'The Chauffeur' by Peter Domican


It’s all in the papers back home. I knew that little camera would be a good investment and it was. I’ll never work as a chauffeur again, that’s for sure. It’s a small world and the word’s got out it was me, but who cares? There were other scandals of course and I’ve got them all in that box over there on the shelf. They’ll come out soon enough but this one is the big one, front page of the red tops for the last three days and probably the next three the way things are going.
There’d been rumours of course and he’d denied them all. You don’t get to be Prime Minister without deceiving a few people (or a few million). But there’d been no proof, see, and proof is what I had. So there he was with the opera singer and his hands in places they shouldn’t have been. No chance of denying that. 
His wife’s standing by her man. They always do. Though I suspect there won’t be much conversation in that flat for a long time.    
Two hundred grand. That’s what I got. A record figure they told me. Not enough to retire on but enough to start me off here. I suspected life might be difficult in London for a while but the sun’s hot and the drinks are cheap. 
The thing is though, I think I’m being followed. There were a couple of guys down the market today and they looked a bit shifty. Military types. I’m sure I’ve seen them before somewhere. I wonder what they’re up to?

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