

The Fixer

The Time Traveller's Folly

The Guardian Angel

Jennifer

The Friends

About the Author

The Fixer

'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, 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 bad time put___'

'Two and two together and made five,' Labile finished the sentence.

'Correct,' agreed Mick, 'the sum of which calculation Sally was quite happy to agree with. Her bottom line now is that I either hand over the house, in full, when she will drop all charges against me, or my trial, for GBH, will go ahead next month.'

'And you firmly maintain that you are innocent,' said Labile.

'Completely,' replied Mick.

'What makes you think a jury won't believe you?'

Mick grimaced. 'I have previous; I assaulted a man once, in a bar.'

'Why?' asked Labile.

'Because I was young, stupid, and very, very drunk.'

'You said something about a "bad time",' said Labile, 'what's that all about?'

Mick told him about the blonde, the bed, Sally's uniform and her surprise and unfortunately timed return to the marital home.'

'What's this place worth?' asked Labile, looking around the lounge.

'We bought it when we married, just over ten years ago; the house is worth around four hundred thousand and we paid just under one hundred and fifty for it.'

Labile whistled through his teeth while making notes. 'Nice return, twenty-five thousand a year.'

Mick nodded. 'Yes, apart from normal house inflation this has become a very popular area, it has an unusually low crime rate and the local State school is one of the best in the country and much in demand. People are therefore prepared to pay silly money to live within its catchment area.'

'So, on the assumption you do not wish to serve a lengthy prison term, no equity funds for you there then,' observed Labile. 'What other debts do you have?'

Mick told him about his buy-to-let mortgage and the way the house had de-valued in the last four years to a little more than half its original purchase price. His gambling debts and the two thousand shares in the Spanish copper mine, sold to him by a suspected Spanish boiler house that were worth, he had been told, much less than even the paper they were written on.

'You know I'm surprised at that, there's still a lot of copper in Spain and global demand for the metal is constantly rising,' said Labile.

Mick nodded. 'It's the old story of the cost of extraction. It would cost more to dig the stuff out of the ground than what they could sell it for.'

Labile frowned. 'I know this may sound rather less than helpful, but I have known people in far worse messes,' he observed.

'That's not very helpful,' agreed Mick.

'Anyway, not being able to access any of the equity from this house is extremely unfortunate,' observed Labile. 'One hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds, i.e. your share of the equity, is a considerable sum and would improve your situation – instantly.'

'True,' said Mick, 'but as I've said, my wife getting the house is pretty much a fait accompli.'

Labile grimaced, and, thoughtfully, began looking around the tastefully decorated and furnished lounge. 'So,' he said, at length, 'if you could access all the equity in the property; that would more or less give you a tabula rasa?'

'Sorry?' said Mick.

'A fresh beginning,' qualified Labile. 'Apart from a few odds and sods, like legal and other fees, it would virtually wipe the slate clean.'

'Well yes, yes, that is more or less true,' agreed Mick; 'but as I've explained, Sally, my wife, would never agree to that.'

'Do you and your wife have any children, Mr Whitford?'

'Not Sally and me, but I do have a daughter from,' momentarily embarrassed, Mick paused. 'I had a relationship with another woman some few years ago and...' He hesitated; amazingly, Labile was looking at him with an expression Mick considered to be bordering on approval.

'How old is the child?' asked the advisor, bluntly.

'Alex is...well...she's six,' he replied.

'Does your wife know about Alex?' asked Labile.

'Yes.'

Labile nodded. 'Another one of your many debts I take it? How much does Alex cost to run a year?'

'I'd rather not talk about her, if you don't mind,' replied Mick, his initial embarrassment about the existence of a love-child now turning to one of annoyance as his interrogator appeared to be referring to his daughter as some sort of financial chain around his neck.

Labile looked at him as though he were a fool. 'Look, if I'm going to help you then you must tell me everything, absolutely everything, is that clear?'

Mick nodded, reluctantly.

'Who does Alex and your former lover live with?' asked Labile.

'My former lover's called Penny and she and the child live with Penny's mother.'

'Penny, her mother and Alex, there's no other man in her life?' said Labile.

'Yes to the first and second and as far as I am aware no to the last, but why do you want to know all___?'

Labile looked up from his notes, and when he did so, Mick found himself inexplicably drawn into the man's eyes. For the briefest of moments they appeared to have almost fathomless depth and were as black as a crow's wing; more disturbingly, they also seemed to be a window into a soul completely bereft of pity, without even a hint, the faintest nuance, of anything at all that could be considered human. Then, the horror of what he had seen was gone and instantly he found himself thinking himself foolish and that he had imagined the whole thing.

'Where do Alex and her mother live?' asked Labile.

'They live down the road, in Deardon, why?'

Labile ignored the question. 'I'll have to have a think about your case, Mr Whitford,' he said. 'How do you earn a living by the way?'

'I'm an engineer.'

'Salary?'

Mick shook his head. 'Unemployed at the moment, my old company made a number of staff redundant last month, I was one of them.'

'Which company was that?'

'DayJac Engineering.'

'What sort of engineer are you?'

'I'm a specialist offshore structural engineer, why?'

'So you need a job too.'

Mick nodded. 'That would be very helpful,' he smiled, 'do you find jobs for people, as well advising them financially?'

'Would you be happy for me to start the ball rolling?' asked Labile, once again ignoring Mick's question. 'On the given understanding that my relationship with you is strictly confidential and that you discuss our dealings with no one,' he paused, studying his potential client through cold, black, emotionless eyes. 'No one, Mr Whitworth, not even your fairy godmother.'

'That's okay,' replied Mick, suddenly wanting his strange, almost frightening visitor to leave.

'I take it that David Halton informed you about my situation with the Financial Services Agency?' Mick nodded. 'Good,' said Labile, 'I have found that candour always pays best. Additionally, that any dues you might owe me would usually become payable only when you could afford them? And,' he paused, once again looking at his client through eyes that seemed to the engineer to be at least as cold as an Arctic winter, 'I can assure you that you will be able to repay me.'

Mick, desperate as he was, nodded.

'Good,' said Labile, then give me a few days and 'I'll see what I can come up with. 'Firstly, I need to ask you a few personal questions and make some more notes about your debts.'

***

'Do you really think you can help?' asked Mick.

'You would definitely like me to?' replied Labile, rising to his feet after completing his note taking.

'Yes, yes I would; I don't have a clue how but if you can help find even a partial solution to my numerous concerns then yes...please...go ahead and do it.'

'There's always a solution to every difficulty, Mr Whitford,' replied Labile, matter-of-factly and whilst glancing around the lounge again. 'Nice property, it would be a shame if you lost it through such a minor set of predicaments.'

'Sorry,' said Mick, as Labile walked towards the front door, 'minor?' His visitor turned and for the first time since his arrival, actually smiled and held out a hand. As he took it, Mick once again looked into his visitor's cold, determined, but now grey-coloured eyes. He also noted that Labile's handshake was strong, decisive, and uncompromising.

'Don't I have to sign anything?' asked Mick.

Labile shook his head. 'I think I can trust you, Mr Whitford, anyway, we're currently shaking on an agreed deal; I'm sure you're aware that if you cancel, once I've started, there will be a penalty to pay.' Mick nodded. 'Good, I'll start the ball rolling then and remember, nothing in this life is ever totally lost, nothing!'

The Following Day

Mick had just finished his evening meal when the phone rang, it was Labile. 'Can you talk?' he asked.

'Yes,' replied Mick, 'of course.'

'I've found you a solution,' he said.

'That's quick, what is it?' asked Mick, surprised that his apparent saviour had been able to find him a way out of his various dilemmas so quickly.

'You don't really need to know that, not at this stage anyway. All I can tell you is that, collectively, it's guaranteed to be a permanent fix. You see, as I said yesterday, your case is quite simple really.'

'Sounds too good to be true,' said Mick.

'So, I shall proceed as agreed,' said Watt's, matter-of-factly. 'This is just a courtesy call to let you know I've discovered a conclusive way-ahead and that I shall be implementing it, in full, sometime in the near future.'

The speed with which things were moving had left Mick reeling. 'Hmm, hang on a minute, I mean...well...what's the price? I need to know how much you're going to charge me before I commit, don't I?'

Labile sighed. 'As I suggested yesterday, the price is almost irrelevant; it's likely to be a number of years before you have to pay me anything. Now, as you know, we shook hands on the deal before I left your house, Mr Whitworth and in English law that's a contract; so I'm going to go ahead as agreed – goodbye.'

'Oh...oh...well right then...' Mick waited for a response but Labile appeared to have hung up. 'Hello, hello, did you hear me?' he asked. 'Hello, hello, hello!'

***

'David?'

'Yes?' said David Halton.

'It's Mick Whitworth, here. Look, I'm sorry to phone you at home but you did say that in the event of something worrying happening I could___'

'Oh hi, David, how's things, are you in trouble?'

'No, no, I'm good thanks; at least I hope I am. Look, this Labile chappie you put me in touch with, how do I get hold of him?'

'Why, is there a problem?' asked Halton. 'Has he been to see you?'

'Yes, yes he has and he's phoned me tonight to tell me that he's going ahead with some sort of solution he's worked out.'

'So soon, oh well, that's good, isn't it?' said Halton.

'But he won't tell me what it is and how much I have to pay him,' protested Mick. 'He insists that we shook on a deal last night; that we therefore have a contract and that he's going ahead as agreed. The problem is; we haven't agreed a fee.'

Halton chuckled. 'Did he say anything about it could be years before you have to pay anything?'

'Well yes, yes he did but___'

'And did he also say that whatever the fee you're charged, it will be one you'll definitely be able to meet when the time to pay comes?'

'Yes...yes he did; but that's not the___'

'It is, Mick, it is; in fact it's very much the point. You're in the smelly stuff up to your ears and he's a specialist in extracting people from said malodorous substance. Listen, if it puts your mind at rest, I've placed over two-dozen clients with Labile since I started doing business with the man. To-date, not one of them, not a single one, has been asked to pay him a penny piece. In fact, I know for a fact; that at least three of them have died without parting with so much as a farthing. Quite frankly, I don't know how he does it.'

'Good God!' said Mick, suddenly feeling much less stressed. 'Not one?'

'Not one,' confirmed Halton. 'The man is kosher, Mick, I mean, I'm a lawyer for fucks sake, an officer of the court, do you think I can afford to recommend anyone I don't trust explicitly to my clients?'

Mick suddenly felt embarrassed. 'Well...no...no, of course not. It's just that I was surprised by the speed of things and the fact I do not know what he's about to do; also that I've no idea how to get hold of him. I was just worried, that's all.'

Halton sounded understanding. 'Sure,' he acknowledged, 'I can appreciate that.'

'I'd still like to talk to him though,' said Mick. 'Ask him what his solution is before he goes ahead. I mean, I want to be certain that it's ethical and within the law. Can you give me his contact number? I've tried dial-back but he's ex-directory, probably a mobile.'

'I'm afraid I can't, Mick,' said Halton, 'don't you trust my judgement?'

'Well...yes...of course, it's just that___'

'Sorry, Mick, if you wish to talk with Labile you'll have to do it through me.'

'Why?'

'Because, that's the way he works and why I also get both a referral and a handling fee. He very rarely speaks with clients after the initial interview, in fact, in ten years he's virtually___'

Mick was shaking his head. 'What do you mean by a "handling fee"?'

'I mean that if you wish to contact Labile again then I, as the middle-man, charge you a fee.'

'Isn't that a bit unprofessional I mean___'

'Look, I've already told you, he's unqualified, brilliant but unqualified and if the Financial Services Agency knew what he was up to his feet wouldn't touch. This way, you deal with me and I deal with him; the fact that I get paid by you, to act on your behalf, and that he pays me a client referral fee without actually giving you any advice doesn't, therefore, raise any real questions of legality. 'Don't worry; Mick, in a few weeks time, when you're debt free and living a normal life once more, ethics, and even legality, won't enter the equation. You'll be a free man again, free to get on with your life; that's all you need to think about – okay?'

'Sorry if I'm being a little less than bright here,' began Mick, sounding puzzled, 'but if he doesn't give me advice, which is what I thought I'm paying him for, then what exactly does he do?'

'He's a fixer,' said Halton, carefully; the discomfort the question was giving him palpable in the tone of his voice.

'A "fixer"?'

'He fixes things, Mick; if you have a financial problem then he removes it, do you have any difficulties with that?'

'Err...what do you mean, "remove"?'

'I mean remove,' repeated Halton, testily. 'If you're in debt to someone for say a thousand pounds then Labile will endeavour to remove said debt.'

'How?'

The interrogation was leaving Halton frustrated. 'I don't know, Mick, I really don't know; he doesn't divulge his working practices to me. I should imagine he does it by negotiation. All I can tell you is that you are the only referred client who's ever got cold feet; everyone else has been ecstatic. Now I have to go, can I take it you're now feeling happier?'

'If you say so; but apart from his charges it would also be interesting to know how he is about to save my life, that's all.'

'I can ask him if you wish,' said Halton. 'However, I don't think he'll tell me, he's a professional and he keeps the tricks of his trade well and truly hidden up his sleeves. I will also have to charge you for my time.'

'At over two hundred pounds an hour,' said Mick.

'Exactly, so I suggest you let him get on with whatever he's going to do for you.'

Mick shrugged, resignedly. 'It sounds as though I have little choice in the matter.'

'Correct,' said Halton, 'now just relax and leave everything to Labile; goodnight, Mick.'

Mick heard a click as the line was broken and he found himself staring at the telephone handset as though he had never seen it before. 'Goodnight,' he managed, eventually.

***

Precisely one week after his meeting with Labile, Mick was going through his mail when he spotted an envelope with an unfamiliar stamp on it. Quickly, he opened it and after reading the first five lines of the enclosed letter, began to smile, broadly.

'They're worth how much?' asked Ben Jackson, five minutes later.

'The offer is twenty pounds a share!' shouted Mick into the telephone. 'Twenty pounds a fucking share! Four times what I paid for them, and I thought they were worthless.'

'So that's___'

'Forty thousand pounds; more importantly, it means I'm forty thousand pounds better off than I thought I was five minutes ago.'

'Bloody hell!' said Ben. 'What happened?'

'The global demand for copper has continued to go through the roof,' explained Mick. 'So much so that, apparently, it's now viable to extract tons of ore from the mine; another bonus is that the ore from this particular working is also rich in silver and gold. So, a large multi-national mining company wants to take it over and they're buying up all the stock they can get their hands on.'

'Bloody hell!' repeated Ben. 'So what are you going to do?'

'I've already done it,' said Mick, 'I've sold, by telephone.'

'Bloody hell!'

***

Later that day Mick's doorbell rang, it was Sally. Mick's first instinct was to panic, he had hardly spoken to his estranged wife since she had been assaulted and then it had only been in the sombre and claustrophobic company of lawyers. The latter had also advised him to have no contact with her unless 'completely unavoidable'.

'Sally?' he said hesitantly as he opened the door.

She smiled and brushed a long strand of auburn hair away from her black-flecked, jade-coloured eyes. 'Mick,' she replied, woodenly. She smiled and shrugged, suddenly an embarrassed little girl making her first visit to a new school. 'Well...can I come in?'

Mick nodded. 'Of course, but...well...should you? I mean, you know what the lawyers said about___'

But she was already in the hallway and walking briskly towards the lounge. By the time he had closed the front door and caught up with her she was sitting in what had always been her favourite chair and looking approvingly around the room. 'You've not changed anything,' she observed.

Mick sat opposite her. 'Did I need to?' he replied, remembering how incredibly beautiful his wife was. 'Anyway, how can I help you?'

She smiled again and, suddenly, she was looking at him the way she had once always looked at him – interested, affectionately; perhaps even as a lover might. 'I owe you an apology, Mick,' she said.

'True.'

'Don't be like that. I had a visit from the police this morning. Last night they arrested a man for rape, during his interrogation he told them he wanted five other offences taking into consideration.' She lowered her eyes as though momentarily ashamed of what was to follow. 'My beating was one of them,' she laughed, sardonically. 'It seems that he's some sort of screwball with a thing about beautiful women, women that he believes would never have a normal relationship with him and so he punishes them. He intended raping me after the humiliating beating but he claims to have heard a car pull onto the drive; it must have been your car, and he left the back way, hurriedly.' She looked at him now, a tear welling in the corner of her left eye. 'I'm so very sorry for not believing you, Mick. I also very much regret what I've put you through these last few weeks, I really, really do.'

Mick was silent. Although an admitted adulterer, he was not a violent man, he never had been and the alleged assault on his wife had given him much distress and heartache. He knew that some had believed he had hurt his wife; others had remained silent as to their true opinion of his guilt or otherwise; whilst some, his family and perhaps those whom he could call his closest friends, had always supported him unequivocally. However, the whole affair had blighted his already troubled life and Sally, with the large amount of equity in the house in mind, had taken full advantage of the situation. She had tried as hard as she possibly could to ensure she would not only come out of the divorce on top, but in so doing, effectively ruin the man who was set to become her former husband in the process.

'Well,' she said, anxiously, 'aren't you going to say anything?'

He shrugged. 'What do you want me to say?' he replied. 'You know I always denied the allegations. Surely, deep down, you must have known that I could never have hurt you like that?'

She nodded and after retrieving a crumpled tissue from the pocket of her jeans, began wiping her eyes. 'I was angry with you, Mick. I've been angry with you ever since Penny and Alex six years ago. In truth, what I was doing with the divorce conditions was much more about revenge than personal greed.'

'I'm sorry too,' said Mick, quietly. 'I know I've made a complete bollocks of everything; I'm not proud of what I did to us but...' He looked at her, carefully. 'Would you really have seen me in jail if you hadn't got your own way?'

Sally looked at him through large, wet, red-rimmed eyes, then leapt from her chair, ran across the room and climbed on his knee. There, with her head on his chest, she broke down in floods of tears and sobbed, convulsively.

***

'So she's come back to you,' said Ben, disapprovingly, 'after all the grief she's given you she's back, just like that.'

Mick nodded. 'Yes, she moved back in that night.' He smiled at the barmaid as she placed their drinks in front of them, then handed her a ten pound note.

'When was this?' asked Ben.

'Three days ago.' Mick chuckled. 'I think this is the first time I've been out of bed since.'

'So reconciliation is definitely on then?' said Ben.

'Hopefully, at the moment I don't see why it shouldn't be.'

Ben sighed. 'Well, watch your back. Remember, she may be a beautiful woman, and a great lay, but she very nearly had you on a porridge diet for the next few years; you couldn't have afforded to lose all that money so a potential prison sentence was always going to be the only realistic option open to you.'

Mick swallowed a large mouthful of beer and held out a hand as the barmaid returned with his change. 'Things have been looking up all-round lately,' he said, changing the subject.

'Oh yes,' said Ben.

'Well, apart from the good news about what I thought were just worthless pieces of paper, i.e. my Spanish mining stock, you will also remember I told you about my large gambling debts?' Ben nodded. 'Well it seems that I don't have any of those now, either.'

'How?'

'My bookie is, was, a small independent on the other side of town. Anyway, there was a fire at his betting shop two days ago; the police reckon it was arson. Seems the whole lot went up, including all his non-backed up computers and, therefore, would you believe, his entire database of clients and their debts?' He smiled. 'I'm home-free, Ben; home-free.'

