Clive and me always planned on retiring to Spain or Majorca someday. Someplace warm, anyway.
Maybe planned is too strong a word.
More like wished, since the pay of a London cabbie don’t go as far as it once did.
All this changed when he come back to the flat after work with an expression on his face I’d not seen before.
Sort of a mix of triumph and fear.
He was holding a black leather Gucci satchel that probably cost more than a month’s rent.
“What’s this, then?” I asked. “Been shoplifitng?”
“Fare to Gatwick,” he said. “Couple South American blokes having a row in Spanish. Almost come to blows, they did. Left this on the floor. My next passenger put his feet right on top of it.”
He set the bag on the coffee table. “Open it.”
I was afraid, then. That look on his face.
“Go on,” he said. “Open it.”