“I sigh, peering out of the window. We’re far out of central
London now and I scan the streets, trying to get my bearings. We’re
getting nearer to Julian’s resting place. I recognise an old police station, converted into cheap flats. This part of London feels darker
than Mayfair. It’s as though the streetlights don’t shine as brightly.
Cheaper models, not as many. I like it. Every time I come here, on
a certain level, I relax. It almost feels more like home than Mayfair.
Mayfair is who I want to be, Hayes is who I am. My veins are the
dark streets, pulsing with traffic. There’s wreckage all around: craterous potholes, crumpled railings, abandoned cars, derelict homes.
Nothing’s ever repaired. It’s all broken. The poverty’s inescapable.
The air perpetually stinks.”