I meet Sara Barnes outside her basement apartment near The Cross. She’s leaning against a wall beneath a bright neon sign that paints blue hues on her forehead and nose. She’s wearing three-quarter length black jeans and a white vest that reveals her collarbone. Her hands are deep in her pockets and as I approach and tip my new hat she barely bats an eyelash.
‘You look less like a journalist every time I see you,’ I say.
‘And you look more and more like a cartoon. What’s next, a fake moustache?’
I’ve adopted a new look since the extra spotlights fixed their sights on me: a brown fedora with a wide brim, pulled down over my eyes. I’m growing the beard out, too. Gotta keep playing the game.
‘A moustache isn’t a bad idea. Maybe next month.’
We follow the great pulsing vein of Ryusui; The
