In the dusty, early morning northern light, lines of impassive, ordinary people stretched to the compass points; each one a victim of violence, assigned, imperceptible, for ever to mark the points of an invisible grid. Each sentinel anonymously nominated from the most afflicted in the space.
A few metres from Thaw, house-height above a ploughed field, John Hurt hung at his ease in a rumpled suit. Hurt took a deep drag on a cigarette and flicked it at Thaw.
The cigarette appeared on the pavement in front of him, smoked halfway down and with a spot of water dampening the tobacco. Thaw picked it up and took a drag. The cigarette was rank from the damp, but it was his first in ten years and he inhaled deeply.
Hurt cocked his head and looked at Thaw critically.
"So you now want to know? Can't get enough of the truth? I like the charming combination of nervous arrogance and cringing humility".
Hurt plummeted limply from his post to fall face-down in the deep mud bordering the pavement where Thaw stood. He rose to his feet, brushed off his unsullied suit and waited, staring at Thaw.
Thaw watched him silently.
Hurt hitched his shoulders and wrinkled his nose, his crumpled-bag, hangdog face betraying nothing but a deep and cynical weariness.
"You'll see. Tattoo Betty."