'Sorry to put a damper on things,' began his friend, 'but aren't you worried he won't remember the names and sums owed by some of his more serious debtors, like – you for example?'

Mick should his head. 'The ruthless sod will never remember anything ever again; he went down with his ship. His flat, in which he was soundly sleeping at the time of the fire, was above the betting shop!' As he spoke his mobile began to warble, after retrieving it from his pocket he looked at the display, smiled and switched it to talk. 'Sally,' he began.

'Even more good news,' said Sally, someone from DayJac Engineering has just been on the phone. It seems they've landed a large contract with a Chinese offshore drilling company to design and build some special oilrig legs; they want you back, Mick; they need your expertise like – ASAP!'

***

'So it's win, win, win,' observed David Halton as he finished writing up his notes. 'My word, I don't think I've ever known anyone quite so lucky, congratulations.'

'Thanks,' returned Mick, 'it's amazing what can happen in just a couple of weeks or so.'

'So, what are your new instructions to me?' asked Halton.

'Well, obviously, I want you to draw stumps on the divorce, and if you could let Labile know that I shall not need his services, after all, I would be grateful to you. I know there'll be a fee involved for you and I suppose Labile will require compensating for whatever ground work he's already done for me. That can't be helped I'm afraid.'

Halton raised an eyebrow. 'I'll try,' he replied, cautiously.

'Sorry? Try?' said Mick.

'Well, to be honest, I've never cancelled Labile before; I don't quite know how he will take it.'

'People cancel things all the time,' said Mick, 'he's a professional; I should think he'll shrug his shoulders, have a quiet moan then get on with his life. If he's half as good as you say he is I imagine that he's much in demand; he'll not miss me, now will he?'

Clearly uncomfortable, Halton grimaced. 'I'll talk to him,' he confirmed, 'I'll let you know his answer.'

'I just need to know his cancellation fee so I can pay him, that's all,' insisted Mick. 'That's the only answer I want from Labile, I don't need him anymore, I got lucky, it's over.' He looked at the lawyer, carefully. 'Don't let him take the piss, David; tell him that I'm only prepared to pay reasonable out-of-pocket compensation, nothing more, nothing less. No cancellation fee was ever agreed, I never signed anything so___'

'In English law one does not necessarily have to sign anything to make a legally binding contract,' said Halton.

'What?' replied Mick, concerned by his lawyer's apparent negativity and suddenly remembering something Labile had said to him.

'If the terms and conditions of the contract were spelt out properly, albeit verbally, then Labile has a case for charging you whatever cancellation fee he did or did not agree with you, that's the law.'

'As I've just said, there were no terms and conditions,' protested Mick, 'none.'

'There must have been,' replied Halton, 'no one agrees a deal like that without agreeing terms and conditions. Put yourself in a judge's position, Mick; if this case went before a judge he's going to look at you, a degree educated, highly qualified engineer, and roll about with laughter when you tell him that you verbally agreed to a contract where terms and conditions were never discussed.'

Mick shook his head. 'They weren't, I was desperate for a solution, I never even thought about terms and conditions. I was also...' he hesitated. 'Look, I know this might sound stupid but there was something about the guy that frightened me. Actually, if I'm honest and I know he's a friend of yours, he frightened the shit out of me so I'm rather glad to be shut of him. Anyway, as an unqualified financial practitioner he's highly unlikely to sue me, now is he? Also, as my lawyer, I trusted you and, as such, I trusted the man you, as my lawyer, put me in touch with.'

'I will talk to him,' said Halton, non-committally and before rising to his feet and walking around his desk to indicate that the meeting was over. 'I can't promise anything, Mick, but I'll definitely see what I can do.'

'Good,' began Mick, 'like I said, you're my lawyer, you put me in touch with the guy so if there are any problems then rest assured that I'll be looking to you to sort them out; including any fancy cancellation fees, unwritten contracts or otherwise!'

***

It was eight in the evening of the Friday two days after Mick had had words with David Halton. The Fox and Hound was abnormally quiet and Mick, still very concerned as to the financial implications of his dealings with the rather unorthodox Mr Labile was, unusually, not in the mood for drinking and was therefore thinking of calling it a night. Ben, sensing his friend to be a little distant, tried to engage him in conversation. 'How's the job going?' he asked.

'The job's okay thanks,' replied Mick, 'in fact it's quite an interesting challenge.'

'And the beautiful Sally?'

Mick grinned. 'Yes, she's good too, tiring, but good.'

'Still hot and up for it then?' said Ben, smiling knowingly. 'How did the new boyfriend take to being dumped?'

Mick shook his head. 'I don't know; he's not my problem.' As he spoke he spotted his next door neighbour enter the bar. He was surprised, the woman, a widow, was in her late seventies and in all the years he had been using the public house he had never once known her visit it. For a moment she stood at the bar, anxiously looking around the room as though desperately searching for someone, then her eyes rested on Mick and she began walking towards him, her expression worryingly grave. 'Margaret,' he said, rising to his feet, 'why don't you join us?' He glanced at Ben. 'This is Ben by the way, Ben, meet my nearest and dearest neighbour, Margaret Lodge. Now, Margaret,' he began, and whilst smiling for the first time that evening, 'what would you like to drink?'

Still looking at him through apprehensive and worried eyes, Margaret took a few seconds to compose herself; then, slowly and very, very sadly, she told him why she was there.

***

James White sipped his glass of Scotch and looked at his brother-in-law through troubled, brown eyes. 'So your neighbour told you the bad news,' he observed, shaking his head. 'It's so incredibly sad, you and Sal were just getting it back together when she...' he paused, unable to say the words that delivered finality so very, very finally.

Mick turned his gaze from the crush of noisily chattering, black-clad mourners clustered around the bar, and nodded, sadly. 'Went and died,' he helped.

James grimaced. 'Hardly died,' he replied, bitterly, 'more like killed by a totally irresponsible drunk driver who drove off the road into a bus stop full of people and killed five of them, plus himself. Tell me something; I was talking to Ben earlier, is it true you knew the guy?'

'Oh yes,' confirmed Mick, 'yes I did, he was, or rather had been, my divorce lawyer.'

'And an alcoholic, according to the police; did you know that as well?' James held up his whisky tumbler. 'Apparently he had three times the legal limit of this stuff in his body when they autopsied his corpse – bastard!'

Mick shook his head. 'No, no I didn't know about his habit, not until after his death. It seems alchies are very good at hiding their addiction, along with denying its actuality. However, I did discover that he was not quite as kosher as perhaps an officer of the court should be.'

'Oh,' replied James, 'what dark and murky deeds was he into then?'

Mick told him about Halton's somewhat questionable relationship with the equally unorthodox and rather lugubrious, Labile.

'Halton probably needed the money to feed his drinking habit,' suggested James.

'In his profession I doubt that, but it's all academic now,' replied Mick. 'I've lost my wife, you've lost a sister, and David Halton has lost his life.'

'A sister I'd not seen for at least two years,' admitted James, regretfully.

'Understandable, when you're living in Washington DC.'

'True, but not very helpful all the same. Anyway, I shall soon be returning to the UK, permanently.'

'Oh, why's that then?' asked Mick.

'My contract's up,' replied James, as an attractive brunette in her early thirties suddenly appeared, as if from nowhere, and put an arm around his waist.

'And so we can have lots and lots of babies,' said the brunette, before realising how undiplomatic her remark was in the circumstances and flushing red with subsequent embarrassment.

'You've been at the wine again, Jenny,' said James, before kissing her forehead, affectionately.

'How are you, Mick?' she asked, somehow, despite her discomfiture and state of inebriation sounding genuinely concerned.

'I'll cope,' said Mick, for the first time in his life suddenly, and unwelcomingly, finding himself jealous of another man's intimate relationship with a woman. Then the tears began to fall down his face and the mask had finally gone. 'We were going to have lots and lots of babies too,' he wept, '"lots and lots of them", that's what Sal said when we got back together, "lots and lots and lots of them"!'

***

Mick opened the front door of his home to find himself staring into the anxious eyes of an unannounced, middle-aged visitor. The woman had short, grey hair, was aged around forty-five and, he thought, her prematurely wrinkled face had a hunted, perhaps even haunted look, which he found rather disturbing. 'Yes?' he said, quietly.

'Mr Whitworth?' replied the woman.

'Who wants to know?' he asked, suddenly suspicious.

'My name's Davies, Mr Whitworth, Sheila Davies,' she lowered her eyes for a few seconds before continuing. 'My husband, George, was one of those killed by David Halton; he was standing next to your wife apparently when Halton's car struck them.' She raised her head allowing him to see that her formerly clear, brown eyes, were now quite moist. 'Would you mind if I came in for a chat? I desperately need to talk to you.'

Intrigued, Mick invited the woman in, sat her in the lounge and five minutes later they were both enjoying a mug of strong, sweet tea.

'Thank you,' she said, clutching the mug to her navel, almost in the manner of a child's comfort blanket.

'No problem,' returned Mick, 'now what would you like to talk to me about?'

Sheila gritted her teeth and looked thoughtful, as though deliberating as to quite how she should begin. 'Could I start by asking you a question, well, a number of questions really?'

Mick chuckled. 'You can ask, whether I will know, or will want to give you the answers however is another matter altogether.'

'Was your wife in any sort of trouble, Mr Whitworth?' she asked.

'Not that I am aware of,' replied Mick, thinking the question to be bordering on the impertinent. 'Why do you ask and what sort of trouble do you mean?'

She shrugged, uncomfortably. 'Before I answer that question, would you mind telling me whether you knew David Halton?'

'Yes, yes I did,' he replied.

'In what capacity?' she asked.

'He was my divorce lawyer.'

'Just your lawyer?'

'I knew him vaguely when we were at school; but...well...yes, the relationship was essentially client-customer based, rather than friendly.' He frowned. 'Why do you ask?'

'So you didn't know him that well?' she insisted, ignoring his question.

'Not really.'

'Do you know anything about a man called Labile?' she continued.

Mick was visibly taken aback. 'Labile! You mean Labile the financial advisor?'

'Do I?' Sheila smiled, sardonically. 'Is that what he called himself?'

Mick shrugged. 'Oh I know where you're coming from. Yes, I do know that he's unqualified, David Halton told me as much.'

'Did you contact him to help you with your finances?' she continued.

'Halton did, then Labile came to see me; but I got lucky, in the event I didn't need him.'

'Oh, why was that then?'

Mick explained and when he had finished she was shaking her head, adamantly. 'So you really believe that all those coincidental lucky breaks; the fire at the bookies, the mining shares, the house and the new job with DayJac, were down to your sudden good fortune?' she said, cynically.

'Of course, what else?' he replied. 'Just what are you suggesting?'

Sheila reached forwards and placed her half-empty mug on an occasional table. She took a deep breath, sighed and began talking. 'When George, my husband, was in his early twenties, he did a very foolish thing, Mr Whitworth, he robbed a bank.' Mick raised an eyebrow, wondering why the woman was telling him about such a sensitive matter but, now anxious to hear her story, remained silent. 'He did the crime with an accomplice,' she continued, 'a much older man who had been in and out of prison for years. The older man made the fatal mistake of leaving a fingerprint at the scene of the crime, not even a full finger print, just part of one where a finger of his right-hand glove had parted at the seam; but it was more than enough to condemn him. He was arrested within twenty-four hours of the robbery and told that – unless he "coughed" the identity of his accomplice, he would be a very old man indeed before he saw freedom again.' Infuriatingly for Mick she paused and took a sip of her tea.

'And?' he insisted, keen to hear the conclusion of her tale.

'Faced with almost the rest of his life behind bars, for yet another armed robbery, he gave the police my husband's name.'

'Did George go to jail then?' asked Mick.

Sheila shook her head. 'After being arrested and bailed, George went to see a solicitor who specialised in criminal law. He told the lawyer his story and sought his advice.' Sheila paused again to finish her drink.

'But surely, it was the accomplice's word against George's,' objected Mick.

Sheila smiled. 'George had been no angel; he too had been in trouble with the law, car theft, shoplifting, minor criminal damage, he was well-known to the police and had no alibi. A good prosecution barrister might well, armed with Brian Lattimer's testimony, have been able to convince a jury about his guilt.'

'Brian Lattimer?' said Mick

'The accomplice, or rather, the grass,' she replied, disdainfully.

'So what did the solicitor advise?'

'He put him in touch with a contact of his, a man he described as a "fixer". Sheila set her host's eyes with her own and as she did so her expression became even more serious than before. 'The fixer's name was Labile, Mr Whitworth, and having told you that, you can probably guess the identity of the referring solicitor.' Still taking in the implications of his visitor's revelation, Mick could only shake his head. 'It was Halton,' she helped, 'Simon David Halton, David Halton's father!'

Despite himself, Mick was feeling confused. 'So, what exactly are you telling me?' he asked.

She shrugged. 'I would have thought the linkage was obvious,' she replied.

'It is,' he agreed, cautiously, 'but it's what you're implying from that linkage I'm having problems understanding.'

'George spoke with Labile, whom Halton described as a legal expert who could "fix things".

'A legal expert?' said Mick. 'Obviously our Mr Labile is in agreement with the great Bard himself.'

'Sorry?' said Sheila.

Mick allowed himself a brief smile. 'William Shakespeare, you know – As You Like It – "all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players", etc., etc., "and one man in his time plays many parts". I was told Labile was a financial advisor, not some sort of brief. But tell me, how could he fix things for your husband?'

Sheila smiled, cynically. 'The following morning, Brian Lattimer was found hanging from a noose in his cell, he had killed himself; in so doing, instantly robbing the Crown of its only witness against my husband.'

Mick shook his head. 'Well Labile could not have "fixed" that. Such a feat would be impossible.' Suddenly he caught the look in his guest's eye. 'Unless he had managed to get someone on the inside to do it and make the murder look like suicide.'

Sheila was still eyeing him, carefully. 'A few weeks ago, George received a telephone call from Labile; despite the long passage of time, Labile wanted payment for removing Brian from the scene for him.'

'Did he indeed? And how much did he ask for in payment?'

Sheila shook her head. 'It wasn't money he was after, it was a favour.'

Mick suddenly began to feel very unhappy, as though he knew what was about to come. 'Why do I have an uncomfortable feeling that I will not want to hear this,' he replied. 'Go on then, what was Labile after?'

Sheila nodded. 'He wanted Brian to kill someone for him.'

Somehow, Mick had been expecting the answer and despite the gravity of what he was hearing he merely frowned. 'I take it he told the man to bugger off?'

'In a manner of speaking, but then Labile told him that if he didn't do it someone else would; then, the someone else would be ordered to kill me too.'

'Good God!' exclaimed Mick. 'I knew Labile was weird the first time I met him, but I had no idea he was that weird. I take it your husband contacted the police?'

'And tell them what?' asked Sheila.

'That Labile wanted him to kill someone, of course.'

'Apart from having to explain why Labile was blackmailing him, which could have been difficult to say the least, George had no idea how to contact the man. Additionally, Simon Halton, the go-between, had died five years earlier.' She paused before sighing, wearily. 'George was also terrified of Labile's threats to me; after all, he had good cause, look what the man had had done to Lattimer.'

'As a matter of interest, just remind me, how did Simon Halton die?' said Mick.

'In a high-speed car crash, the coroner concluded that the brakes on his sports car had failed.'

'How odd; so what did George do?' asked Mick.

'What he was asked to do, he killed the man precisely in accordance with Labile's instructions.'

'Good God! How?'

'He set fire to the victim's shop, when he was sleeping in the flat above,' she replied, mechanically.

Suddenly, Mick felt cold and looking down at his uncovered forearms noted they were covered with goose bumps. Also, with the uncomfortable sensation of having a lead weight in his stomach, he was beginning to feel nauseas. 'Can I ask which shop he fired?' he asked, quietly and whilst feeling certain he already knew the answer.

'The bookies, on Primrose Hill,' she replied.

Mick now found he was having trouble breathing, but nonetheless he summoned the energy to ask a further question. 'Why did you come here to tell me this, Mrs Davies?

'Because of what happened next; because after George killed the bookie, he absolutely refused to kill your wife, Mr Whitworth!'

'My wife!' exclaimed Mick. 'Why should Labile possibly want to have my wife killed? She was no longer any sort of problem, in fact we had only recently had a full reconciliation.'

'Did Labile know that?' asked Sheila.

'Well not from me,' said Mick, shaking his head in despair. 'But I did ask David Halton to let him know.'

'And did he?' she asked.

'I don't know, I really don't know. I do recall that I was rather forceful with David the last time I saw him. I told him that I wanted him to cancel any agreement I had made with Labile.'

'And what did Halton say to that?'

'He wasn't very happy.'

Sheila's forehead creased with worry lines and she nodded. 'I'm not surprised, Mr Whitworth,' she admitted. 'I mean, I have to tell you that I'm really frightened. It cannot be a coincidence that your lawyer crashed into and killed my husband and your wife, not with their direct or indirect connection to Labile, I simply don't believe it.'

'Well, connected or not, hopefully, the threat to your own life has been removed with the death of your husband,' observed Mick. 'Labile has no more leverage there.'

'You think so?' she asked, sounding less than convinced. 'Tell me, have you ever come across the name – Belial?' Mick shook his head. 'Belial is one of the many names given to the devil, Mr Whitworth,' she smiled sadly. 'It is mentioned in both ancient Jewish and Christian texts where the name holder is often regarded as the evil "worthless one". The thing is – Labile is an anagram of – Belial.'

Mick, who did not have so much as one religious or superstitious bone in his body, could not help but chuckle. 'I really wouldn't go there, Mrs Davies. I know that Labile is something of an oddball; I took an almost instant dislike to the man myself, but believe me, what happened to our loved ones was a terrible, freak accident. There was nothing sinister about it, David Halton had the contents of a full bottle of Scotch in his stomach, that was the devil and that's what killed them, not some obscure demon conjured magically out of prehistory and intent on mayhem and mischief.'

As he finished speaking, the telephone began to ring and after excusing himself to his guest walked across to where it sat on a Welsh dresser. 'Yes?' he said, after picking up the handset.

'Mr Whitworth?' said a male voice he thought he recognised.

'Speaking, who is this?' he replied.

'Labile here,' said the caller, matter-of-factly.

'Ah...I've been anxious to contact you,' returned Mick.

'So I understand,' said Labile.

'Yes, I take it David told you about my changed circumstances, that I no longer need you to___'

'Mr Whitworth,' interrupted Labile, coldly, 'please listen to what I have to say.'

'Go on,' said Mick, somewhat taken aback.

'I understand that Sheila Davies is with you at the moment.'

Mick scowled, pointlessly. 'How do you know that, are you having the house watched?'

'I have a little task for you, Mr Whitworth,' replied Labile, ignoring the question. 'It won't take but a few minutes, but it's a very important one.'

'A job?'

'Yes, a job, Mr Whitworth, call it payment in lieu for services rendered, if you wish.'

'What services rendered?' he asked, nervously and suddenly feeling ill again.

'I would have thought Sheila Davies, who has been a little too talkative of late, would have already told you about those, Mr Whitworth.'

'Well...yes, as a matter of fact she did mention___'

'Don't you believe her?' asked Labile.

