Dan lit the joint as they crossed the Bosporus. They were heading towards Izmit, towards the Black Sea, towards Iran. His two partners in crime, Fred and Tim lay in the back, across several seats, passed out after a long night in Istanbul.
This was how it had all started. Dan drove the Bedford Harrington barefoot and with the window open. The hot Mediterranean breeze brushed through his long dark hair and made his ripped and flared jeans flap around his ankles. The bus smelt of Raki. He could taste salt on his lips.
On the dashboard a small paper bag from an Istanbul pharmacy winked at him seductively. It really did. The draught passing through the front of the bus made it curl up at the bottom with rhythmic frequency.
“Take me, consume me,” it shouted.
He wasn’t in a taking mood. Dan
