© Bruce Goodman 28 November 2021
It all started when I picked up the wrong suitcase at the airport. The suitcase was identical to mine – bright red with a purple ribbon tied on the handle. I always tie a distinctive coloured ribbon on the handle so as not to mistake which bag is mine. I simple grabbed the suitcase without needing to think and caught a taxi home.
First things first. I dumped the suitcase on the bed, visited the bathroom, and then put the kettle on to make a coffee. While the kettle was warming up I thought I might as well unpack. Unpacking is one of my pet hates, and sometimes if I don’t unpack immediately, a half emptied suitcase can sit on the bedroom floor for a week. So I have learnt to do the dastardly deed as soon and quickly as possible.
I undid the zipper on the suitcase and opened it wide. It wasn’t my stuff inside. There was some underwear, socks, a pair of men’s shoes, a belt, and a pair of nail clippers. Nothing else. No address. Nothing. I went through the couple of zipped pockets on the outside of the suitcase and they were empty.
Then I noticed that the suitcase had an artificial bottom. It too had a zipper around it. It contained several plastic bags of white powder. I presumed they were drugs of some sort. Of course I could go to the police, but…
If the owner had taken my suitcase by mistake they would know my name. They would know my address. I always attentively labelled my luggage. Even my phone number. If I went to the police I still couldn’t rest easy.
And then, there was a knock on the door…
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