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- Ричард Морган
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In
a
wood
-
panelled
toilet
somewhere
,
I
stared
into
a
fragmented
mirror
at
the
face
I
was
wearing
as
if
it
had
committed
a
crime
against
me
.
Or
as
if
I
was
waiting
for
someone
else
to
emerge
from
behind
the
seamed
features
.
My
hands
were
braced
on
the
filthy
metal
basin
below
,
and
the
epoxy
strips
bonding
the
thing
to
the
wall
emitted
minute
tearing
sounds
under
my
weight
.
I
had
no
idea
how
long
I
’
d
been
there
.
I
had
no
idea
where
there
was
.
Or
how
many
theres
we
had
already
been
through
tonight
.
None
of
this
seemed
to
matter
because
…
The
mirror
didn
’
t
fit
its
frame
—
there
were
pointed
jags
dug
into
the
plastic
edges
holding
the
star
-
shaped
centre
precariously
in
place
.
Too
many
edges
,
I
muttered
to
myself
.
None
of
this
fucking
fits
together
.
The
words
seemed
significant
,
like
an
accidental
rhythm
and
rhyme
in
ordinary
speech
.
I
didn
’
t
think
I
’
d
ever
be
able
to
repair
this
mirror
.
I
was
going
to
cut
my
fingers
to
shreds
,
just
trying
.
Fuck
that
.
I
left
Ryker
’
s
face
in
the
mirror
,
and
staggered
back
out
to
a
table
piled
high
with
candles
where
Trepp
was
sipping
at
a
long
ivory
pipe
.
"
Micky
Nozawa
?
Are
you
serious
?
"