Mick was finding it difficult to speak. 'Err...err...you mean the fire at the bookies and the___'

'The new job with DayJac, the house in Manchester, the copper mine and, of course, the complete removal of your biggest financial obstacle to happiness – your wife. Don't undersell the quality and permanence of my services, Mr Whitworth; I'm very proud of them.'

As Mick felt his temperature and pulse rate rise, he sensed Sheila Davies looking at him through concerned eyes. He smiled at her, woodenly, and indicated that he would only be a few more minutes. 'You did all that?' he asked, hesitantly

'Of course, Mr Whitworth, as I think Sheila must have told you, I am a fixer. Now then, about the little task I have for you.'

'Yes,' croaked Mick and suddenly finding himself no longer able to stand sat down, heavily, in a nearby chair. 'I thought you told me that I wouldn't have to pay for some considerable time.'

'I lied,' said Labile, 'also, circumstances have changed. However, it won't take up more than a few minutes of your time, I promise.'

'I'm not prepared to do anything,' said Mick, 'in fact, I'm going to ring the police right away, you're a dangerous man, Mr Labile; you need locking up and helping, in that order.'

'Mr Whitworth,' said Labile, gently.

'Yes?'

'As you are aware, I have had most of your problems removed already, all except one that is. 'Would you like to talk to your daughter? I have her here, in the next room, along with her mother and grandmother.'

'Sorry?' said Mick; not prepared to believe that he was hearing what he was hearing. 'What did you say?'

The line was silent for a moment, then Labile's voice, still loud and clear, was back again.

Two minutes later Mick nodded, put the telephone down, looked sadly at Sheila Davies and began walking, briskly, towards the kitchen. Thirty seconds after that he was back again. Sheila stood as though about to leave but Mick shook his head and, confused, she looked into his eyes for understanding. It was what she saw there that made her feel more insecure than at any time during her previous forty-five years of life. That and the bright, shiny blade she also noticed her host was holding, very firmly and purposefully in his right hand.

The Time Traveller's Folly

As the foreman of the jury regained her seat, the Judge, a highly experienced member of the judiciary, looked at the swarthily complexioned, dark-haired man standing tall and unbowed in the dock and shook his head, sadly. 'Stuart David Baxter,' he began, ponderously, 'you are probably one of the most violent, evil men it has ever been my misfortune to encounter in over thirty years of service on the bench. During the course of this trial we have heard how you cynically entrapped your victims with a web of lies, deceit and malice aforethought, before luring them to their painful and gruesome deaths by the banks of the River Lancer. We have also heard how, when the forces of law and order eventually caught up with you, you then killed, quite terrifyingly and casually, two of the arresting officers with a sawn-off shotgun. A shotgun...'

Charlotte Baxter, sitting high up in the public gallery and feeling dizzy and nauseas with emotion, could hear no more and sobbing, quite uncontrollably, rose unsteadily to her feet before walking as fast as she could out of the suffocating, claustrophobic and guilt-inducing atmosphere of the mid-Victorian built courtroom.

Ten minutes later, whilst sitting at a table in a small, grubby café near the court building, she was talking to Fiona, her sister, on a mobile phone

'So what did he get?' asked her sister.

'I don't know, Alex,' replied Charlotte, 'it was all too distressing; he would have been given a life sentence automatically for murder but I didn't wait to find out what his tariff was.'

'You sound very upset,' observed Fiona, unnecessarily.

'I am very bloody upset!' confirmed Charlotte. 'Anyone would be very upset if they had brought a child into the world that went on to kill four people. I'm beginning to wish he'd never been born.'

'Sorry,' said Fiona, 'that was a stupid thing to say, but I'm sure you don't really mean that about your son.'

Charlotte glanced insecurely around the café but no one appeared to have heard her outburst; no one that was apart from the man sitting less than three metres from her at the adjacent table. He smiled, comfortingly, but she ignored him. 'Of course I mean it,' she hissed, quieter now, more in control. 'Stuart has always been bad, "evil and rotten to the very core of his being", as the judge said.'

'You're upset,' observed Alex, 'you'll feel better in a few days; I'll come round to see you tomorrow.'

'Okay,' said Charlotte, suddenly feeling desperately tired, 'bye love, I'll see you tomorrow.'

'Are you all right?' asked the man at the other table as she cut the connection to her sister. He looked at her apologetically. 'I'm sorry, but I couldn't help overhearing what you said about Stuart Baxter, I take it you're his mother.'

Charlotte's first instinct was to tell the man to go away and mind his own business but then she realised how desperately lonely she had become in recent months. Just about all her friends had deserted her when the news of her son's appalling crimes had been made public and now, with her husband dead, she found herself having to face the awful reality of being the mother of a man the Press were already calling, 'a violent and evil mass killer'. Even her own sister, anxious not to court unwelcome publicity, had refused to attend any part of the four-week trial.

She nodded. 'Yes, yes, I am,' she acknowledged, looking into the concerned and darkly-bearded face of the enquirer whose age, like herself, she put at around forty.

The man reached for his mug, rose to his feet and moved across to her table. 'Do you mind if I join you?' he asked, pulling out a chair in anticipation. She shook her head. 'My name's Phillip Winsbury,' he began, holding out a large, almost clumsy looking hand as he sat down. 'I'm a criminal lawyer. I was working in court one earlier and as the case I was instructing on finished sooner than expected took the opportunity to pop into court three to hear your son's verdict. I'm very sorry.'

Charlotte frowned. 'You're what?'

'I'm very sorry you feel the way you do about your own child, it must be dreadful to have such thoughts.'

She finished her tea before sighing and looking searchingly into his deep, blue eyes. 'I meant what I said,' she admitted. 'Every word of it; I mean, he's a multiple murderer! He killed four people and ruined the lives of countless others who are left; how do you think you would feel, inflicting something like that on humanity?' Suddenly she had a flashback to a week earlier when a woman sobbed uncontrollably in court as the counsel for the prosecution told the jury what Stuart, her son, had done to her husband. 'What would you say to the families of those who are close to the people he's killed?'

Phillip raised his eyebrows, clenched his teeth and shook his head. 'I don't know, Mrs Baxter, I don't pretend to be a psychological counsellor.'

'Charlotte, please,' she replied, once again glancing nervously around the café to see if anyone had heard her name being spoken. 'I don't think I will ever use my surname again. In fact, I'm quite determined to change it.'

Phillip nodded with understanding. 'Tell me,' he began, speaking in an undertone as though he too was anxious not to be overheard. 'Were you serious regarding what you said about Stuart?'

'How do you mean?' she asked.

'About wishing he had never been born?'

Charlotte did not think about the question for even a second. 'Yes,' she said, categorically, 'why?'

Phillip leant across the table and spoke even quieter. 'What would you say if I told you that such a circumstance might just be possible?'

Charlotte snorted. 'I would probably ask whether you were on medication and when you answered "yes" suggest you changed it.'

Phillip smiled. 'Good reply; however, you've not answered the question, would you really like to free yourself from all this angst and guilt by never having given birth to Stuart?'

For the first time in weeks, Charlotte allowed herself a wry smile. 'What sort of medication did you say you are taking?' she asked.

'I didn't and I'm not,' said Phillip, 'I can quite honestly assure you that the strongest drug I've swallowed in the last two years is an aspirin.'

'Then I'm beginning to worry about you,' she replied, about to get to her feet, 'Now if you'll excuse me I think I'd better leave.'

'Please,' he said, reaching out a hand for one of hers; 'will you at least give me a few minutes to tell you something? I'll buy you another coffee.'

There was something about the man's eyes that held her interest, something she could not quite put her finger on. She was also still in shock and feeling vulnerable and very lonely. Additionally, all that was waiting for her when she walked out of the café was an empty house and – time. Almost limitless amounts of hollow, cripplingly boring, time, time to dwell, to mope, and to ponder about what might have been if only things had... 'Okay,' she said, actually smiling now and pushing her empty cup towards him, 'okay I will.'

***

'He told you what?' asked Fiona, sounding incredulous.

'He told me he had helped many people in similar situations to overcome their problems, to start life anew as it were with a clean slate.'

'By going back in time!' exclaimed her sister. 'The man is deranged, in fact he sounds seriously ill. Have you thought of having a word with the police about him? I mean, if he's hanging around courtrooms trying to frighten lonely, emotionally distraught women with his lies then he should probably be locked up. He shouldn't be practising law for a start, not when he's that delusional!'

Charlotte grinned. 'Actually he admitted that he's not a lawyer, he's a scientist and he claims to hang around courtrooms because he wants to help decent, innocent people, get their lives back on track again.'

So he's a liar and a nutter,' insisted Fiona, 'if you take my advice you'll stay well clear of him!'

'He's invited us both to his house, tomorrow,' said Charlotte. 'I'm to ring him for directions if our answer is yes.'

'He's what?'

'He admitted the story about him being a lawyer was just to break the ice. Anyway, we're invited to his home for coffee and a look at his equipment.'

Fiona suddenly burst out laughing. 'Well as chat-up lines go that's definitely a new one on me. And why am I invited? I don't want to see his "equipment", it sounds disgusting.'

'Because,' began Charlotte, matter-of-factly, 'if Phillip's idea is going to work, then you'll have to do the time travelling, not me!'

***

Phillip Winsbury's large, detached house, was precisely where Charlotte thought it would be, at the end of a leafy suburban cul-de-sac, at the posh end of town, on a pretentious post-war, middle-class estate known as The Sycamores. Five minutes after arriving, the two women and their host were drinking tea in a newly re-modelled, spacious and well-styled kitchen.

'So, have you told your sister everything we discussed yesterday,' asked Phillip, looking at Charlotte.

'Not everything,' she replied, 'I thought I'd let you do that.'

Phillip looked at Fiona and smiled. 'Why is it that I have the impression you're not very impressed with either me, or my idea?' he asked.

'Probably because, if nothing else, you're very shrewd,' she replied. 'However, as you've invited both of us, I'm hoping that the old saying "there's safety in numbers" still holds true.'

'You've been feeling unsafe?' he asked. She nodded. 'Understandable,' he conceded, 'you probably think I'm a crackpot.'

Fiona shrugged with her hands. 'I'm hoping that's all you are, that's the only reason I'm here; someone has to look out for my kid sister; she's feeling very vulnerable at the moment.'

'Then perhaps the first thing to do would be to demonstrate that time travel is actually possible and not just a "crackpot" idea then?'

'It's a start,' acknowledged Fiona, thinking that, if nothing else, the morning promised to be entertaining.

Phillip nodded. 'Would you come with me ladies?' he said, walking towards a door at the far end of the kitchen. 'You can bring your tea.'

They followed their host into another room. It was surprisingly large and although carpeted and curtained, the only items of furniture it contained were a desk and half a dozen chairs of the type normally associated with an office. In front of the desk, which supported a large computer monitor, was a vertical, rectangular steel construction almost identical in both size and shape to the type of electronic security walk-through normally seen at airports.

'Please,' said Phillip, waving them towards the chairs, 'take a seat; I'll not be more than a minute or so.' They did and then watched as he switched on the computer before using the keyboard with impressive, well-practised fingers. 'There,' he continued, a few moments later as he swivelled round in his chair, 'we're ready.'

'Sorry?' said Charlotte.

'We're ready to go with the demo,' he replied, smiling and looking at Fiona. 'Tell me, as you're the real cynic, what were you doing last week at this precise moment in time?'

Fiona blushed. 'Hmm, I don't think I want to go there,' she replied.

Phillip nodded and held up a hand. 'Okay...right...got that.'

'Who with?' asked Charlotte, looking quite bewildered following her sister's revelation, at this time of the day as well!

Fiona's face turned even redder and she shook her head. 'No one you know,' she hissed, 'anyway, change the subject for God's sake!'

'What about two days ago?' Phillip helped. 'Would that be safer ground?'

Suddenly much happier, Fiona smiled. 'It would, I was at the hairdressers.'

'Good,' he turned back to the monitor; 'then all I want from you is the address.'

She gave it to him and as she spoke he began typing. Then, when he had finished, he pressed 'enter' on the keyboard and moved out of the way of the monitor so that his guests could see it. At first the screen was completely blue, then, after some thirty seconds, it gradually began to download an image. It was of Fiona and she was sat in a hairdresser's chair, happily chatting to the woman in the chair next to her.

'Good God!' exclaimed Fiona. 'That is me, that really is me! What a clever trick, how do you do that?'

'It's no trick; on the contrary, this is what took place precisely forty-eight hours ago. Look at the newspaper in your lap.'

'Can you zoom in on it, Phillip?' asked Charlotte.

'Of course,' he replied and seconds later they could see it was clearly dated two days earlier.

'Can we hear what's being said?' asked Charlotte.

'If you wish,' he replied, but before he could go any further, Fiona held up a restraining hand.

'I'd rather you didn't,' she said, awkwardly.

'Good grief,' put in Charlotte, 'how many secrets have you got? Is this my beloved, middle-aged sister I see before me, or a look-alike imposter wearing her clothes?'

Fiona ignored her, preferring instead to look at Phillip. 'I do believe that what I'm seeing is two days ago,' she said categorically. 'But how can watching what I was doing then help Charlotte not be raped back in nineteen hundred and ninety?'

Phillip smiled at her and pointed to the steel-framed walk-through. 'Simple,' he began, 'instead of watching the past on a computer monitor, you actually become a part of it by walking through this.'

***

Just over an hour later, Phillip finished keying some final entries into the computer before looking at Fiona and grinning, reassuringly. 'Are you ready?' he asked.

Fiona nodded, nervously. 'Yes, yes I am,' she confirmed, 'at least as ready as I'll ever be. You're quite certain I'll be able to get back to the present afterwards.'

'Of course,' said Phillip, 'I've done this with many a time traveller. By a bit of tinkering with the past I'm proud to say that I've made lots of sad people very, very happy.'

'I once saw a film where someone tried tinkering with the past, as you put it, and something awful happened.'

'What?' asked Fiona, her eyes wide with anticipation.

'I can't remember, but it was something to do with how messing about with the past could screw up the future.'

'There's no need to worry about anything like that,' said Phillip. 'I've done my research; and you've assured me that Stuart has not had any children, so no one is going to suddenly disappear into thin air because they no longer exist.'

'What about Stuart?' asked Charlotte.

'Well...obviously, apart from Stuart of course,' he conceded. He looked at Charlotte. 'You're quite certain you want this?' he asked. 'Stuart is your own flesh and blood, after all.'

'Yes, yes I do,' she replied, 'let's get on with it, I need a drink.

Phillip nodded and pressed the 'enter' button on his keyboard. 'Don't bother with the monitor, just look into the walk-through.'

Both women did and within a few seconds the blue haze cleared to reveal an old-fashioned, red-painted, public telephone box apparently just on the opposite side of the steel-framed device that was free-standing in the middle of the room.

'Off you go then,' said Phillip, looking at Fiona, 'you're sure you know what you have to do?'

Fiona nodded, took a deep breath, and entered the walk-through. Phillip and Charlotte, her teeth worrying the remains of the nail of her right-hand forefinger, watched on as Fiona opened the telephone box door before immediately dialling a number.

***

'So didn't you feel anything at all?' said Charlotte, half an hour later as they took a seat in the local pub.

'Nothing,' said Fiona, 'in fact, had I not known I'd travelled back twenty-two years in time I'd probably never have given it a second thought. Oh, apart from a couple of cars that went past the telephone box that is, they looked a little dated.'

'What did your policeman friend say about your information?' asked Charlotte.

'He thanked me and said he'd get onto it.'

'He had no idea he was talking to a woman twenty-two years older than he thought she was?'

'No,' replied Fiona, 'why should he?'

'And you just told him you'd heard the escaped rapist was in the area and looking for a victim, probably someone leaving the local night club?'

'I did.'

'If he's any good at his job then they'll catch him before he rapes me,' said Charlotte, quietly. 'And if they do that, I will never have given birth to Stuart.'

Charlotte glanced at the bar where Phillip was buying the drinks. 'Well I hope to God your former boyfriend was a good copper,' she said, 'I really, really do.'

'What time in the morning were you raped?' asked Fiona.

'Around three,' replied Charlotte.

'What will happen if it works then?'

Charlotte sighed and looked at the clock above the bar; it was just after twelve noon. 'According to Phillip, our memory of what we did will remain, you know, travelling backwards in time and speaking to the policeman about the rapist and everything. But as far as our day-to-day memories of Stuart are concerned I don't think we can have any, I mean, if this works he will never have existed, and if he never existed we cannot remember the things that, by definition, he never did.' With confused eyes she looked at her sister for help. 'Well?'

Fiona shivered and shook her head. 'I don't know the answer, but I do know that the more I think about it the less I like what we have done. On thinking about it I don't agree with tinkering around with the past and playing God. I know that Stuart was very, very bad but...well...don't you think that what we've done is evil? Evil comes from evil, Lottie and no good will come of what we've tried to do this day, mark my words!'

***

The following morning, Charlotte was listening to her kitchen radio and had just finished eating breakfast when the phone rang. It was Fiona.

Fiona was sobbing and it was a few minutes before she was able to speak properly.

'Yes.'

'I called to see mother on the way to work and...'

'Yes?' insisted Charlotte.

'The house has gone Lottie! Everything has gone; the whole plot is just grassed over and has been for years!'

'Oh my God! So what does that mean?'

'I spoke to a passer-by, he told me that he'd heard the house, and the lady who once lived there, were blown up in a gas explosion in two thousand and two.' Fiona began sobbing again. 'Our mother's dead, Lottie, dead, she has been for over ten years!'

'But how? I only saw her yesterday, how can she possibly have been killed in two thousand and two? Oh my God, what have we done?' whined Charlotte, the full horror of what she had been told suddenly becoming clear. 'Do you think it's something to do with Stuart?'

'We'll have to go round to Phil's,' said Fiona, 'ask him if it could be connected to Stuart and if so get him to fix it somehow; you know, if necessary reverse the process.'

'My car's broken down, can you pick me up?' asked Charlotte, 'as quickly as you can.'

'It was a good forty-five minutes later before Fiona arrived and when she did so she was ashen-faced.'

'I've been round to Phil's already,' said Fiona, quietly, 'I couldn't wait.'

'And?' insisted Charlotte, suddenly wanting to scream at her sister to come to the point.

'Phil took me home from the pub yesterday, told me how much he liked me and asked if I would like to go on time travelling adventures throughout history with him. He said he'd been studying Latin and was planning a trip to ancient Rome but he didn't want to do it on his own. I bottled it, Lottie, I said "no", that I was quite happy as a spinster with the occasional fling, and that I did not want serious commitment of any kind.'

'How did he take that?'

'All right I thought, but when I got to his house this morning the police were there.'

'Good God! How did they know about him and Stuart?'

'It was nothing to do with Stuart, Lottie. Phillip had killed himself; his cleaner found him and judging by the empty pill bottle at his side from an overdose of something pretty vile and dangerous. Anyway, I knew one of the policemen guarding the house. He told me that Phil had left a note stating how lonely he was, and how, as he was so desperately unhappy, he felt his life's work to be of little, if any value; also, how he desperately wanted someone to love.'

As Fiona finished speaking, Charlotte broke down in tears and began sobbing so violently she could not speak. Instead she handed her sister one of her many personal journals. It was for the year two thousand and two and was open at a freshly tear-stained page for June. Quickly, Fiona read the neat rows of handwriting before collapsing into a nearby chair.

