Epilogue
Desmond sighed with contentment as he reclined on a lounge chair facing the brilliant blue of the Mediterranean, drinking his sangria. The golden sand baked beneath the Catalonian sun, as did he—and he loved every minute of it. Bow was a world away with its grim tower blocks and graffiti and stabbings. So what if it was going upmarket? No effing way would he go back to that hell hole!
Not that he could. He’d be picked up the minute he landed at Stansted.
Desmond had covered his lounger with a Union Jack beach towel so the plastic slats wouldn’t get too hot against his already sunburned skin. With any luck he might turn a nice shade of brown once all the peeling had stopped. He was on his third sangria of the afternoon bought from the poolside bar of a nearby hotel. He reckoned
