Jaded war photographer Emma Saywell wanders through the dappled beauty of London's Kew Gardens, 'Broken', her hack-about old Nikon, hanging around her neck.
Her second book, 'THE EYES OF WAR', is selling well. Yet after a decade looking into hollow eyes, capturing men at their worst, her personal focus is a micron out.
She watches a woman with two young girls. One, the younger, trips, falls, screws up her tiny face, crys silently. Then she sees him. 'Broken' glides to her eye in one instinctive movement.
Click, click. Nailed him. Click.
Why is he smiling so inanely? Why smile like that, selling ice-cream to tourists from a cafe with a few tables? And what's with all the glancing at the sky?'
She looks up herself, half expecting to see an American drone stooging around. Nothing but fat dreamliners heading for Heathrow. She's drawn to the ice-cream seller, has to find out...