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grey and lone as a widow, roof caved in, front wall slumping towards the water, window frames eyeless and half closed. A ghost of a house, abandoned and neglected among its young, tall, brilliant neighbours. A true yalı. It may have stood, decaying year upon year, from the Ottoman centuries. He blinks closer on to its empty windows, its sagging lintels and eaves. He cannot begin to imagine how much it would cost to return it to habitability, let alone make it a place to raise a family, but he knows where he will go next. He begins here, he ends on the shadow of the bridge, on the toes of Europe.

    On the edge of his vision he glimpses smoke. The plume goes up straight as a flagpole into the clear blue air. In an instant he has zoomed in on it. A map overlay gives him a location: Beyoğlu. Now a news mite bursts into the steady procession of gas spot prices across his retina: TRAM BOMBING ON NECATIBEY CADESSI. PIX TO FOLLOW.

    Ayşe rides that tram.

    Her ceptep rings three times, four times, five times, six.

    ‘Hi there.’

    ‘You took your time.’

    ‘That shutter’s sticking worse than ever. It’s going to need replacing.’

    ‘So you totally missed the bomb, then?’

    ‘Oh that was down on Necatibey Cadessi. A swarm of police bots just went past.’

    Adnan wonders if Ayşe’s otherwordliness is her natural aristocratic nonchalance or some emanation from the art and artefacts that surround her. That shop, for all the hedge fund managers and carbon Paşas looking for a little investment in religious art; it’s not a proper business. It’s a lady’s pursuit. She’ll give it up when they move in here, when the babies start to come.

    ‘It was your tram.’

    ‘Do you not remember I said I was going in early? There’s a potential supplier calling before work.’

    ‘Well, you watch yourself. These things never happen in ones.’

    ‘I’ll keep an eye out for suicide bombers. How’s the yalı?’

    ‘I’ll send you the video. I may be late back. I’m trying to get a meeting with Ferid Bey tonight.’ The name-drop is as much for the realtor as for his wife. There is a beat of radio silence that is the equivalent of an exasperated sigh.

    ‘I’ll see you when I see you then.’

    At some dark hour he will slip back through the curve of taillights arching over the bridge to the eighth-floor apartment. She may be watching television, or half-watching it while she puts on laundry, or if his meetings have hauled on and on, be in bed. Then he will slip in without turning on the lights, a quick mumble as she surfaces through sleep like a dolphin, in behind her to press the rough warmth of his dick against the bed-heat of her smooth ass and the return press, then down with her, lured down into sleep so fast there is not even time for the twitch of the terror of drowning. All around, the sweet incense of fabric conditioner. It’s no way to live. But he has seen the end of it. A few more days of effort and it’s over.

    Adnan Sarioğlu snaps off his ceptep.

    ‘One million two hundred thousand you say?’ he asks.

    ‘We’ve had a number of offers,’ the realtor says.

    ‘I’ll give you one million one.’

    ‘Offers are generally in excess of the asking price.’

    ‘I’m sure they are. But this isn’t an offer, this is a price. In cash.’

    The realtor flusters. Adnan drives home his advantage.

    ‘One point one million euro in cash to your office by noon Friday.’

    ‘We, ah, don’t usually deal in cash.’

    ‘You don’t deal in cash? Cash is king, is what cash is. Do anything with cash, you can. Friday, lunchtime. You have the contract on the desk and I’ll sign it and shake your hand and you take my fucking cash.’

    Three minutes later Adnan Sarioğlu’s car leans into the on-ramp to the bridge, accelerating into the stream of Europe-bound vehicles. Autodrive makes microadjustments to the car’s speed; the other vehicles read Adnan’s signals and correspondingly adjust their