Chloé fell asleep.  Her head pressed hard against the train’s window, the Leica bound round her neck, a metal albatross bouncing in time to the reverberations of the train track.


She dreamt of a male hustler named Paul who she had met on the streets of Istanbul. He was English and smelled of cheap, drugstore cologne and clove cigarettes. Paul had been stabbed to death, through his ubiquitous plaid scarf, with a pair of scissors that pierced his vocal cord.