Track 12: Knife Slits Water by A Certain Ratio

“I hate what he’s become,” says Marsha, gesturing around her at the expensive flats lining the Thames like a wall. “I catch him standing naked in the penthouse, surveying his works.”

Eva nods. She hadn’t known Marsha was so rich.

“We were happy once, then he started to make these. Who could have known the rich would be so gullible? One day I’ll commission a bomb to take out some of these arrogant monstrosities.”

Eva laughs then stops. Standing, looking across the grey water to Canary Wharf, she realises Marsha is drunk.

“I tried to shock him into stopping. I fucked actors and revolutionaries, labourers and schoolteachers. Real people. He kept working, watching the money mount up.”

“So he loves you too much to lose you?” asks Eva.

“He feels nothing. If I stabbed him in the heart, he’d invite a crowd of journalists to marvel at his new jewellery. I donate his money to the SWP and Hamas. I let homeless people into his cars so they can fuck, stick nude photos of myself in phone boxes with his number. Nothing.”

“Can anything be different?”

“I doubt it,” says Marsha, crying. “Attacking money is like a knife slitting water.”