Half skeleton, half Mr. Johnston, Percy Rees Johnson used to be a brilliant graveyard jockey before he changed. He realised something about the world that nobody else knew. And so his flesh was stripped of him, and he spent the rest of his days scouring scrap heaps in search of old friends.
When I visited the home of a professional assassin, a game of chess became a metaphor for the cat and mouse struggle between us. “Check mate, mate,” I said, before eventually shooting him in the back as he popped off to the lav.