Charlotte was confused. 'So...so...what does it mean?' she asked, already knowing but dreading the answer.

'I cannot pretend to understand what is happening here,' began Fiona, her voice faltering with emotion, 'but I do know what it means.'

'And?' said Charlotte.

'It means that, as a result of the folly of my little trip into the past, you, sister dear, for the last twenty-two years and contrary to the entries in your journal, have been childless. And because you've been childless, Stuart never called at his gran's on his way home from school and smelt the escaping gas you wrote about here, in your journal. And because he never smelt the escaping gas he never saved her life, and therefore, for the last ten years, we have both been motherless. Furthermore, there is now absolutely nothing, nothing whatsoever, that we, nor anyone else, can do about it!'

The Guardian Angel

Carefully, Alex placed the new flowers in the vase before seating it firmly in the ground and standing back to look at them. Their bright, multiple colours, looked good against the black marble, gold-lettered headstone and he smiled with melancholic attachment.

'You know your mother never liked dahlias,' said a gruff voice behind him. 'She always thought they were cheap and full of earwigs; selling them off were they, lad?'

Hitherto thinking himself to be alone in the large, apparently deserted graveyard, Alex, momentarily startled, turned to discover the owner of the voice that had made him jump at least a foot in the air. There was no one there. 'Hello?' he said, looking at the nearby headstones suspiciously, as though expecting to find someone hiding behind one. 'Who's there?'

'I'm over here, yer daft bugger!' said the voice.

Alex turned his head to the right and what he saw there, sitting on one of the numerous wooden forms provided for the public, very nearly gave him a heart attack. 'Who are you?' he asked, suspiciously.

'Your father of course,' came the abrupt reply, 'who the bloody hell do you think I am?'

Alex, who had turned an intense white colour and felt as though his heart would stop beating at any moment, could only stare, open-mouthed and speechless at the seated figure who was the exact doppelgänger of his late-lamented and much-loved parent. 'Who are you?' he repeated, eventually as, seemingly, a million and one goose bumps made their careful, tingling way up his spine.

'Who the hell do you think I am?' asked the doppelgänger. 'I'm your father, of course.'

Alex, now beginning to regain some composure, shook his head, angrily. 'My father died five years ago; now I'll ask you for the last time, who are you and what are you up to?' he asked, assertively.

'I'll say one thing for you, lad; you still sound like a copper.'

'That's probably because I am a copper, and if you don't stop taking the piss, I'll prove it to you by arresting you on suspicion.'

'Of what?

'Don't worry, I'll think of something,' said Alex. 'Now you've still not told me who you are and what you're up to.'

'Ask me a question,' said the doppelgänger.

'What do you mean?' said Alex.

'Ask me a question,' repeated the doppelgänger, now seemingly enjoying himself.

'What sort of question?'

'I don't know, lad, any sort of question that will convince you that I am your father.'

Alex walked across to the form and stared down at the seated figure, cynically. Despite himself, he could not help but acknowledge that the man was, in every respect, a dead ringer for his late father – Arnold Arthur Claymore. He never knew why but for some reason he decided to humour him. 'All right,' he began, sitting next to him, 'where did we go on my tenth birthday?'

The doppelgänger looked confused. 'Your tenth birthday?'

Alex nodded.

'I don't know; it's thirty years since you were ten, lad. Who do you think I am; the bloody memory man? Don't forget, I'm dead you know; it plays havoc with your memory being dead; I can't remember detail like that, not that far back, not now. Go on; amaze me, where did we go then?'

'Nowhere,' said Alex, 'you, I mean, my father, had a monk on and despite having been promised, for over a week beforehand, that a trip to the cinema was on the cards we went – nowhere.'

'Bloody hell, trust you to remember that. Why don't you ask me something pleasant, like what I bought you for Christmas sometime?'

Alex chuckled, if nothing else, he thought, the parental impersonator was entertaining. He sat down beside him and whilst deciding whether to arrest the man, with a view to having him sectioned, or just giving him a caution for being a public nuisance before sending him on his way, he decided to play the game a little longer. 'Okay what did you buy me for Christmas in nineteen eighty-three then?'

The doppelgänger was looking thoughtful. 'Nineteen eighty-three you say?'

'Correct,' confirmed Alex.

'It was either an electric railway or a model, radio-controlled aircraft.'

'No,' said Alex, positively.

'Well I did buy you both, sometime,' said the doppelgänger.

'Not in nineteen eighty-three though,' said Alex, triumphantly.

'Now you're splitting hairs lad; like I said, it's a long time ago and I've been dead for five years. You'd be surprised what being dead does to your memory; you should see me playing dominoes these days.'

'Listen old timer,' began Alex, menacingly, 'I've just about heard enough of this, now, because I'm in a good mood I'm going to tell you to clear off home and stay off the vodka and out of trouble. But if I hear of you trying to wind up any other___'

'Football strip! The England football strip!' said the doppelgänger. 'I remember now, that's what your mother said you wanted for Christmas in nineteen eighty-three. God knows why you wanted the England footie strip instead of a decent team like Brazil, but that's what you wanted and that's what you got. It was the following year we got you the model aeroplane.'

Once again Alex was feeling goose bumps crawling up his spine. 'What was your pet name for my mother?' he asked. 'The name only you called her and then only in private so that no one else, apart from me and my brother, could ever know?'

The doppelgänger answered immediately. 'Tilly,' he said, affectionately, 'and to this day I don't know why but that's what I always called her – Tilly.' He looked into Alex's damp, hazel eyes. 'Well?'

'Dad?' said Alex, reaching out for the man's nearest hand, 'are you really my dad?'

Alex's father chuckled as his son's hand tried to take hold of one of his own. 'Told you,' he said, as the hand passed straight through him. 'If I'm your father I'm bound to be a ghost, aren't I?'

'But...but...what I mean is...why...how?'

'I'm on a mission, lad,' said his father, seriously, 'I'm here because I need your help.'

'But...but if you're dead how can you be here?' asked Alex. 'I thought you'd be in heaven or...'

Arnold chuckled again. 'The other place, you mean?' he pointed to the ground. 'You don't have too much faith in me, do you, son?'

Alex grimaced. 'Sorry, but how can you be here talking to me when you're dead? I don't understand.'

'It's a long story but, under certain, exceptional circumstances, you can get a temporary pass to come back.'

'What's it like up there?' asked Alex. 'I mean...,' he looked confused, 'you know, in heaven?'

'Well I'm not quite in heaven yet,' admitted Arnold. 'You see, every day, all over the world, about one hundred and fifty thousand people die. That's some statistic; it's over one million people a week. Now they can't let everyone into heaven, I mean, for a start they don't all want to go there, also there's some right toe rags around who could never hope to get in, I know, I've met some of them. So when you die, you have to go on a waiting list to be screened. You see, the authorities never really fully recovered the enormous back-log from two world wars in the twentieth century.'

'Screened,' said Alex.

'Yes, you have an interview with a group of people called – The Guardians who have all your life's history on file. They know everything about you, your name, where you were born, who your parents were, how you treated other people when you were alive and the crimes you committed. The stuff they have on me is frightening. So, dependent on what they have on you, and how you shape at interview, they either tell you to bugger off to the other place, you know, down there,' he pointed to the ground, 'or they let you in.'

'Good God!'

'Yes, yes he's not a bad chap, apparently; I've never met him mind; keeps himself to himself most of the time.'

'Where's mum then?'

'Oh she's got in already; she was fast-tracked for having a higher than average ORGP score you see. It only took her three years after the accident. It's because she had so many church attendances on her DP Scale. Also, and even I didn't know this, when she was a Girl Guide she once helped three old ladies cross the road, at the same time. She also scored very highly for liking and being kind to her mother-in-law; now that really impressed The Guardians no end.'

'DP Scale, ORGP?'

'Decent Person Scale and Overall Really Good Person, ' qualified his father. 'She'd have done better but they discovered that one of the old ladies didn't actually want to cross the road in the first place, but they gave your mum a bonus point for effort nevertheless.'

'You mean, three years after you were both killed by the hit-and-run driver?' said Alex.

'That's right,' said Arnold.

'So how is mum? I mean, can you speak with her?'

'Not quite speak but she writes to me twice a month; from what I gather she's having a right good time. In fact, she's just gone on holiday again.'

'Holiday!' gasped Alex. 'Holiday!'

'Yes, there's different parts of heaven you know, just as there are different parts of the normal world that you live in.'

'So where has she gone?' asked Alex, weakly.

'Skiing,' replied Arnold, matter-of-factly, 'off piste of course.'

'Skiing!' exclaimed Alex. 'Off piste! But...but she must be over eighty years old by now!'

'True, but you don't feel your age up there. She went on an introduction to bungee-jumping and a night-time mountain-biking holiday last year, with the Scouts.'

'She did what?' said Alex, disbelievingly.

'She's joined the Scouts, lad; went straight in as an Eagle she did; they use the American rank system you see. Anyway, last year she took her troop, or whatever they call them, bungee-jumping and night-time mountain-biking in heaven's equivalent of the Himalayas. She only came off twice and didn't have a single puncture the whole fortnight.'

'Good God!' said Alex, his head now spinning, wildly.

'What's the matter, lad?' said Arnold. 'You don't look well, are you all right?'

'Oh yes...yes...' he lied. 'Anyway, as good as it is to talk to you why, exactly, are you here?'

'Do you know, I thought you'd never ask?' said Arnold. 'I also thought, to be honest, you'd know.'

'What?' said Alex.

'I'm here because you lot, you plods, haven't caught the man who killed me and your old mam yet; have you?'

'Oh,' replied Alex, 'I suppose you're going to tell me you know who it was, being dead and everything.'

'Of course I bloody know!'

'Well who was it?'

'I don't know his name, but I can remember who he was and the type of car he was driving.'

'Who was it?'

'A bloke who lives in the next street and he was driving a black Ford.'

'You're certain it was a bloke from the next street?' said Alex.

'Course I am.'

Alex frowned. 'It will be very difficult to make a case against the driver now,' he said, trying to be serious and professional, despite his father. 'I mean, the car would have been repaired and sold on years ago; we can hardly give him a breath test five years after the event and there were no witnesses.'

'There were!' protested Arnold. 'Me and your mam were witnesses, we saw the whole thing, in fact we were the accident – remember?'

Alex shook his head. 'There might just be something of a problem there you know, I mean, as you're sort of – dead, as it were.'

'Why? I can give you all the info and then let you get on with it.'

'Think about it, I can't just arrest someone without evidence, now can I?'

'But I can give you a witness statement, what more do you need?'

'Oh great, so I go along to this former neighbour of yours and tell him I've just had a visit from my dead father and that I'd like a word with him about a hit-and-run that took place five years ago? A hit-and-run my deceased parent insists was carried out by him. And when, totally unreasonably of course, the man asks me where I've got my evidence from I simply tell him I've been in touch with you. And,' continued Alex, 'you giving a written statement and appearing in a court witness box to testify against him won't be any problem at all, will it? Anyway, why is it you've only just bothered to come back and tell me all this? If you'd come back sooner I might have been able to do something.'

'Because there's a hell of a waiting list for return passes, secondly, you have to have a bloody good case for getting one, and my case has only just been approved by the Earth Returns Committee.'

'Good case?' said Alex, disbelievingly. 'Returns Committee?'

'Yes, in my case, I wanted justice for being killed by the speeding madman who knocked me and your mam down then buggered off.' Arnold looked at his son, accusingly. 'There's nowt wrong with that is there, you know, wanting justice for a very serious crime?'

'Of course there isn't, but as I've already implied, it's a very cold case; personally, without a credible witness, I don't think you've any chance of getting a prosecution, not at this late stage.'

'So much for British justice,' moaned Arnold. 'You know, I thought my own son would have been a bit more supportive over this. Have you any idea how far I've travelled to get back here? Do you have the least inkling of the trouble I've had to go to get a pass from the pompous, snotty-nosed sods on the Returns Committee?'

'Why are they pompous and snotty?' asked Alex. 'I thought everyone was all sweetness and light, in heaven.'

'I've told you, I'm not in heaven, yet. It were this old bat on the committee,' continued Arnold, unhappily and beginning to look rather embarrassed. 'She didn't like me.'

'Why not?'

'Because she knew me from when we were on Earth together.'

The faintest nuance of understanding began to dawn on Alex. He had known his father's reputation well when he had been alive and, since the old man's death, had heard many more tales about his parent's exploits that were, to say the least, risqué.'

'Go on,' insisted Alex, 'who was she?'

'What do you mean?' asked Arnold, innocently and trying to avoid eye contact.

'You know what I mean,' said Alex, 'who was she?'

Arnold told him.

'Good God!' said Alex once again, 'How old were you?'

Arnold shrugged and hung his head in shame. 'About fifty or so.'

'Fifty!' exclaimed Alex, disbelievingly. 'You were knocking off the woman's daughter who, at eighteen, was young enough, technically, to be your own granddaughter! And, while you were still married to my mother!'

'Keep your voice down,' said Arnold suddenly.

'Why?' yelled Alex. 'Why should I keep my fucking voice down?'

'Because there's an old lady walking right behind you.' he replied. 'Don't worry, she can't see me.'

Alex spun around and found himself looking upwards and into the wrinkled face of a rather worried looking old lady. Instantly he blushed to a bright crimson and apologised profusely. 'I'm very sorry,' he said, 'please, do forgive my appalling language.'

The old lady shook her head. 'It's all right,' she replied, 'my grandson talks like that all the time.'

'Does he?' said Alex, feeling easier, 'how old is he then?'

'Five, he gets it off his father you see. This modern generation haven't got a clue how to bring up kids. Do you know, little Jimmy, that's the name of my grandson, even breaks wind at the dinner table? It's disgusting, absolutely disgusting, but there's nothing I can do about it.'

'Can I help you?' asked Alex, suddenly feeling that the known world was about to disintegrate around him and whilst looking around the graveyard to see if anyone else had seen him ranting to a, long dead, invisible, ghostly old man.

'Well I don't know who you think you're talking to, but do be careful, young man.'

'Oh, why's that then?'

She grinned, wickedly and after seeming to stare at Arnold, said. 'Where I come from there's an old saying that if you talk to yourself long enough, one day the devil will answer you. So, just be very careful, very careful indeed, that's all.'

For a moment, stunned into complete silence, Alex watched as the old lady made her unhurried way towards the centre of the burial ground. Then he turned back to Arnold. 'Do you think she could see you?' he asked.

Arnold looked very confused. 'I don't know.'

Alex shook his head and sighed. Then he looked at the black headstone with its expensive gold lettering commemorating the cruelly shortened lives of his beloved parents. 'I know this sounds stupid, but are you certain you're really dead?' he asked.

'Of course I'm dead, I also know that five years ago a boozed up man, driving a black, Ford Mondeo like a madman, came round a corner as if he was trying to escape from all the devils in hell and knocked me and your old mam into a hedge,' said Arnold. 'Then, when he'd seen what he'd done, he buggered off even faster. I can also assure you that everything I've told you that's happened since is the truth.' He paused, a look of real fear suddenly appearing in his eyes. 'There is one thing I haven't told you, son.'

'What's that?' asked Alex.

'I was told, before I left to come here, to beware of ghouls.'

'Ghouls?'

'Evil spirits, demons, seemingly they work for the other side,' Arnold nodded towards the ground and spoke in a whisper. 'You know, for him, down there.'

'You mean the devil?' said Alex, fearfully.

'Shush,' commanded Arnold, now looking even more worried as he glanced around the graveyard. 'Apparently they're recruiters for the Dark Side. They, constantly prowl the earth looking for the lost souls of those who either cannot find their way to heaven or have been banned from ever entering it by the screeners. When they find one, and apparently they find a lot, they capture them and take them, down there, to their master.'

'Even good people?' said Alex.

Arnold nodded. 'Even good people, if the ghouls happen to find them before they reach safety then they are forever lost.'

'And what happens to them then?' asked Alex, his eyes now wide and saucer-like.

'I don't know, very few have ever come back to tell the tale but, apparently, the regime is pretty grim. They say that most of the inhabitants are former criminals, that the food is absolutely awful and that the work, which is mind-numbingly boring, never ends. Also that the digs are hot and uncomfortable and that there's no way you can even think of going bungee-jumping and mountain biking.'

'How do you recognise these so-called ghouls?' asked Alex.

Arnold shook his head. 'I haven't got a clue; I'm pleased to say I've never seen one.'

'Do you think the old lady was one?'

'Hardly.'

'How long is your pass valid for?' asked Alex, changing the subject.

'It's valid up to the instant I get justice, or one, full, Earth day; not a second more or a second less. Apparently if I stay longer I could become a target for the...well, you know what I mean, it seems they're on the lookout for lost souls all the time.'

Alex glanced at his watch. 'Then in that case we'd better stop talking and get a move on; then you can safely return to wherever it is you've come from. Now where did you say this man lived?'

***

'There,' said Arnold, pointing to a small, terraced house about fifty metres from where Alex had stopped the car.

Alex nodded before asking for details of the occupants on his police radio. After a few moments the radio operator came back with the information he had requested and when she had finished, Alex looked at the notes he had taken and began reading from them. 'According to the Register of Electors, which is a couple of years out of date, the sole occupant of the property is one Raymond Dexter Hewitt, aged thirty-two and known to the police for pimping, car theft, drunk driving and drug trafficking.' He shrugged. 'I must say he does sound a likely sort for a hit-and-run.' As he spoke, a tall man, in his early thirties, walked up to the front door of the house they were interested in.

'That's him,' said Arnold, excitedly, 'that's the killer!'

'You're sure?' asked Alex.

'Positive, I'd know him anywhere. Well, aren't you going to arrest him?'

Alex scratched his chin and looked back at the house but the man had already disappeared. 'On what charge? No, now I know who he is, and where he lives, I'll do some digging around in the hope of finding some dirt on him. That way, even if we can't knobble him for your hit-and-run, I might be able to get him a lengthy jail term for something else. However, I'm certain I know that face, I've seen him before and quite recently too.'

Surprisingly, to Alex, his father did not seem too disappointed. 'I suppose I'll have to accept that, although I really would love the world to know he killed me and your mam as well.'

As Arnold spoke the radio operator came back. Her message was brief, Raymond Dexter Hewitt, she advised, had been dead for three months – murdered in a suspected gangland revenge killing. Additionally, his real name was James Barker and he had not lived at the given address for over eighteen months.

'I knew it,' said Alex. 'I didn't work on the case personally but I do remember it. Apparently, James Barker, AKA Raymond Dexter Hewitt, was a real nasty bastard, pencilled in for all manner of crimes, including a double murder.'

'And the killing of me and your mam,' said Arnold.

As he spoke, Barker emerged, literally, through the front door of the terraced house and, followed by a scruffy looking stray dog, which had appeared from nowhere, began walking, briskly, up the street.

'Did you see that?' said Alex, his pulse-rate suddenly doubled. 'He simply walked through the door as though it wasn't there, just like they do on ghost movies.'

'Then he must be dead,' acknowledged Arnold. 'He must have a return pass as well.'

'But why can I see him if he's a ghost?' asked Alex. 'Come to that, why can I see you? Also, why isn't he with the bad guys, you know, down there in the other place?'

'It goes with the return pass, you can nominate up to three live people who will be given temporary second-sight so they can see and talk to you, just for the duration of the visit mind.' said Arnold.'

