The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) Read Online Free

regular soldier I earned in the region of £18,000 a year, which nudged up to £30,000 in the last three years as I progressed through the ranks and made captain. Give or take taxation and the odd bit of money I spent when I was at home, I should have about £180,000 in the bank. That is, until my assets were frozen when I was sent to prison. The pay - my pay - for risking everything to protect this country, was frozen by this country, fenced off until I was eligible for release, which, the judge kindly pointed out, was to be no less than 15 years into my 17 year sentence.
    Well, I’m out now. Only 20 months into my sentence. And therein lies the problem. Since they don’t know I’m gone, my assets will still be frozen and therefore utterly inaccessible. Which would be an absolute pisser if I hadn’t put into action a contingency plan. Nope, my £180,000 isn’t under governmental lock and key. Thinking ahead, I disseminated it to a worthy cause before I was caged.
    The night before the incident in flat 2367 in Beetham Tower, I had been drinking in a little underground oasis called Temple Bar. It’s a tiny shoebox off Oxford Road, home to artists, regular boozers, musicians and students. I had met one in there that night, and he pursued me in conversation. He struck me as a decent bloke. He was a little too alert for my liking - if you’re out having a few beers alertness is one of the things that tends to disappear the later the night gets. Sure enough, he revealed that he was hiding out in here for fear of two guys outside. He had gotten himself into a fracas at a nearby pub that had resulted in that timeless old pub conflict-catalyst, the dreaded spilled pint. So two blokes were waiting outside to smear this lad up Oxford Road over a wet shirt or something equally pointless.
    Angry and half-cut, having seen this lads eyes like a frog’s in oncoming high-beams, I offered to help him out. I went outside, and sorted the two bruisers out with minimum fuss, and came back to finish my pint. The lad bought me a drink and thanked me a bunch, and he popped a card in my shirt pocket. Said if there was ever anything he could do, yadda, yadda, yadda...
    As luck would have it, some 12 hours later, I would need something taken care of. Right after I had gone up into Beetham Tower and thrown that bastard straight out of the window, after dealing with a few of his friends.
    I found myself on the run, away from Manchester, and had instigated a chain of events that would lead to more mayhem and my eventual arrest. I had money in my account, and needed to get it somewhere safe. I’m not money minded in the least, and had, frankly, too much. I was pissing it away on booze and self-pity. So I called the number on the card.
    The lads name was Jack Brooker, and I gave him my £180,000 for safe keeping on the basis that if he did so, £20,000 of it would be his to get him through university. He said he didn’t need it, but I persuaded him that I couldn’t put it anywhere else. Any other adult bank account is subject to taxation and accounting, but a student’s does not come under that same scrutiny. It would be perfect. I added that if he didn’t need the money he should take it as a gift. I added the little caveat that if he took more than I offered, I would make him regret it.
    A quick bash of some online banking while I was on the train from Manchester to Wrexham, and the £180,000 was with Jack. Within 1 hour, he sent me a picture message and some login details. He had set up another account into which he had deposited £160,000 (the picture being screenshot proof of this), which was affiliated to his own bank account, but was individual in nature. It had it’s own cash card, which he is going to give to me now when we meet for a pint in Missoula on Deansgate Locks, a neat elevated row of canal-side bars. And I get my money. Jack has revealed himself to be a man of his word, and I am grateful. When I get my hands on that cash