Tread gently here, we are in Turkey. Holly and I walk down to the markets, past the massive stone museum with its solitary memorial tree, down the cracked bitumen paths to the river. The markets are closed. Cardboard boxes, flung from deserted stalls, fill the alleys with their stuck stenches – fish, olives, fruit. Over…

Rain fell in Brixton this morning, I looked out the window and saw little spittle fields on the bricks. Searching for my keys while News 2 blared, I felt a shadow cloud my concentration. I trudged up and down the stairs three times in my squeaky new boots. If I keep this sort of exercise…

Weapon put down his scuba gear on the remains of a park bench and caught his breath for a moment. The sun was setting low over the ocean, right next to the blinking lights of the oil rig, a common sight these days, these obsolete sentinels inhabiting almost every port deep enough to admit their…

Weapon took a shower at dawn, clocking as he did so two fat beads of moisture clinging to a shorn spear of grass on the concrete flooring, a deep green the same colour as his utility, now in hock, inside the sprawl’s walls. He availed himself of the roadhouse showers every day at dawn, religiously,…