'Let's see if we can follow him,' said Alex. He started the car and, driving fairly quickly, drove down the street and turned left; but Barker was gone.

'Damn,' said Arnold, but even as he spoke, Barker could just be seen walking rapidly through a leafy-laned public park on the left-hand side of the road. The man appeared agitated and kept looking over his shoulder, as though fearful someone might be following him. 'I think he knows we're after him,' added Arnold.

Alex shook his head. 'I don't think so, I've plenty of experience tailing people; he never spotted us I'm certain of it. It has to be someone else,' he laughed, 'that or the dog that's right behind him.' He pointed to the scruffy looking, stray lurcher, still happily walking some five metres behind their quarry.

'But who could be after him?' asked Arnold.

'I don't know,' said Alex, climbing out of the car, 'but I'd like to find out.'

Now on foot, they followed Barker almost to the other side of the park but when they were no more than fifty yards from the exit their quarry suddenly stopped. 'What's happening?' asked Arnold. 'Why has he stopped?'

'I don't know,' replied Alex.

For a moment they watched as Barker at first appeared confused; then suddenly began to run. He did not get far however, for within a couple of seconds a pack of dogs, which the stray now joined, surrounded him. As they did so the sky became unseasonably dark and overcast and a brisk, unpleasantly chill wind began to blow up from the west.

'What's going on?' said Alex, as the now fiercely barking dogs began slowly circling around their seemingly petrified, ghostly prey.

'I...I...don't think those are real dogs, son,' said Arnold, hesitantly. 'On the contrary, I think they're gh___' Suddenly; the most aggressive of the noisy and ferocious looking pack of canines seemed to grow, quantumly, in size; the rest immediately followed. Now, the growling, snarling beasts, that in their rage were spraying streams of foaming white saliva over an area the size of a tennis court, were so incredibly huge they towered, awesomely and terrifyingly, over their hapless and fear-paralysed victim. Time and time again, Barker, looking as though he was about to make a run for it; tried to break through what seemed to be an unbreakable cordon of hate, loathing and untrammelled violence; but time and time again he was foiled in his attempts as first one, then another, of his viciously snarling, unearthly tormentors moved forwards to taunt and confound him.

'My God!' cried Alex, now totally horrified by what he was witnessing, 'they're going to kill him!'

Arnold shook his head. 'No, he's already dead, son, they just want to take him where he belongs,' he replied, 'just watch, there's nothing you can do, lad, nothing.'

Alex did and only a few seconds later the foam-covered animals, growling a message of deep-rooted hate and enraged beyond any kind of reason, sprang forwards, as one, towards the former murderer and criminal. As they fell upon their terrified prey they howled triumphantly and a brilliant, blinding flash of angry red light illuminated the whole of the park. Then, they and their victim were gone. Alex glanced around the park in disbelief. Where only a second or so earlier there had been a dramatic scene of foaming, snarling, yellow-toothed terror, violently performing under dark and ever-threatening skies, the day had now returned to the balmy, sunlit, summer calm normally expected of England in late July. Under a nearby chestnut tree, two lovers laughed and spooned and likewise, seemingly completely oblivious to the horrors Alex and his father had just witnessed, a group of small boys merrily continued with their laughter-filled game of football.

'Terrifying,' said Alex, 'absolutely terrifying, those dogs must have been the ghouls you warned me of earlier; still, he was a bad man; he had it coming to him.' Not hearing a reply, he turned to his left and was surprised to discover his father was no longer there. Quickly, he spun around, instantly feeling immensely sad and quite empty as he found himself totally alone. 'Oh dear,' he said, quietly, 'there was so much I still wanted to say to you, dad.'

'Don't worry, lovey, he's in a safe place and happy that now he'll soon be reunited with your mother.' Alex turned to his right; the old lady from the cemetery was standing there, smiling at him with a face like an angel. 'He's happy now that at long last he and you have seen justice done.'

Understanding now came to Alex and with that gift of knowledge he smiled, sardonically. 'That's why he was allowed to come back; he knew all along what was going to happen today. That's why he sought me out as well, so that I would also know.' The old lady nodded her confirmation. 'But tell me, who are you?' he asked.

'I'm a guardian of souls, Alex,' she replied, before smiling again. 'I've been sent here to watch over both you and your father whilst what had to be done was done. And now, with both you and your father safe, I must return myself.'

'You mean you're a guardian angel?' said Alex.

'Do I?' she replied, 'yes, perhaps I am.'

'Listen, would you do something for me?' he asked, urgently. 'Something for which I should be eternally grateful and which, because of the sudden and violent manner of their death I never had the opportunity of doing myself.'

'Of course, if I can,' she agreed. 'What would you like me to do?'

'When you return, will you tell him, and my mother, that I love them both very much?'

'Of course,' repeated the old lady, her face as pure and gentle as the first snowdrop of winter; then, as she slowly faded from his sight. 'Goodbye Alex, have a good life...goodbye.'

***

It was just after Alex had climbed back into his car that the heavy lorry, whose unconscious driver had suffered what would prove to be a fatal heart attack, struck him. Feeling no pain he was, at first, unsure as to what had happened and he stayed in the mangled remains of his vehicle but then, when he smelt the petrol fumes, he decided to get out. Surprisingly, despite his legs being securely trapped beneath what remained of the dashboard, exiting the wreck of the police car was easy as, quite effortlessly, he seemed to merely float through the shattered remains of the windscreen.

As he sought the comforting sanctuary of the footpath, at the side of the road, he was momentarily confused by the frenetic activity going on around him. A police car had arrived and the driver, a man he knew well, had run to the devastated remains of his own car and had begun, frantically, trying to free what appeared to be the smashed and bloodied body of the driver. Still seriously confused by the unparalleled trauma of what had taken place, he studied the unfolding drama carefully, distantly, before realising the awful, dreadful truth – it was his body the policeman was trying to rescue and it was his life-blood pouring from it!

As the mournful sound of emergency service wailers grew ever more intense and the scene of carnage became ever more swathed in bright, flashing, blue light; the appalling reality of what had just taken place suddenly came to him – he was dead! For what seemed like hours but was in fact merely a matter of seconds he stood there, watching, as the world to which he no longer belonged went busily about its business and whilst his valiant colleague tried, unsuccessfully, to rescue his corpse from what was rapidly becoming a blazing inferno.

Now utterly dejected, he turned away from where his mortal remains were about to be cremated and for the first time noticed the animal at his side. Despite himself, he smiled at the beast and at first the animal wagged its tail. But as he started to move further away it began to snarl at him; fangs yellowed and threatening, eyes red and hate-filled; then, as the sky darkened and a brisk, chill wind blew up from the west, its companions arrived and slowly, as they walked around him, they began to grow in size.

Jennifer

He met her in the supermarket. She was about twenty-three years old, tall, blonde-haired, pony-tailed with the mandatory 'figure to die for' and, thought Charles Kent, her kind, wide eyes, were the colour of freshly picked cornflowers. It was one of those things that sometimes happen in supermarkets, you simply come around the corner of an aisle to find someone in your way and, quite by accident; bang your cart into theirs.

'Sorry,' said Charles, after the bang. She smiled at him and, instantly, he found himself her prisoner.

'That's quite all right,' she replied, her captivating smile revealing two rows of virtually perfect, white teeth. 'To be honest I've never been here before; perhaps you can help me, do you happen to know where the milk is?'

'Of course,' replied Charles, 'I...I can show you...if you like.'

***

It was four days later when he saw her again; in the same supermarket, surprisingly at almost exactly the same place. 'Hello,' he said, pleasantly, as he drew near to her.

She turned, instantly smiling when she recognised him. 'Hello,' she returned, 'I think we must stop meeting like this, people will begin to talk,' she laughed, her blue eyes instantly melting his already stolen heart.

Charles nodded. 'Are you all right now?' he asked. 'You know, you've found out where everything is.'

'Not quite,' she replied, 'but I'm getting there.'

'Good,' said Charles, woodenly, and whilst desperately wondering what else he could say to the vision of loveliness standing before him.

'How's your holiday going?' he managed.

'Holiday?'

'Oh, sorry, I just thought that___'

'I'm doing some post-graduate research,' she helped. 'At the moment I'm staying with relatives to save money,' she smiled again, 'It's hardly a holiday I'm afraid.'

'Oh...right...,' began Charles, feeling rather foolish, ''I'm sorry, I didn't___'

She shook her head, before glancing at her wristwatch. 'It's no problem, but if you'll excuse me I really do have to get on. There's someone waiting for me you see.'

Charles held up his hands. 'Of course, of course, my apologies.'

'It's quite all right,' she returned, 'perhaps I'll see you again; here maybe.'

As she began to walk hurriedly away, Charles suddenly shouted after her. 'Sorry, but I didn't catch your name.'

Without stopping she turned and grinned at him. 'Jenny,' she replied, 'Jenny Carter.'

For a good thirty seconds, Charles watched as Jenny headed towards the checkout. Then, after throwing the remaining items of food he needed into his own trolley, he too headed, hurriedly, towards the exit. His had been a light shop and as he neared the tills he made for an express checkout. He was through it in no time and once outside the store decided to wait where a small group of smokers had gathered near the taxi rank. Why he decided to linger he could never really say, but the fact of the matter was, he was curious and already in love.

He had noticed that Jenny's had been quite a large shop and it was a further ten minutes before she finally emerged through the store's rotating doors. Quickly, she headed off away from him and in the general direction of the car park exit, but after walking only some fifty or so yards she stopped behind a large, red, French MPV. Seconds later, a tall, thin man, with greying bushy hair, climbed out of the vehicle and began helping her load the various bags of shopping into the car's capacious boot.

Charles watched until the red Citroen was being driven out of the lot, shrugged, and went in search of his own vehicle.

***

Two days later, at precisely eleven o'clock on Saturday morning, Charles answered the knock on his flat door to find a woman standing there. She was extremely slim, of medium height, her dark, straight hair cut in a bob and, he considered, was passably attractive. She was also, at around thirty-five, some ten years older than he was.

'Yes?' he asked.

The woman smiled. 'Sorry to disturb you, my name is Michelle Darnley, Mr Kent, I'm a detective sergeant with the local police; could I have a word?'

Charles was so surprised by the visit that he never bothered asking for identification. Instead, and still open-mouthed in shock, he merely opened the door wider and waived the woman into his home.

After she refused the polite formality of tea, they went into the lounge and as Charles settled comfortably into his favourite armchair, he looked at his guest, quizzingly. 'So, how can I help you?' he asked. 'Am I in trouble, do I need a lawyer?'

The policewoman came straight to the point. 'No, nothing like that; but can you tell me the precise nature of your relationship with Jennifer Carter?' she asked.

Charles grinned and shook his head. 'If you must know, desperate,' he replied.

'Sorry?' said the policewoman.

'I said – "desperate",' repeated Charles. 'I'm desperate to know more about her, to date her.' He frowned. 'But why do you ask?'

'So you know virtually nothing at all about her?' said the sergeant, ignoring his question.

Charles shook his head. 'If only, I merely bumped into her, literally, in the supermarket,' he paused while a sad and wistful look crossed his face. 'I only know her name because I asked her the last time we met.'

'Good, that is what we thought,' she replied. 'Now I have a question to ask you, Mr Kent, although I'm pretty sure I already know the answer to it. Would you like to be better acquainted with Miss Carter?'

Charles answered immediately. 'Why yes, but...'

Sergeant Darnley nodded and bit her bottom lip. 'Then perhaps I will have that cup of tea you offered, after all.'

***

A full half hour later and Charles was shaking his head in total disbelief. 'So you're suggesting that a member of Jenny's family is most probably a terrorist,' he said.

'Yes,' replied Darnley, 'at least, that's the best explanation we have at the moment.'

'But...but what evidence do you have?' he asked. 'I mean; to accuse someone of being a terrorist is pretty serious stuff.'

'I can't tell you that, Charles,' she replied. 'It's need-to-know and I'm afraid that you don't need to know.' She smiled, almost, thought Charles, maternally. 'However, I am suggesting you get to know Jenny and her family better and if it turns out that our intelligence is wrong then I shall be the first to apologise, and, as a bonus, you will have had the chance you wanted – to impress the girl by getting to know her.'

'How did you know about me?' he asked.

We're currently following the Carter family's every move; twice now you've popped up on the radar and...' she paused, 'let me just say that your body language, when you met her the second time, tells it all and if it's any consolation, according to our force psychologist who has also seen the footage, Jennifer Carter feels exactly the same way about you.'

'But why me?' he asked. 'Why do it this way when you can arrest the whole family and interrogate them?'

'Simple,' she began, 'because, in truth, we know very little about the Carters, but by letting them run free for as long as we can we can gather more intel on them. Their friends, email and phone contacts, where they work, who they meet at work and socialise with at play etc, etc; in other words, we build up the biggest picture of the Carters we can before___'

'You sound as though you have them convicted already,' put in Charles, disapprovingly.

Darnley shrugged. 'We're pretty certain we're on the right track with these people,' she replied. 'However, as I've already said, we know so little about them; about their possible colleagues and what they may be up to, why they're up to it, and where and when.'

'And that is where I come in,' observed Charles.

'Precisely.'

'And if I say no?'

'Then I'll be very disappointed and so will my masters, but, at the moment, we live in a free country and that would be your right and privilege,' she paused. 'However, it's because over the years people like Charles Kent have put themselves on the line, have actually stood up and been counted when it mattered, that Britain and the rest of the free world remain free.'

'Thank you,' said Charles, 'a good speech. You've succeeded in making me feel quite unpatriotic although a friend of mine, a social scientist, would probably tell you that, in reality, we all live in a world that is far from free.'

'Can I take it you'll help us then?' she asked.

'I don't think I'll have the time, what about my job?'

'You're an accountant in a big organisation – yes?' He nodded. 'Take a couple of weeks leave; we'll make it up to you afterwards. If you have any problems with your boss let me know and I'll sort it.'

Charles thought about the question and as he did so his mind drifted to Jenny. She had to be one of the most desirable women he had ever set eyes on and he was totally convinced such a beauty could never be involved in anything as undesirable and seedy as terrorism. So, he considered; if he did become involved he might just be doing her, and her family, a favour by clearing their names. Also, he had always quite fancied the idea of being a secret agent. 'Okay,' he said, surprising himself as he heard his voice, 'when do I start?'

***

Charles actually started some seven days later. After first signing the Official Secrets Act he was given a series of briefings by people he was told were from the Special Branch of his local police force and others who, he assumed, normally lurked in the shadowy world of espionage and international counter-terrorism. Then, armed with the memorised telephone numbers of two contacts he was told to contact only in the 'direst of dire emergencies', the UK's latest undercover spook was launched onto a hitherto unsuspecting British public and the start of his 'mission'.

Although he had been given Jenny's address, for the sake of authenticity he had to wait nearly two days before he could 'accidentally' meet her again. He did so by pre-arrangement with one of the army of observers who were watching the Carter's every movement; Jenny was passing through the rotating doors of the supermarket on the way back to her car and he, 'coincidentally', was on the way in.

'Hello again,' he said, sounding suitably pleased and surprised at their 'chance' encounter.

Jenny smiled, her perfect white teeth almost dazzling him as she did so. 'Hello,' she replied, 'we meet again.'

'We do,' he agreed, 'look, are you in a hurry?' She shook her head. 'How about a coffee then?' he asked, pointing in the direction of the store café.

She glanced at her wristwatch and nodded. 'Why not?'

'Great,' he replied, taking charge of her heavily laden trolley, 'follow me.'

Five minutes later they were both enjoying coffee and walnut cake and Charles was bathing, happily, in the sumptuous beauty of his exquisitely attractive companion. At last, after wiping his lips and fingers with a paper napkin, he asked one of many questions his various briefings had already given him the answers to but which were nevertheless still required for ice-breaking small talk. 'So where do you live?' he enquired, casually, before taking a sip of his coffee.

'In a little hamlet about three miles east of here,' she replied. 'It's very nice but very quiet.'

'You live on your own?'

She shook her head. 'Good heavens no, I live with my uncle, aunt and sister.'

'Do you work?' he asked.

'No, not since coming here.'

'But you did have a job...I mean, before?'

For a moment the question seemed to phase her, but then her assertive, self-confidence quickly returned. 'Oh yes, I'm an electronics graduate, I worked with a large, multi-national instrument company for a year after graduation. I also did a post-grad in computer programming.'

'What do your relatives do; the ones you're living with?'

'IT, my uncle's a consultant working at the power station on the coast.'

'You mean the nuclear plant at Granwich?' he enquired.

'Yes,' she agreed. Then, as though suddenly concerned by what she considered was rapidly becoming an interrogation, she looked at her watch and began tutting. 'Oh dear,' she began, 'I'm afraid I'll have to dash, I forgot, I have to collect my uncle from the plant, I'm driving his car.'

'Oh,' said Charles, sounding disappointed, 'well look, do you fancy going to the cinema one evening?'

Jenny smiled. 'Oh yes, yes I'd love to.'

'Great,' he replied, 'there's a new sci-fi movie on at the local flea pit, I could pick you up tomorrow night, if you like.'

'What time?'

'Seven?'

'Seven's good,' she replied, before hastily draining her mug and climbing to her feet. 'But you'll need my address.'

'Of course,' said Charles, cursing himself for forgetting that he was not supposed to know it already. 'Here,' he handed her a clean napkin and a pen, 'write it on there and I'll see you tomorrow night.'

***

The trip to the cinema went well, Jenny thoroughly enjoyed the film as did Charles; they also thoroughly enjoyed the sex afterwards, in Charles' flat. Three more dates followed with the reluctant spook discovering little more about the beautiful Jennifer other than the fact she had a brilliant sense of humour and passion for sex that he could only describe as lustful. Then, just over two weeks after their first outing together, she invited him to her family home and her uncle's fiftieth birthday party.

Far from feeling as though he was the new boyfriend being put under a microscope, Charles found Jenny's family friendly, informal and very easy to get on with. The party, which was in the form of a barbecue, went well and the fine June weather did not let the birthday boy down although, up to that point, the uncle had not appeared. Predictably, however, after food and a couple of glasses of wine, Jenny was feeling restless.

'Fancy a shag?'

Despite himself and despite knowing Jenny's almost insatiable appetite for sex, Charles found himself looking at her with a bemused expression on his face. 'What here?' he asked, looking around the crowded garden full of happily chatting guests.

Jenny shook her head, irritably. 'No, of course not here!' she rebuked. 'In my room.' She turned on her heel and began walking off the lawn and in the direction of the house. 'Come on, hurry up,' she insisted; then giggling, 'or I'll have to start without you.'

The house was a Georgian built, semi-mansion that Charles had been told her uncle's company had leased for him. After entering the building from the rear, Jenny had already disappeared and although he quickly found the stairs, on reaching the first floor discovered his conquest had completely vanished. Furthermore, he was faced with half a dozen closed doors and the prospect that he was on the wrong level anyway.

'Lost someone?'

Charles turned and found himself looking into the face of the man he had first seen with Jenny in the supermarket car park. 'Err...well Jenny, actually.'

The man, who was standing in the doorway of one of the rooms nodded, knowingly. 'You must be Charles then.'

'Yes,' said Charles.

'Frank Carter, Jenny's uncle. You'll find Jenny on the next floor, first bedroom on the left.'

