We roll up, the tyres cracking and complaining under the broken ground, into the skeletal husk. In the shell of the old factory the slabs of mottled concrete rise like broken teeth, or gravestones, testaments to mothers, fathers, daughters and sons. Every surface is tattooed with fallen graffiti artists, leaving their tags in blood red as the light dimmed from their eyes.
Trespass is the least of our crimes, and our crimes are the least of anyone’s around here. I look across to a vibrant bundle of scarlet hair and anger. Aged fourteen she found her brother kneeling peacefully in the street with a knife hilt buried in his chest. She ran over to hug him as he rose his head to the sky, closed his eyes and a single tear ran from the corner down his cheek. He whispered into her ear; this really hurts, and I need to…
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