Angel Box Set

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1

“Is Smith picking up the Cooper?” George Chapman stood at the office door, wrestling with his coat, the garment winning.

“Around four.”

“Don’t forget.”

“I’m about to print the invoice.” Sometimes they accepted p*****t upon collection, but a few regular high-paying customers received a bill with a request for settlement within fourteen days.

“You fancy coming ‘round for dinner?”

“Hmm?

“Tonight, dinner?”

“Ah…” Dean dithered. “No.”

“Okay. I’ll tell your mother you’ll try to make Sunday lunch.”

A question bounced around in his father’s statement somewhere. When had Dean last gone to his parents’ house? No doubt he owed them a long overdue visit.

“Okay.” He slumped into his chair as his father left the room, coat subdued. The clock indicated two. Most weeks, Dean and his dad covered Saturday mornings on Rota, closing at one, keeping the workshop open for anyone who wished to put in overtime if the work allowed. This month provided plenty of extra labour with more than an average share of accidents or malfunctions—a natural though odd occurrence good for business. Still, he welcomed the load easing—he hated working six days, sometimes seven, every week.

Enough for now. They’d cleared all the outstanding jobs ready for a fresh influx on Monday. Several of the staff worked on, and he trusted John to cover the four o’clock pick-up. All he needed was the invoice.

He no sooner tapped figures into the form than the screen went blank.

“No, no, no, no!” Dean glared at the keyboard. The letters refused to outline a solution. What did he press? A wrong key?

He went to his knees, tracing cables to their connections. Happy with those, he tried saving, switched off the power to the monitor, flicked it back on, holding his hands together in prayer for the reboot to provide divine intervention. Everything restarted, but when he searched for the document, the account had vanished.

All the accounts.

Dean gaped at the display, snapping his mouth shut with an audible crack. What the f**k, what the f**k, what the f**k?

No angelic answer came. The idea of going home faded, his question of what to do next a simple one, though he hesitated. Saturday afternoon…Jay would roast him for calling.