'Thanks,' replied Charles putting a foot on the stairs, 'happy birthday by the way.'

'Thank you...err...could I have a word?' said Frank.

'Well yes, yes, if you wish,' replied Charles, wondering what was coming next, 'but I'm supposed to be...'

Frank smiled. 'She won't mind, she knows I want to talk to you, that's why you were invited; come on in for a moment.'

Charles followed him into the room, and was surprised to discover it was not a bedroom at all but rather what appeared to be a well-equipped computer lab. 'Please,' said Frank, waiving his guest to a free chair at one of two, large tables. Charles sat and after noting the room contained five PCs and a couple of laptops, looked at his host, quizzingly. 'How's my old friend Sergeant Darnley then?' asked Frank, casually, as he lit a cigarette.

Although he was only too well aware that Frank Carter was the police's prime suspect for being involved in political espionage, Charles could not help himself and he felt his mouth fall open quite involuntarily. 'I...I...'

Frank chuckled. 'Sorry,' he said, sitting on one of the remaining chairs, 'that was unfair of me.'

'How do you know about her?' asked Charlie, thinking it pointless, under the circumstances, even trying to deny any knowledge of the woman.

Frank grimaced. 'Let me guess what she's been saying about me,' he began. 'I know, that I'm suspected of having possible leanings towards certain radical Middle Eastern and Asian terror groups and that I'm trying to acquire nuclear technology with a view to help advance their cause and thus help bring pressure on Western governments to be more sympathetic to their own long-term aims and ambitions – correct?'

Charles shrugged. 'More or less.'

'And she wants you to infiltrate the Carter residence by having a relationship with my niece and report back anything you discover to be of – interest?'

Charles nodded. 'Yes...but how do you know all this?'

'Because I'm an expert computer hacker and, over the last five years I have been hacking into just about every single computer system used by the British security services and their allies. In fact, I knew they were going to recruit you before they had even found out where you lived.'

Charles was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. Unless what he was hearing were the ravings of a madman; and to his layman's eye Frank Carter appeared to be anything but a madman, he was in the company of someone currently engaging in a number of very serious offences, possibly even treason. 'Look here,' he began, 'I really don't think you ought to be telling me all this, I mean, you're leaving me no choice, when I leave here I will have to___'

'You will have to do nothing,' said Frank, matter-of-factly. He smiled, stood, and walked across the room to a small fridge. 'Look, have a beer and listen to what I've got to say,' he turned and looked at him. 'Will you do that, if not for me then for Jenny?'

There was something about Frank Carter's quietly spoken voice and non-threatening attitude that seemed to make Charles feel far more relaxed about his current circumstances than he thought he realistically should be. However, he was also concerned that should he say 'no' he would not be allowed to leave the building. How Carter would stop him he knew not but he was certain that someone confessing to carrying out serious crimes against the State would not admit them to a total stranger and then allow said, total stranger, to inform the police about them. What he must do therefore, he concluded, was, as soon as possible, telephone one of the contacts he had been given during his training and thereby effect the rescue of himself, and Jenny, from a situation he was totally convinced she could know nothing at all about.

The lager was cool and comforting and Charles drank, nervously and heavily as he watched Carter key-in what he assumed to be a password into one of his many computers. Then the self-confessed criminal was back with him, lager bottle in one hand, cigarette in another and with an expression of amused indifference on his face that Charles found both worrying and extremely confusing.

'I know what you're thinking,' said Carter, 'you're thinking that you need to let your security contacts know what I've just told you.' Not knowing what to say, Charles remained silent whilst Carter drew heavily on his cigarette before grinding it into an ashtray. 'Whilst they may be interested in your confirming what I have no doubt they already suspect, I'm pretty certain they wouldn't thank you too much. No, what they really want from you is intel on my assumed associates, that is – other members of my assumed cell – correct?'

Despite himself, Charles was nodding; he knew that information about Carter's extended spy network, that Darnley and her colleagues believed to exist, was exactly what his controllers wanted.

'The problem is,' continued Carter, 'the problem is young, Charlie, there isn't anybody else currently in Britain that they can arrest. In other words I am the UK organisation – leader, activist, biographer – the works.'

'That makes you, and your one-man organisation very vulnerable,' observed Charles.

'It has also given me great strength,' replied Carter, 'no one to fall out with over policy decisions, no one to betray me, no one to engineer a coup against me, et cetera, et cetera.'

'Just what exactly are you trying to achieve?' asked Charles, suddenly realising the conversation appeared to be going nowhere. 'Why do you do what you do?'

Carter nodded, reached for the packet of cigarettes, took one out and lit it. 'You've obviously noticed that I collect computers,' he began, smiling.

'Slightly,' acknowledged Charles.

'I use them to monitor the activities of the enemies of our country,' continued Carter; 'indeed, of our world.'

For the first time since entering the room, Charles felt seriously uncomfortable. Up to that point he had considered he was in the presence of a rational human being, now however, with enemies of 'our world' being spoken of so glibly, he was no longer so certain.

'Sorry?' he said.

Carter drew on his cigarette. 'Aliens, Charles, creatures from another world; hell bent on stealing not just this country, but the whole planet from under our feet.' Carter was studying his guest extremely carefully; looking for the slightest trace, the merest nuance of disbelief to show itself in his visitor's face, he was not disappointed. He sighed. 'I think that in the movies it's at this point that I say. "Okay, I'll prove it to you".' He shook his head. 'Well, I can but it's purely academic now, it is a given, so just relax and listen to what I have to say.'

'I'm sorry,' said Charles, 'I'm afraid I really don't understand.'

'I've been a computer hacker for many years,' said Carter, 'when I first started it used to give me a buzz, an adrenalin fix; I was the canny burglar who had successfully broken into a house having expensive, state-of-the-art security and, believe me, that felt good. You name it I've hacked it, multinationals, sensitive government departments such as defence and national security outfits, like the CIA and our own security services in Britain. I've been able to browse through the minutes of the cabinet office and once I even had the opportunity of looking at the business diary of the US president himself.' He paused to enjoy his cigarette. 'But do you know something, do you know what has been the most informative and provided the most interesting information I've gathered in recent months?' Charles shook his head.

'The secret plans of the aliens,' replied Carter.

As Carter said the word 'aliens', Charles cringed. He was an accountant; his expertise lay in the area of tax accounting and company bookkeeping; he was not, nor had he ever been taught anything whatsoever about people with delusional problems and like most lay people when confronted by someone who was 'different' he was feeling very uncomfortable. 'Oh... right,' he said, 'and...err...well what exactly are the plans of the aliens then?'

Carter smiled. 'I know,' he conceded, 'you think I'm nuts; well, I can't blame you, I really can't. All I can tell you is that I discovered, by hacking into the personal diaries of many of the world's elites, that aliens have made private pacts with leaders all over the planet; pacts which in exchange for great wealth and a guarantee that they could remain in power, albeit as puppets of the new global regime, said regime would have unrestricted and unlimited access to all manner of human and mineral resources.'

Charles had already come to the conclusion that if he wished to leave the building without any fuss, or perhaps the threat or even the use of violence, the most sensible thing to do was to indulge his host. 'So, putting it bluntly, you're saying that people like our prime minister, for example, are in the pockets of people from outer space,' said Charles.

'In a word – yes,' confirmed Carter; 'there's nothing new in the concept you know. 'Quisling regimes or heads of vassal states have been installed or supported by occupiers almost since the dawn of time.' He chuckled. 'The British did it all the time when we had an empire, so did the Romans the Germans and the Soviets. What's happened here is that we are not just talking about isolated countries; we're talking holistically about Planet Earth, the full Monty; almost every single world leader, of interest to the aliens, has been approached, duly bribed and brought onside. And, in virtually every single case, the only people who know about it are the leaders themselves and a handful of chosen henchmen who have all been sworn to absolute silence.'

'So you mean that the Sergeant Darnleys of this world have no idea about these backroom deals,' said Charles.

'Absolutely,' agreed Carter. He glanced at the clock on one of his computers. 'They have no idea, whatsoever, as to what is going to happen in approximately two hours time.'

'And what exactly is going to happen in about two hours time?' asked Charles, suddenly much more relaxed to the extent that he was almost enjoying himself.

'In the weeks and months to come, hundreds and thousands of alien storm troopers will invade and occupy the earth; aided and abetted by quisling world leaders who have collectively agreed to stand down their militaries, on a variety of pretexts, to ensure it happens swiftly, completely, and with a minimum of unnecessary bloodshed.'

'And then?' asked Charles.

'And then they will do what occupying armies have done for millennia. They will loot the occupieds' resources – gold, silver, iron, bauxite, the timber from our forests, the fish, even the water from our seas and, most precious of all, they will take – the people.'

'As slaves I assume,' said Charles, casually.

'And food,' added Carter, 'even aliens have to eat you know, and with supply lines measured in light years, humans will provide a plentiful and extremely nourishing source of protein for them.'

'How do you know all this?'

Carter smiled. 'Simple, when I discovered the extent of the alien infiltration I succeeded in contacting them myself. They probably considered killing me at first but I gambled that with my unrivalled expertise in IT they would prefer to have me onside. Fortunately, I was right and I am now the alien's co-ordinating representative for Great Britain. My job is to help facilitate the complete removal of anything that may be either of use, or interest to the occupying power in the British Isles; from the enriched uranium produced by the nuclear plant where I currently work, to people.'

'You,' said Charles, now barely able to prevent himself from laughing, despite the obvious mental health problems of his host. 'So you are...'

'I am what in Nazi occupied Europe was usually referred to as a Gauleiter,' qualified Carter. 'In other words, I am the representative of what will be the occupying power's UK region of their Greater Earth Project.'

'Right,' said Charles, draining the remains of his lager. 'Well, thanks for the chat but if you don't mind, Frank, I think I'd better find Jenny; she'll be wondering what's happened to me.'

'She knows I wanted to speak with you,' said Carter. He grinned, knowingly. 'I think you'll find she's waiting for you; you're very lucky young man, you are her chosen companion, set to become one of the Earth's small core of privileged elites; indeed, if the truth be known, she's probably saved you from an alien canning factory!'

***

It was a little over two hours later and after a typically passionate hour and a half, Jenny and Charles were lying in bed, resting. Although he had told her he had been waylaid by her uncle, he had not mentioned anything of the nature of their one-sided and bizarre conversation. However, he was about to do so when Frank knocked on the door before almost immediately entering the room. He was in fancy dress, very excited and wearing a brown uniform, similar, thought Charles, to that worn by many Nazis during World War Two.

'They're here,' said Frank, breathlessly, and as he quickly moved across to a television set perched on the dressing table.

'Sorry?' replied Charles, less than happy about the interruption as he watched his host turn on the television.

'The aliens,' said Frank, matter-of-factly, 'they're here – look.'

Unhappy as he was at having a moment of great intimacy ruined by a madman, Charles did look and was just in time to see the presenter talk about an 'urgent newsflash'. Then the image changed to that of an unusual aircraft as it touched down on what he recognised to be the lawn of the residence of the president of the United States of America. One minute later, and with the machine's engines shut down, the aircraft's doors opened to reveal a man wearing a virtually identical uniform to Frank. He was smiling and as he ran down the air-stairs to the ground, he waved to the tall, good looking man, who was waiting for him.

'Well he doesn't look any different to us,' observed Jenny, sounding disappointed. 'I always thought aliens would be different somehow, they always are on tele.'

As Charles stared at Jenny in total disbelief the sound of engines, identical in pitch to the ones at the White House, could be heard outside in the large, manorial garden. Frank chuckled. 'Why is it that people always think that visitors from another world will be green and have television aerials growing out of the tops of their heads? Anyway,' he continued, ignoring his own question as the alien and the president shook hands, 'it sounds as though my official transport has also arrived so – at long last, Jenny my dear, the promised adventure actually begins!'

The Friends

Glynn Mathews dragged the mouse cursor down the list of new emails until he came to the one from Diane. He smiled, opened it, and after briefly reading the short text message, opened the attachment that came with it and sighed, longingly.

***

'I've fallen in love,' said Glynn.

'Again?' replied his friend Jonathon, grinning cynically.

'This time it's different,' said Glynn, 'this time I'm really smitten; in fact I've actually met the girl I'm going to marry.'

'Smitten at thirty,' replied Jonathon, looking at his tall, dark-haired companion through sceptical and knowing hazel eyes. 'Well I suppose it's about time, who's the lucky lass then? Anyone I know or is she yet another helpless young graduate employee that you've temporarily swept off her naive and dainty feet?'

'Not a bit of it,' said Glynn, 'I mean well, okay, yes she is younger than me but I doubt that she had a degree.'

'Had?'

Glynn grimaced and shrugged.

'How much younger?' asked Jonathon.

'Err, ten years.'

'Bloody hell, that's nearly an arrestable offence.'

'Bollocks!'

Jonathon laughed. 'Well twenty is probably just legal, when you're thirty. Anyway, where did you meet her?'

'I haven't yet,' admitted Glynn.

Jonathon was looking confused. 'So...how do you know that you want to marry her if you've not even met her, I take it she's some sort of Internet date?'

'I've seen her photograph,' replied Glynn.

'Really, just a photograph? It gets worse, have you considered that the woman could be a serial killer; and where did you see this picture of your one, true love?'

'Diane sent it to me, by email.'

'Your cousin Diane?' asked Jonathon.

'The same.'

'What's Diane up to – match-making? I take it this girl is a friend of hers.'

Glynn suddenly looked embarrassed. 'Not quite.'

'Oh, well why has she sent you a picture of her then?'

'Because she's family and I'm collecting anything and everything to do with family to post on my online genealogical table.'

'You mean, in English, family tree?'

'I do.'

'Oh well, I suppose these things happen; what sort of family is she – cousin?'

'No,' replied Glynn, more distant than that.'

'And she's twenty you say?'

'About,' said Glynn, uncomfortably.

'Second cousin?' Glynn shook his head and Jonathon grinned. 'Okay, uncle then?'

'If you must know try great, great aunt,' said Glynn, ignoring the joke and looking carefully at his friend's face for the mandatory reaction he was expecting.

'Great, great what?' gasped Jonathon.

'Gwyneth is my great, great aunt,' confirmed Glynn. 'I've actually fallen in love with my great, great aunt, on my mother's side.'

'Nice one,' said Jonathon, draining his can, 'Gwyneth huh? Well at least you're unique among my friends, although I once had a crush on the mother of a girl I went out with at school. Now tell me, do you have any idea, any idea at all, how a layperson can have his best friend sectioned these days?'

Glynn gave him another tin of lager. 'I mean it, John, she's a real looker; she really, really is. In fact, she's the most beautiful woman I've ever set eyes on.'

'I believe you,' said Jonathon, 'but there's a lot more to a relationship than looks. Anyway, tell me, how long ago was this photograph of her taken?'

'About one hundred and ten years ago I should think; around the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.'

'And when did she die?'

'I don't know, apparently she disappeared one day whilst out walking and was never seen again. Her disappearance was so sudden, so unexpected, it apparently aroused the interest of the national Press.'

'So you might just have a marginal problem arranging a date with her then?' observed Jonathon, sarcastically.

Glynn easily shrugged off the put down. 'I happen to believe in the old saying that love can conquer all, even time itself.'

Jonathon looked closely at his friend, trying desperately to find the grin he was hoping was about to break across his friend's face; the grin which would confirm his old chum was trying to wind him up, the grin that would stop him worrying about his state of mind. It did not arrive and then he became very concerned. Glynn, he knew, was an extremely clever man, 'bordering on genius' his physics faculty professor had once said when they were at an Oxford University function together; but with that genius there had always been something of concern lurking deep inside his friend's psyche. Something not quite tangible but which often suggested Glynn was something of a maverick, living just a little too near the edge. 'If love could conquer a gap of a hundred and ten years then that would indeed be true,' he acknowledged, eventually, 'but as you, of all people know, it cannot.'

'I intend to conquer it,' said Glynn, his jaw set, eyes steel grey with grim determination.

Jonathon now realised that logic and reason, as to the feasibility of what he was suggesting, were not agenda items for Glynn. He therefore tried a different tack. 'What if she's married already?' he asked.

'She isn't.'

'Not then, maybe, but what if she did marry later on, after she disappeared? Even if you could accomplish an impossible feat of physics, you know, go back in time and get her to fall in love and marry you, she may, in truth, have married someone else, later. By denying her that possibility you would be guilty of altering time itself, perhaps even denying life to any children such a liaison produced.'

'There is no public record of her ever marrying,' said Glynn.

'Even so, you don't know that for certain and you must certainly don't know if she secretly had children out of wedlock,' insisted Jonathon.

'For quite some time now I've been working on a hypothetical solution to the problem of time travel,' continued Glynn, matter-of-factly and ignoring Jonathon's objections.

'You've what?' said Jonathon, 'time travel, you cannot be serious.'

For the first time since Jonathon's arrival, Glynn grinned. 'You sound like a tennis player and yes – I'm deadly serious.'

'Well how?'

Glynn shook his head. 'It's all about bending and compressing light waves and I'm not being a smart-arse or anything, but as a non-physicist you just wouldn't understand. In fact if I'm truthful, I barely know what I'm doing myself.' Jonathon suddenly felt cold and, not knowing what to say, looked at his feet, woodenly. 'I know what you're thinking,' continued Glynn. 'You're thinking I'm ready for the funny farm, well I can't stop you thinking that but, for old time's sake, do me the favour of bearing with me for a few weeks; at least until I've given it my best shot.'

Jonathon shrugged. 'Let's face it; you can hardly blame me for thinking what I'm thinking.'

'I totally agree,' said Glynn, 'but I can tell you that I've already succeeded in time travelling backwards for the best part of a week.'

'Get out of here!'

Glynn was grinning again. 'It's true, I started with small forays of an hour or so, then a day, and yesterday I managed a whole week.' Jonathon was looking at him cautiously, Glynn noticed. 'You remember the girl who was knocked down and killed around the corner from here, just over seven days ago?' Jonathon nodded. 'It was a hit-and-run and the police did not have a clue as to the maker of the vehicle or identity of its driver.' Jonathon was nodding again. 'I travelled back to the approximate time of the girl's death and witnessed the whole thing. When I returned to the present, I made an anonymous phone call to Crime Stoppers. They arrested the driver within hours.'

'You're saying that you were the anonymous person the police were thanking on the TV this morning.'

'I am,' replied Glynn.

'Why didn't you stop the girl from being on the road in the first place?' asked Jonathon, sceptically. 'That way you could have saved her life.'

'True, but tragically that would have been going against the natural laws of the universe; I really would have been altering the course of history there. I mean, she could have lived and gone on to give birth to a megalomaniac, like Hitler or Stalin. I'm not that stupid you know.'

'And if you could succeed in making love to your great, great aunt, then who is to say that the same thing could not happen then?'

Glynn shrugged. 'I can't answer that question; all I do know is that we're destined for each other. I feel it with every fibre of my being. When I'm ready I'm going to travel to her time and bring her back with me to the twenty-first century. Don't you see? Our love is preordained; she's waiting for me a mere hundred and ten years away. That has to be why she completely disappeared in nineteen hundred and two, she moved a hundred and ten years forward in time and spent the rest of her life living happily, with me.'

