The posters end at a narrow passage between two buildings, which opens onto a bare concrete wall covered in ornate gold frames.

Portraits. Clowns. Dozens of them. Each has a small brass nameplate beneath it.

At first, it's the smiles that bother you. Then you look closer. Something is wrong with their faces. Not all of them. Just enough.

You have the sudden, uncomfortable feeling that you shouldn't stare too long.