“Come over ‘ere, Carlos, an’ give an ole girl a terrifik hug!” JoJo Dickens called. She sat in her large wooden chair carved out of a single piece of granite oak, her arms outstretched and her pendulous breasts swinging for effect. They were big enough to knock down walls, or crush a man’s head between them. Jojo was a double hitter of tabak. A long clay pipe was clenched firmly between her blackened teeth, and she occasionally took a chew from a tabak plug. She spat brown tar into a large wooden bucket beside her feet, the one she also pissed in when she could not be bothered to clamber outside. Some of the tar juice never made it past her chin, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. Years of spitting and wiping meant she had one ochre covered hand and one her more unnatural pallor.