Now seriously fearing for his friend's sanity and not wishing to upset him, Jonathon spoke as though the plan may have some mileage, albeit with complications. 'Do you really think you could pull someone from out of the early twentieth century and expect them to settle into modern day life?' he asked. 'I mean, apart from anything else we live in an age where the State often knows more about the individual than the individual. She could never work for example, not legally anyway; you could never travel abroad because she will be unable to acquire a passport and if she ever became ill,' he threw his hands in the air in mock despair. 'She could never have treatment from the National Health Service without some awkward questions being asked, now could she? And you're forgetting the cultural differences; she'll not have heard a radio, seen a plane fly or have watched a television. To her, modern motor cars will look like something from outer space and as for computers and mobile phones...and then there's the way we speak nowadays, not just accent but the language we use. Why, half the words in the modern English language were probably not even invented in...'

'I know, I know,' agreed Glynn, beginning to sound bored with his friend's negativity. 'Don't you think I've thought of all that? In the final analysis, however, it doesn't matter. Like I said at the start of this conversation, love is timeless and, ultimately, with a little help from science, is capable of conquering all.'

***

For the next few weeks, Jonathon, thinking his friend had become obsessed with a dream more akin to a Hollywood movie script than anything to do with reality, called round to see him, after work, on Tuesdays and Thursdays; just as he had always done for the past five years. Glynn, however, was never there. He emailed him, left text messages on his mobile phone and even pushed an old-fashioned handwritten note through his letter box, all to no avail. To all intents and purposes Glynn Mathews had disappeared off the face of the earth. Then, some six months after their conversation about time travel and the enigmatic great, great aunt, Jonathon received a text message inviting him to coffee. He caught up with Glynn sitting in an almost deserted café in the local shopping mall; the physicist, he thought, looked pale and ill.

'Glynn,' he said, warmly, as he joined him at the table.

Glynn looked up from some calculations he was busy with and smiled, weakly. 'Jonathon,' he replied, seemingly trying hard to appear pleased to see him, 'how are you?'

'I'm fine, but you look like shit,' he replied.

Glynn nodded. 'Yes, that's pretty much as I feel, I'm afraid.'

'What have been up to? I've been trying to contact you for weeks; you might have returned at least one of my calls and messages.'

'Oh...yes...yes...sorry, I've been away on an extended holiday.'

'Anywhere nice?'

Glynn grimaced. 'I also spent quite a lot of time at the country house of an old pal from university. We've always shared a common interest in time travel and have been working together trying to travel further than just a couple of weeks into the past.'

'And?' said Jonathon, fighting the temptation to scoff.

'We made it,' he replied, sadly.

'You succeeded in travelling back to nineteen hundred and two?' gasped Jonathon. Glynn nodded. 'Get out of here!'

'It's true,' objected Glynn, 'why would I lie?'

'Good God! Well, what happened?'

'Everything went according to plan; I met up with Gwyneth and she was everything I dreamed she'd be. We fell in love almost instantly and set up home together.'

'Bloody hell!' exclaimed Jonathon. 'So is she here, did you bring her forward in time as you said you would?'

'Only briefly, so that we could continue our journey; you see, when I thought about everything you'd said I realised you were right. I also realised that there was only one thing to do if we were to live together in a society that accepted both of us without question.'

'What's that?'

'Go further back in time, go where no one knew us and where the State was so backward it couldn't catch up with us. So, armed with gold I'd bought in Edwardian times, at a knock-down price, we went back to the seventeenth century. Bought a rather grand house in the country, almost for toffees, and settled down as man and wife.' He managed a weak, sardonic smile. 'Nobody batted an eyelid; we had servants, status, land, and a lifestyle far grander than anything I could afford in the twenty-first century. It was also a low-tech lifestyle, much nearer to that of the Edwardian; so Gwen didn't have to struggle with too many new concepts, or language.'

'So what happened?' asked Jonathon.

Glynn shook his head. 'You were right,' he began, 'one should never mess about with time, 'too many variables, far, far too much to go wrong.'

'How do you mean?'

'Within weeks she contracted Typhus and died.'

'Oh dear, that's dreadful, I'm so sorry! But what about you, are you all right?'

'Oh yes, I've always had the shots before going abroad on holidays and business.'

'So what did you do?'

'I returned to the present to obtain immunisations for her to take. Armed with those I thought I'd go back and start all over again.'

'What happened?'

Glynn sighed, heavily. 'After returning to the present I set out to obtain the vaccinations but when I returned to Mark's house, he's the guy who helped me travel back to Gwyneth's time, he had disappeared. Without him I had no chance of getting back that far, maybe not ever, and certainly not for many years.'

'I'm sorry,' said Jonathon again; not knowing quite what to make of his friend's strange, and remarkable story, 'I really am.'

Glynn shook his head, dismissively. 'It doesn't matter anymore,' he replied. 'Tell me something, do you remember cautioning me about tinkering around with history?'

'Yes,' said Jonathon, wondering what was coming next.

'When I first approached Mark about helping me he was reluctant to share his knowledge to say the least. Then I showed him why I so desperately wanted to time travel and he relented.'

'You mean you showed him Gwyneth's photograph and he also found your ancestor attractive and thereby understood why you were so driven?' asked Jonathon.

'Yes, yes I do, you see he also met her, briefly; when I first returned with her to continue our journey further back in time. When I returned again, after Gwyneth had died, I came back to the present within seconds of actually leaving it. I told Mark what had happened and how I intended obtaining vaccinations from a doctor friend of mine before returning in plenty of time to protect Gwen from disease. He agreed it was a good idea and promised to set up the kit ready for my revisit. As I've already said, when I returned to his house, just a few hours later, it was locked and bolted and I could not gain entry. I later learned from his brother that he'd vanished, taking all his gadgetry with him.'

'Do you know where he's gone?' asked Jonathon.

Glynn removed a smart phone from his pocket and switched it on. 'I had an idea from some of our previous conversations but it took me a long time, and a lot of Internet online record searching, to prove it.' Jonathon now watched as his friend quickly searched through a number of photographs. Finally, he came across the one he was looking for and he held the device out for Jonathon to hold. The picture was of what appeared, judging by the clothes, to be a late eighteenth century painting of a family of five; mother, father and three children, aged from around six to ten. The woman, a blonde, was quite striking to look at and even though the painting was over two hundred years old, Jonathon could not help but admire the woman's quite exquisite beauty.

'This is a photograph of a painting that once hung in Chicheley Hall, Buckinghamshire, the home of the Royal Society. That's Gwen,' said Glynn, and the man with her is her husband, Mark, my former friend.'

'Good God!' exclaimed Jonathon, so you mean to say that...'

'Yes, he beat me to the post,' confirmed Glynn. 'Travelled back to just before she met me and then took her to live in the eighteenth century; once there, armed with his twenty-first century education and knowledge, he set himself up as an inventor of some wealth and note; hence this painting he had specially commissioned.'

'So what are you going to do?' asked Jonathon.

'There's nothing I can do,' replied Glynn. 'For one thing there's no way I can go back that far in time. Not without Mark's help.'

'And the other?'

Glynn smiled, knowingly and sighed. 'Do you remember when you were doing your family tree and you discovered that one of your ancestors, David Warren, had been at Waterloo?' Jonathon nodded. 'And that a fellow soldier had actually saved your illustrious ancestor's life by taking a bullet for him.'

Jonathon nodded again. 'Yes, according to David's archived letters to his mother they were great friends, and when the French cavalryman was about to shoot him his friend Brian saw what was about to happen, pushed David to the ground and took the bullet himself.'

'That's right,' agreed Glynn, 'that's the story as I remember you telling it. It's quite amazing how history has a habit of repeating itself, in this case how one friend can save, sometimes almost by chance, the life of another.'

Jonathon was looking confused. 'Sorry...err...not quite with you I'm afraid.'

Glynn smiled, wistfully. 'There is now, even if I possessed the technology, no way I could ever go back and capture the heart of Gwyneth before Mark Dawlish could get to her. You see, Jonathon, that cardinal event in history, the union of Mark and Gwyneth, simply had to happen and because it had to happen I have had to give up any hope, any possibility, of being with the woman I truly love above all others.'

'Did you say Dawlish?' asked Jonathon. 'I'm sure I know that name.'

Glynn pointed to the ten-year-old boy in the picture. 'Meet Brian Dawlish, the boy who, when he grew into a man, and subsequently a soldier, gave up everything to save his friend's, your ancestor's, life. The man without whose act of unparalleled bravery and altruism, on the grim, smoke-filled battlefield of Waterloo, you, my dear, dear friend, would not be here today!'

About the Author

Born in Cheshire, England, Len studied at Stockport College and the Open University. His work, as a risk assessment engineer, took him to many parts of the world and into many interesting places, including gas exploration platforms in the North Sea, nuclear submarines and many of Scotland's and Northern England's prisons. This mind-broadening lifestyle has given him a vast and comprehensive insight into the diverse and complicated world in which we live and whether writing for children, under the pseudonym R.M. McLeod, or an older readership, his travels and experiences have given him an ability to write with authority, humour and an understanding of both his characters and his craft which is very hard to beat.

Also by Len Cooke

If you enjoy a little humour with your sci-fi, you may well take pleasure from the following. However, in reading Time Travellers' Guide, you are advised to hang onto your sanity at all costs; the publishers are not prepared to accept any responsibility for the psychological welfare of the unwary reader! We hope you enjoy the extract.

THE TIME TRAVELLERS' GUIDE TO TOTAL CHAOS

Or

HARRY, SANDY AND THE ZANDRON

Published by Red Panda Press at Smashwords 2012 (2)

Copyright Len Cooke 1996/2012

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.

For Christine

THE TIME TRAVELLERS' GUIDE TO TOTAL CHAOS

Alternatively Known As

HARRY, SANDY AND THE ZANDRON

Introduction

For Detective Inspector Harry Wilding, his latest assignment, that of escorting an asylum-seeking alien from another planet, begins in chaos and subsequent events make it seem that life is set to continue that way.

First, he has to endure the humiliation of finding himself the intellectual inferior of Sandy, the alien. A strange and beautiful woman possessing telepathic powers who hails from another world, set in a distant galaxy. Sandy, who, after travelling to Earth, in her quest for sanctuary in England, has given herself up to the Cumbrian Police. Her implausible story arouses the interest of MI5's Extra Terrestrial Section and Harry's job is to escort her to London to allow them to interview her. Thinking Sandy to be nothing other than a 'nutter', their journey begins. However, they have barely driven more than a few minutes when the paranoid alien senses that a broken-down lorry, blocking the road ahead of them, is actually a hologram, a trap set by her enemies. As such she encourages Harry to drive straight for the vehicle at high-speed.

Chapter 2 begins with Harry recovering in hospital where he quickly learns that agents from Sandy's native planet are on Earth and hunting for her. His UK Government bosses tell him to find a safe house, which he does, but the alien agents soon pay them a visit and capture them. The rulers of Dronos have threatened the whole of planet Earth with extinction if they do not cooperate in finding Sandy. After poisoning their captors with orange juice, (Dronosians are allergic to it) numerous adventures follow. These include being arrested as spies in wartime Britain, escaping a barbecuing by cannibalistic mutants in a time-limbo called Treblos and Harry discovering what it is like to be a male sex slave in 11000AD. Finally, they both end up taking part in a life or death quiz game in the 22nd century where failure to win means certain death by public execution!

Chapter 1

The drive to Cumbria had proved uneventful and, as a bonus, the weather, that had slowly worsened the farther north he drove, had kept the day-trippers at home. This factor, coupled with lighter than usual business traffic, saw the policeman nearing Junction 36, of the M6 Motorway, within five hours of leaving the capital city.

He had driven no more than two hundred yards along the A590 when he saw the hitchhiker illuminated in his car headlights; the man was just standing there, head down, at the start of a lay-by. He was soaked through and, thought Harry, looked about as happy as a man who had just been told his estranged wife was returning to live in the family home. As he approached the lay-by, Harry eyed him, studiously. He appeared to be thirty-something, tall, over six feet at least and dressed in denim shirt, jeans and trainers. His hair, whilst cut fashionably short, was like the rest of him, drenched. A sudden pang of sympathy for the hapless traveller made Harry break the rule of a lifetime and after checking his mirror, he pulled over. The man immediately tried to open the passenger door but Harry was having none of it, the wretched traveller having to make do with an interrogation through a one-inch opening in the passenger window.

'Where are you going?' asked Harry.

'Broughton way,' said the man, miserably, 'to Greenthwaite.'

'Where are you from?' Harry continued, still uncertain as to whether he should offer the stranger a lift.

'Slough.'

'And you've hitch-hiked from there?'

'Yes,' the man nodded, a distinct whine appearing in his voice as the wind drove the rain even harder into his face. Harry was thoughtful for a few seconds then finally relented. He released the door lock and allowed the grateful man to climb in beside him. 'Thanks,' he said, as Harry drove back onto the carriageway, 'it's a bloody awful night.'

'You're in luck,' said Harry, 'I'm going to Greenthwaite myself.'

The man breathed a sigh of relief, seemingly glad that his journey was now almost as good as over. Shivering, he eased himself back into the comfort of the passenger seat and looked at his saviour through shrewd, brown eyes. 'My name's Ben,' he offered, trying to stifle a yawn.

'Harry,' said Harry, concentrating on overtaking a slow moving tractor.

'Are you here on holiday?' asked Ben

Harry shook his head. 'No, just a spot of business, I'll be back in the Smoke tomorrow.'

'Sorry, Smoke?'

Harry glanced at him and grinned. 'The Smoke – London.'

Ben sounded surprised. 'Oh, you're from the capital then?'

'Yes,' said Harry, still grinning. 'I'm surprised you've never heard of the Smoke, what with you coming from Slough.'

'Oh I've not lived there very long.'

Harry nodded. 'Obviously.'

'What exactly is the nature of your business?' asked Ben, directly.

Harry gave his passenger a look that told him he had asked the wrong question. 'Private,' he said, flatly.

Ben, seemingly embarrassed, moved to safer ground. 'How long will it take us to reach Greenthwaite?'

'Good question, I've never been there before, but I'll guess at between thirty to thirty-five minutes.'

'Good,' said his passenger. 'Very good, I'm really hungry.'

'You have friends in Greenthwaite? asked Harry. 'They'll have a meal waiting for you?'

Ben stared at him uncertainly, as though unsure how best to answer the question. 'Err, oh I expect I'll eat in a pub, they will be open, will they?'

Harry glanced at the dashboard clock; it was showing five minutes after ten. 'Not for food they won't.'

'Oh dear.'

'Although I've never been to Greenthwaite before I do know this stretch of road,' said Harry. 'I know it from walking holidays spent in the Lakes. There's an all-night filling station in about three miles, they'll have sandwiches and crisps. I can stop there if you wish.'

Ben seemed puzzled. 'They fill sandwiches there, all night?' he asked.

Harry chuckled; at least his passenger had a sense of humour. 'Very droll,' he replied, 'well, do you want me to stop or not?'

Ben nodded, yawned again and said. 'Oh yes, yes, thank you very, very much.'

Harry dropped Ben off at the taxi rank in Greenthwaite, looked at the map he had had faxed to him before leaving London and five minutes later parked his car outside the local police station.

The station sergeant was middle-aged, tired looking and grumpy. He stared uninterestedly at Harry as he entered the reception area then just about managed. 'Yes?'

Grinning, Harry produced a Warrant Card. 'D.I. Wilding, from the Met. I'm here to interview Sandy Glover, you're holding her for us.'

The sergeant looked at his watch before scowling. 'You want to interview her tonight?'

The visitor shook his head. 'No way, I was asked to let your DCI Trubshaw know I'd landed; he's booked me into a suitable hostelry, I hope.' He opened his hands. 'So – as discussed – I've landed.'

The sergeant seemed less than impressed; the visitor was creating work, never something to be easily tolerated, especially on night shift. 'I'll give the inspector a ring at home, sir,' he conceded, 'tell him you're here.'

***

Later, as Harry left the station and began walking back towards his car, he could have sworn he saw someone dodge back into the shadow of a shop doorway. Intrigued, and for a moment his copper's nose twitching, he stared across the road in the direction of the movement. Nothing further stirred however and as it was still raining, he shrugged and quickly made his way to the sanctuary of his vehicle.

***

At precisely nine o'clock the following morning Harry presented himself, once again, at the reception desk of Greenthwaite Police Station. Sergeant Baxter had long since gone off shift and his replacement, a large, civilian male, who looked more like an over-weight shot-putter having a bad day, eyed him cautiously. Five minutes later, however, he was being shown into the ancient and sparsely furnished office of his Cumbrian contact, Detective Chief Inspector, James Trubshaw.

'To be quite honest with you, Harry,' said his host waving him to a seat, 'we'll be glad to see the back of the woman. She's been a complete pain-in-the-arse since she arrived.'

Harry raised an eyebrow. 'Why?'

Trubshaw studied his tall, grey-eyed, good-looking visitor and shrugged. 'Well, she claims she's come to us for police protection but she won't tell us why she wants it.'

'Well, what has she said?'

'Only what you already know, that she's being pursued by some pretty nasty people and to get safely out of their way she gave herself up – for the offence she deliberately committed. Anyway, tell me, why have they sent you to take her to the Smoke? I mean, you can't escort a woman prisoner on your Jack Jones, it breaks all the rules in the book.'

A cynical grin crossed Harry's face. 'She won't be a prisoner, she's not going to be charged; some hot-shot from London talked the plaintive out of taking it any further. She only stole a pie for God's sake, nobody even knew about the offence until she walked into your nick and coughed it, not even the baker.'

'So why are you here then?'

'Some people want her in London; her claim that she's being sought by some weirdo extra-terrestrial organisation has been bought by the upper echelons. It is they who wish to interview her; I'm just the taxi driver and, if necessary, protection for the journey.'

Trubshaw suddenly seemed more interested. 'You mean to say they accept the nonsense she's been coming out with, about being hunted by Martians?'

Harry grinned. 'Not the Met I can assure you. It's some top-secret government organisation, a bit like the one on TV. You know, about the FBI and alien beings from another world?'

Trubshaw scoffed, disdainfully. 'Why didn't they come and get her then, your "top-secret" people?'

'Apparently they're very sensitive about their anonymity. Therefore the foreign and home offices thought it better for simple Jack Plod to collect and deliver her for them.'

Trubshaw shook his head in obvious disbelief. 'You know, at times I don't know what's happening with our society, the country's gone bloody daft. Everyone's watching too much TV I think. The woman's seriously off her chump; she needs psychiatric help, not a chauffeur driven trip to London.'

Harry looked at his watch then climbed to his feet. 'If you don't mind, I'd like to get on with it. I've the best part of a six hour drive, with, by the sounds of things, a raving bloody nutter for company.'

Trubshaw nodded, sympathetically. 'Sure, I'll get her for you now.'

***

Sandy Glover claimed to be thirty-four years-old. Although barely five-feet tall, she enjoyed a Hollywood quality figure, was fair-haired and, concluded Harry extremely quickly, drop-dead gorgeous. As she entered the interview room, in front of Trubshaw, Harry looked up from his paperwork and almost gasped. Had he ever seen anyone so beautiful before? Why hadn't Trubshaw told him about her great looks?

'Miss Glover,' he stuttered, waving her towards a chair. She nodded. 'My name's Wilding, Inspector Harry Wilding. I've been sent from the Met, to take you to London.'

