There is an old piano with chipped keys and fine lines on display inside Whitechapel station. There is an official bucket tethered with a silver chain and a not-unworthy cause interleaved between two sheets of plastic. For some, a chance to showcase. Performances erupt intermittently, often during the calmer moments between rush hours. Songs are
Deputy Alan Eichmann watches Mills die on the hardwood floor behind the front desk. Dial-tone humming from the phone dangling above the young man’s body. The snub-nose .38 still warm in Alan’s hand. He lived and died at his post, such a good policeman, Alan thinks, turning his standard issue Model 27 on the two
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She sits at her dressing table and stares at her reflection. An old woman stares back. She is surrounded by the usual paraphernalia associated with desperate middle age and enabling wealth – bottles of promised youth, tubs of eternity, creams that fill the cracks. She traces her finger across her exposed white throat in a
Elani has grown up in violence. It surrounds her. It inhabits her father and lives on every face in her neighborhood. But Elani has learned a trick: watching people’s hands. If she carefully observes how someone carries a mug or a phone or a bottle, she can spot that subtle difference between holding and wielding.