The beauty Thomas and Spradlin identify in this city is not the architectural grandeur funded by steel robber barons, or city-sanctioned ‘aerosol art,’ but the interplay of the wall and the graffiti; the law and rejection of the law; the memorial and the refusal to pay homage to a memory.

Culpability is offloaded onto the very idea of science itself: unfeeling, inhuman, inevitable. These warnings do not allow for human ingenuity or variety of thought; they cannot imagine another way. But it’s a poor craftsman who blames his tools.

On my television set, Calum sits naked at the edge of his hotel bed, sobbing uncontrollably until his body convulses into a familiar shiver. You can’t see her, but it’s implied that his young daughter Sophie is somewhere nearby, witnessing her father’s breakdown.