Sandy stared at him nervously, then glanced behind her at the still standing Trubshaw. She looked back to Harry. 'Could we talk alone?' she asked.

Trubshaw looked at Harry then shrugged. 'Under the new circumstances I don't see a problem with that,' he conceded, 'she's all yours now, anyway – good luck.'

Sandy waited until the door had closed behind the chief inspector then smiled, worriedly, at Harry. 'Have they told you about me?' she asked.

Harry nodded, always a man for quiet life, he had already decided that he was going to humour her. 'Sort of, you're supposed to be from Mars and aliens are trying to capture you and take you back there. Therefore, naturally, you want political asylum, on earth.'

As he watched her shake her head, sadly, Harry realised that the woman was in deadly earnest. Off her chump or otherwise, he reasoned that whatever she was about to tell him, however stupid or far-fetched it may sound, she really believed it to be the truth.

'I'm not from Mars,' she began, passionately; the commitment in her voice such that Harry also began to breathe a huge, but very silent, sigh of relief. 'No one can live on Mars; you should know that, living so near it!'

'Sorry,' said Harry, now feeling much more comfortable. 'It's just that my people in London said that you had some crackpot idea you were a Martian.' He laughed. 'Not that I ever believed what they were saying of course,' he scoffed. 'The very thought of you coming from a hostile place like Mars –well – it's daft I know.'

Sandy settled back in her chair. 'Good, I'm glad we've got that out of the way, because I'm from a planet well outside your own Solar System; it's a beautiful world called – Dronos.'

Harry's chin suddenly landed on the desk. 'Err, sorry?' he said, weakly.

'Dronos,' repeated Sandy. 'It revolves around a star we call Becarrus, much as your Earth revolves around your own Sun.'

'Oh,' croaked Harry, once again thinking about his six-hour journey back to London. 'Err; just how far away from Earth is this Dronos place then?'

Sandy was thoughtful for a moment. 'Like yourselves we measure distance in space by the use of light years, you know, the distance light can travel in one year?' Harry was nodding his head but it was only a reflex gesture, in truth he did not have a clue what she was talking about. 'Well,' continued Sandy, studiously, 'at the moment, Dronos is about six light years away from Earth. So, if you were using a primitive propulsion system that travelled at the speed of light, it would take you six years to get there.'

Harry decided to continue humouring her. 'So a spaceship that can travel at the speed of light is "primitive" is it?'

'Very,' agreed Sandy, matter-of-factly.

Harry frowned; he had met some serious fruitcakes in his time but this woman... 'So, how long did it take you to get here then?' he asked. 'You know, approximately, from Drynose, or whatever it is.'

Sandy sighed. 'Dronos and it takes about forty-eight of your hours. The trip's a bit of a bummer really, when you land you're desperately tired and really, really hungry.'

'I'm not surprised,' said Harry. 'But why don't you eat en route as it were? I mean, while you're on board the spaceship.'

Sandy glared at him as though he had fallen out of a very large tree. 'What spaceship?'

Harry rolled his eyes; he was only having the conversation to be polite, to acquaint himself with the psychology of the company his masters had chosen for his trip back to London. 'The spaceship you came to Earth on,' he suggested.

Sandy shook her head, angrily. 'But I didn't come to Earth on a spaceship.'

Harry was looking confused again but he was a policeman and therefore – patient. 'Okay, how did you travel six light years, or whatever you call them, in forty-eight hours?'

'I was converted into sub-atomic particles, in a special machine called a converter and transmitted here as a light beam, via a laser.' She paused. 'I take it even you've heard of a laser. It's well within even your primitive technology.'

Harry nodded. 'Yes, yes, that I have heard of, but – well while I'm no physicist, if you came as light, then it would have taken you six years to get here, wouldn't it?'

Sandy grinned. 'Ah, good point, that's all part of the trick you see, the thing is, the Dronosian scientists have perfected a light accelerator it means that most places in the galaxy are now within easy reach of our own planet. Nowadays a journey to Earth is possible within, at most, just under a hundred hours.'

Harry suddenly sat up in his chair, his eyes shrewd. 'Sorry Sandy, a few moments ago you told me, specifically, that you made the trip in forty-eight hours, not a hundred.' He knew he had her and he smiled, triumphantly.

'In simplistic terms you're right, but we Dronosians have also mastered the concept of time-travel. So, where we can, we move around the galaxy in two stages.' She paused thoughtfully. 'Take our solar system's relationship to Earth, for example. In nine thousand years, we'll be about three light years away from Earth. So the trick is to, firstly, beam into the future, in this case nine thousand years into the future, with a portable accelerator, that only takes a few seconds. Then, when you're in the future, you transmit yourself from there. Once at your destination you programme in the time control for the period you wish to visit, in my case it was two thousand and five. On the way back you reverse the process.' She smiled with satisfaction. 'Simple, isn't it?'

Harry stared at her, his expression resembling that of a football hooligan in a museum of fine art. Then he tried another tack. 'Why don't you have an accent, Miss Glover, it is Miss I take it?'

'Yes, when you beam out from Dronos you travel with a memory package, compatible with your final destination. Therefore, when all your bits, including the package, are reassembled at your chosen visit site, you have the memory included into your brain. I chose to bring an English cultural module.' She smiled contentedly. 'That's why I can understand you perfectly, even though, in the case of your country, the word "culture" would probably infringe the Intergalactic Trade Descriptions Acts.'

'Does it include all our customs?' asked Harry, ignoring the put-down.

'Not all, most though; it depends on the programme and what you can afford. Mine is not an expensive one you see, it's a bit out of date I'm afraid. I think it was compiled in the late fifties, early sixties, Earth time that is.'

Harry's eyes rolled slightly, this time however, Sandy noticed. 'You seem to have a problem with your eyesight. Your eyeballs keep rolling, are they loose?'

He chuckled before becoming serious again. 'As you know, Miss Glover, you've asked for political asylum and as I think you also know, I've been ordered to take you to London.' She nodded. 'Before we leave however, I've been asked to get some details from you and email them to our Foreign Office.'

'What is email?' she asked.

Harry chuckled again; Sandy from Dronos was good, very good. 'Ah yes, they wouldn't have email in the sixties. Well, quite simply, it's a device for transmitting information by telephone. I'm going to write down your full particulars, on a piece of paper, then email it to London.' He sighed heavily. 'Then, when you arrive there, later today, they'll know what's in store for them and what sort of treatment you should receive. He paused. 'After our conversation here, today, I can assure you that – in your case – I'll be recommending the full treatment.'

'It all sounds very primitive,' observed Sandy. 'Emailing I mean; why don't you just think it to them instead?'

He ignored the question and began writing her name at the top of his fax blank then he looked at her and smiled, sadly. 'We're very primitive people you know.'

Sandy nodded. 'Yes, yes, I know you are.'

***

Thirty minutes later, Harry was drinking coffee in Trubshaw's office.

'I told you she's as mad as a hatter,' said Trubshaw, putting Harry's brief report on his desk.

'Mad? She's fallen completely out of her tree,' agreed Harry.

'So, she still maintains that extra-terrestrials are after her,' observed the chief inspector, wryly.

'Absolutely,' said Harry. 'Pity really, she's such a good-looker. Still, only another six hours and I'll be shot of her.'

'You don't know all the details then?' asked Trubshaw. 'I mean, who these people are supposed to be and why they want her?'

Harry shook his head. 'I'm expressly forbidden from asking her that. Apparently she's going to have a special debrief from this new AL1 organisation when she arrives in London. No one else is supposed to know about it.' He glanced at the Cumbrian. 'So, if you value your arse, I'd keep schtum if I were you.'

Trubshaw shook his head, cynically. 'It's no skin off my nose, we get plenty of nutters of our own without importing the buggers. The only problem I have is what they're spending taxpayers' money on these days. I blame it all on the Americans; they're the ones who started all this rubbish, about little green men from Mars.'

'Actually, although I wouldn't put money on it, I think it may have been someone called Jules Verne, or even H.G. Wells,' put in Harry. 'Anyway I'd best get going.' He pointed to the handwritten email information on Trubshaw's desk. 'Don't forget to send that, will you?'

***

As they left the Victorian built police station, Sandy glanced up and down the road, nervously. Gently, Harry took hold of her arm and led her towards his Mondeo, parked conveniently near the front door. 'Come on,' he said, 'let's get you in the motor, you'll feel safer then.' Sandy needed no second bidding and, hastily, opened the car door and climbed inside. Harry joined her in the driver's seat, fastened his belt, and started the engine.

'What is that?' she asked, staring at the strap.

Harry was smiling again. 'Sorry, of course,' he humoured her. 'They didn't have many seat belts in the early sixties, here, let me show you.' He reached across her for the buckle, noticing how fresh her breath smelt, how large her breasts were and how soft and yielding her body was as he pulled the belt across it.

'You're very, very good you know,' he acknowledged, as the car began moving forward. 'I mean, you must have one hell of a memory.'

'Sorry?' she stared at him, quizzingly. 'What are you talking about?'

Harry shook his head, dismissively. 'How would you like to tell me who you really are?' he asked. 'You know, I may be able to help you, I mean, really help you. A friend of mine knows someone who knows the brother of a shrink.'

Sandy grimaced. 'I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. I've told you everything about me that you've asked.'

He frowned, thought of saying something then, decided to give up. They were approaching the edge of town now and as they entered the de-restricted area he began to accelerate. Soon they were doing sixty along a good straight section of road.

'These cars are still very slow,' she said after a few minutes. 'According to my memory, cars were more than capable of this speed over fifty years ago.'

'That's true,' agreed Harry playing the game with her. 'But they get there much faster these days; they're more economical and much more environmentally friendly.'

Sandy nodded in approval. 'That's good, you should look after your environment, it's___'

Harry glanced at her, suddenly her mood had changed and she was looking shocked, frightened even. 'What's the matter?' he asked.

'The man ahead,' she replied, slowly, 'he's one of them, one of the men they've sent to capture me.'

Harry looked forward, the road was still straight for a further half mile and he could see no one. 'There isn't a man,' he replied.

'Oh yes there is!' said Sandy, firmly. 'There, where the road bears round to the right, he's stood waiting for us, on the bend, behind a hedge.'

Harry peered through the windscreen but he could see no sign of another living soul for miles. He glanced back at his passenger. 'Take it easy, Sandy, I promise you, there's nobody there, really there isn't.'

However, Sandy was shaking her head. 'Listen,' she hissed, nervously. 'When we get near him, he'll try thumbing a lift. Whatever you do, don't stop!'

Harry nodded. 'Fine, I never do stop for hitchhikers, well...hardly ever.'

'Good,' said Sandy, 'that's very good.'

They were two hundred yards from the bend when the man emerged from the hedgerow and stuck out his thumb. Within seconds they were within one hundred yards of him and Harry thought he recognised the figure. A moment later he knew he had, it was Ben, the hitchhiker he had brought to Greenthwaite the previous evening. Harry drove past him without slowing down, negotiated the bend then looked at Sandy, the alien now seemed a little more relaxed.

'Why didn't he stop us?' he asked, nonchalantly. 'I mean, if he's from such a superior culture why didn't he put a tractor-beam on us or fry us both with a ray-gun or something?'

Sandy frowned. 'I don't know what tractor-beams or ray-guns are, but he had nothing to stop us with, it's strictly against the rules to carry any sort of weapon on an inter-planetary mission. Therefore, they'll make my death look like an accident – they'll have to!'

'Death!' exclaimed Harry, 'I thought they only wanted to capture you?'

'Capture, kill, it's all the same to them, as long as they eliminate me, one-way or another, their job's completed. I can assure you though, that man was one of them, I recognised him.'

Harry chuckled. 'You must have been a very naughty girl, back on Drynose.'

'You won't laugh when you upset them.' observed Sandy. 'Anyway, you've never asked me why I'm being hunted; so don't make stupid remarks until you know the facts.'

'Pardon me,' he replied. 'I haven't asked because I'm not allowed to.'

'You also don't believe a word I've been telling you,' she admonished.

'Sandy! What sort of a guy do you think I am?'

She ignored the question. 'That was one of them, believe me or otherwise.'

'I gave him a lift last night,' said Harry, firmly. 'He's as human as I am.'

'You gave him a lift!' Sandy was clearly appalled. 'He's one of the most dangerous men in the Benrovsic. I thought you said that you didn't give people lifts.'

'Ben who?'

'The Benrovsic are the Dronosian secret police, they're feared throughout the galaxy for their terrible cruelty.'

Harry shook his head, sadly. 'The guy is called Ben and he comes from Slough, England. I drove him from the motorway last night; all he was interested in was food.'

Sandy nodded. 'He would be, he'd not have eaten for over forty-eight hours.'

'He'd been on the road all day,' said Harry. 'He'd hitched up from Slough; naturally he was cold, wet, hungry, tired and miserable.'

'All the agents of the Benrovsic are called Ben,' observed Sandy. 'You know, Ben 1, Ben 2 etc, and when they're in the UK they all claim to come from Slough, it's part of their training, it goes back years. Also, like I said before, he'd have been tired out.'

'Why do they all say they're from Slough?' asked Harry, patiently.

'Because, before any of us travelled to England, one of the Earth researchers thought that Slough was the headquarters of the UK Mars Project. That's why they went there first, to find out how far advanced in space travel you were. They were very disappointed.'

Harry sighed, if nothing else, Sandy was entertaining. 'I'm not surprised they were disappointed, Mars is the name of a confection made in Slough, not a space agency. Amongst other things they make Mars Bars, damned good they are too.'

'We know that now,' objected Sandy.

'You mean you know that they're good?'

'No,' she replied, angrily. 'I'm telling you about what happened over forty years ago, when we first started beaming to your world. Anyway, that's how Ben 1 would have known where I was, he'd have read your thoughts whilst he was with you, in the car.'

Just for a moment Harry was suddenly feeling worried. 'You're telling me that you people can read the thoughts of others?'

'Of course,' said Sandy.

'Bullshit,' returned Harry, hopefully.

Sandy smiled at him. 'Is it? Then it's not true that you think I've got a great pair of charlies and that you'd really, really love to give me one? If I wasn't off my chump that is, whatever a "one" and a "chump" happen to be.'

Harry turned scarlet before tripping into defensive mode. 'Okay, so that's true, but – well, I mean – any hot-blooded male would want to, you must have guessed that, it doesn't prove a thing.'

'To be perfectly honest with you I hadn't even thought about it. When Dronosians beam anywhere they have a list of body types they can reassemble into, I just chose this one because I like the idea of being small for a change.'

'You're normally tall then.' said Harry.

'Oh yes, Dronosians are very tall, we look very much like humans but everything is much, much bigger. Legs, arms, heads,' she glanced at him. 'Yes, Harry, the women probably even have bigger charlies.' She looked at him, studiously. 'What are charlies by the way?' Harry kept his eyes on the road ahead, a horrified expression on his face. 'Oh I see,' said Sandy, with sudden understanding, 'yes, we do have big charlies.'

Harry tripped into a coughing spasm. 'I wasn't really thinking about...about your breasts.'

'Liar,' she responded, 'now you're thinking can I really read your mind? And the prospect is making you worried.'

Harry shook his head. 'Sorry, I'm still not convinced that everything you've said cannot be explained by logic.'

'It's logic that you were thinking about my charlies?'

'Well...err...yes.'

'What sort of people are you?'

'Men do think about charlies,' objected Harry. 'I mean, that's why women have them, so men can think about them.'

'You just think about them?'

Harry was out of control and turning redder. 'No, men like to, well you know, play with them and other things.'

'You play with women's charlies!' Sandy sounded as though he had just admitted to being a Blackpool supporter.

'Of course we do, that's why you have them, isn't it?'

She grinned. 'Gotcha!'

'Sorry?' he glanced at her, confused.

'Just my little joke, Dronosian men are just the same.'

'They like charlies?'

'Yes, only they call them tits on Dronos.'

Harry scowled. 'You're taking the piss and anyway, I still don't believe you.'

Sandy nodded. 'Okay, think of a number.'

'No.'

'What are you frightened of, the truth?'

He scowled at her. 'No.'

'Then think of a number, a number between one and ten.'

'Okay.'

'Ten,' she said immediately.

'You could have guessed that,' he complained, peevishly. 'You had a one in ten chance of getting it right.'

'You're being silly, Harry, think of another number, any number.'

'Okay.'

'Five billion, two million, three hundred and twenty-one thousand, four hundred and twenty-four, point six, recurring.' said Sandy.

'Shit!' said Harry.

'Your mother's name is Jennifer; she was born on the Fourth of August, 1942, in Wapping. Tomorrow's her birthday and since meeting me you've had little on your mind other than the card you've not bought for her and my serious charlies.'

'Oh shit!' said Harry.

'Do you believe me now?'

He looked at her. 'What am I thinking now?'

'Right now you're getting worried. You're thinking – you're thinking about shit!'

'Oh shit!' said Harry. 'Now I believe you.'

Sandy settled back into her seat and smiled, smugly. 'That's how Ben 1 knew where I was, he read your mind last night. Probably after he asked you what you were doing in the Lakes.'

'He didn't ask that,' said Harry. 'He asked me what I did for a living he was also very hungry and never stopped yawning.'

'Exactly,' said Sandy, 'when he asked you what you did for a living you thought about me.'

Harry took a hand off the steering wheel and began talking with it. 'Okay, okay, let's say that you are from Mars, or wherever the hell the place is and let's say that your secret police can track you down through thought. That means we don't have any chance of getting way from them. You said yourself, in the police station, that you can think documents to people over great distances. Right now they know exactly where we are and what we're thinking and talking about.'

'Not true,' said Sandy. 'To do that you need a thought booster at both the transmitting and receiving station; under normal circumstances we can only access other people's minds at about three metres.'

'So that Ben character can't read our minds at the moment?'

'Definitely not.'

'How did he know that I was connected to you then? I mean, he did thumb a lift off me.'

'Probably pure chance,' said Sandy. 'The secret police may be very cruel but they're not the brightest of people. He probably made a cock-up of his co-ordinates. Over the sort of distances we're talking about the slightest error can put you hundreds of miles away from your target destination.'

They were now driving around a large bend and as they came out of it were confronted by a huge gravel wagon, it had clearly broken down and was blocking the road a quarter of a mile ahead of them. Sandy instantly became concerned. 'Drive on, Harry, don't stop!' she pleaded. 'It's just an old Ben trick; they're playing to get us to stop by using a sort of hologram.'

'Don't be daft,' said Harry, 'I've got to stop. Anyway, how do you know the word hologram? They weren't invented in the early sixties, were they?'

'That doesn't matter now, just do as I say. Drive straight on, Harry, you can drive through it, it's not real – honestly.'

'You've got to be kidding, that's as real as you...sorry, as I am!'

'Don't you believe anything I've told you?' whined Sandy. 'It's not real I tell you, if you stop they'll overpower us and take me away!'

They were no more than sixty yards from the lorry now and Harry was thinking just how big and hard it looked. He had slowed his speed down to twenty miles per hour and was thinking very, very quickly. Then an extremely worried looking man came from behind the vehicle and, frantically, began flagging them down.

'He's one of the Bens!' yelled Sandy. 'Drive on, Harry, drive on! It's not a real lorry – honestly!'

Harry, for once in his life feeling totally out of control, shrugged and put his foot hard down on the gas pedal.

