Part 18 (1/2)

'Then you are in the right place. More than your standard ritz.'

'I want something like this,' I say.

George's arm is covered, so I point to a design of a curling ribbon bearing the legend 'Your word here'.

'A nice banner. A fine choice, if I may say so. Nice fine work, and easy on the body.'

'And not too expensive,' adds George.

'Of course! Hygienic and good prices. What size shall the banner be?'

'I just want words,' I say.

'No ribbon?'

'Just words.'

'Please yourself. Names, are they? Lady friends? Any name you like. Priced by the letter.'

I turn over the coins in my pocket, and wonder where to start. I get out my paper and take a peep at it.

'Slaughter-man,' I say.

The tattooist glances at George, who shrugs.

'It's a long word,' says Ivan. 'It'll cost you.'

'That is of no concern.'

'Each to their own. Let's be started, then.'

He selects a needle from the cabinet at his side and waves it at me.

'Sharpened and cleaned fresh this morning,' he says proudly, and begins.

He holds the skin of my arm tightly stretched out; inks the needle-tip; lowers it into my skin and scratches; wipes; sits back. Scratches once more, poking and hammering the colour into my shoulder. I listen to the clock of needle striking bone.

Pain wells in my arm, as though a thousand inquisitive teeth are edging questions into my body. I find myself sliding into a drowse. I know the feeling, know that in this swim of pain I grow closer to a bright understanding. It is something I have always known, yet lost the knowledge of, and the p.r.i.c.king brings me back to it. I close my eyes and drift on the delicious feeling, when suddenly it is cut short by a muttered curse.

'I do not understand. What's wrong with you?' says Ivan.

I blink at him.

'What's up?' says George.

'The ink won't stick,' Ivan replies. 'Look.'

I feel the stab of the needle and its withdrawal. I look at my arm and see the shape of an S in dark blue.

'I'm needling him; I'm writing it. I get through the skin and the ink comes straight back out. Look.'

He takes a rag and wipes his work. The ink comes away, leaving a faint half-moon of pinp.r.i.c.ks. As we watch, they heal.

'What in d.a.m.nation is that?'

'Oh,' I say. 'I heal quickly.'

'You're telling me. You should be leaking blood and water. There's nothing. Not a drop.'

'Can you try again? Perhaps faster? A larger needle?'

'It'll hurt.'

'Please?' I say, and he lifts his eyebrows.

'You're the boss.'

He digs into me, hard. As fast as he inks me, my body matches him for speed of healing. After many attempts, he throws down his tools.

'I can't do anything with you. No man should knit up like that.'

'He's a queer one,' remarks George, his eyes taking on a strange light.

'I've seen something like it before,' says Ivan.

'You have?' I sit forward, eager to hear if there are other men like me.

'A Negro. Said he wanted a lion. I told him it wouldn't show up on skin as dark as his, but he said he knew it would be there, and that was the important thing. Couldn't do a b.l.o.o.d.y thing with him. Wherever I stuck my needle, his flesh came up in lumps, like I'd stuck peas under his skin. He didn't mind. Said his grandfather had a row of them across his forehead, so he'd have a band of them round his arm. You'll be like him, I expect.'

'Oh,' I say. I sit back. It is not like me at all.

'Some men have strange skin.'

'Can't you try again?'

'I've tried enough. I'm not blunting my points on you.'

'Come on,' says George, taking my wrist and drawing me out of the chair. 'Pay Ivan for his trouble. Then let us go for a walk.'

The tattooist is happy enough to take my money, and George seems in a hurry to bundle me out on to the street.

'Yes, you're a queer one indeed,' he says.

'Am I? It is something that happens to me. I am used to it.'

'What?'

'I cut,' I say in a dull voice. 'I heal. No blood.'

I want to be in my cellar, with the man I once called friend. His name dangles just out of reach.