'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.

'What like with a knife?'

I shrug. 'Knife, blade, anything.'

'And you heal up, quick as you did just then?'

I shrug once more, waiting for the exclamation of disgust. It does not come.

'I knew you were special, first time I clapped eyes on you.'

'The first time?'

'On the river-bank. You were dead. Or should of been. Fished you out, I did. That makes us mates, right?'

I want to be away from this inquisitive man walking beside me, from the troublesome questions he keeps asking. I do not know these streets, for they are not recorded on my doc.u.ment.

'I must get back to my lodgings,' I say, keeping my voice as calm as possible. 'Will you walk me there?'

'Of course, of course. Plenty of time for all that. But first I must introduce you to a good friend of mine. A man of fine discrimination who would be most interested to make your acquaintance.'

'Why would he wish to meet me?'

'He is interested in marvels, and it seems that is what you are.'

I think of my comfortable bed. 'I am very tired.'

'It will take the briefest of moments. Today is not just my lucky day. I believe it is yours, too.'

'How so?'

'Listen. Do you fancy some easy work?'

'I have easy work.'

'No, listen. Real easy. Like me.'

'What do you mean?'

'All I need do is take off my shirt, show off my pictures, and that is the extent of my labours.'

'Men pay you for this?'

'They do. I am a marvel of ink and needles. But you are far more marvellous.'

'I am?'

'When I am p.r.i.c.ked, I bleed. You do not. Your body is as coy as a virgin. It will not open its holes for any man.'

He chuckles, and I echo the sound, for it is expected.

'I saw an Indian like you. He danced on nails, and I swear he was not injured. Are you a Moghul? You look as dark.'

'No. I am from Holland. Or Italy. They say.'

I do not want to say, I do not know.

'Ah, well,' he shrugs. 'That is a shame. They love a bit of the exotic.'

George walks us through a maze of looming buildings, leading us down so many alleyways and up so many flights of steps that I declare even a man with the keenest recollection would become lost. After what seems like a half-day we find ourselves in a neighbourhood I do not recognise. The streets are swept clean of the smallest speck of dirt; the gutters do not run with filth. Tall houses with gleaming white faces regard me haughtily.

He leads me boldly up steps I would not dare to climb on my own account, down a broad hallway and through a pair of polished doors into the grandest room I have ever seen. I sc.r.a.pe off my cap and hug it to my breast. His gaffer is a short man with a sticky hat pulled tightly on to his head. He looks me up and down.

'So, George. What can this one do? Seems less than nothing to me,' he sniffs.

'Just you wait. Go on,' George says to me. 'Show the miserable old b.a.s.t.a.r.d what you can do.'

'Watch it,' says the greasy man, but without anger. 'Let us be civil.'

George hisses 'Cut yourself' in my ear. I roll up my sleeve and take out my pocket-knife. I rub the handle with my thumb. It is so long since I marked myself with this sign of horror and shame. I have shied away from its strangeness. I taunt myself with the hope that I might bleed like any normal man, but I know the truth. My hand hovers. George digs me in the ribs. I snap awake.

'Who is this ruddy fool?' cries the short man.

'Wait; he is ready now,' says George and widens his eyes at me.

I place the blade on my forearm and make a shallow cut. The skin p.r.i.c.kles with antic.i.p.ation.

'Is that it, George? You have brought me a man can take a knife to himself and not scream like a baby?'

'Watch.'

The wound heals slowly. The little man sighs impatiently.

'Still, I say, is that all?'

George waggles his hands at me.

'Come on, Abel. Make an effort,' he says urgently.

I press the knife until the skin opens; I draw the sharp point towards the crook of my elbow, revealing the tangle of veins, the dark crimson of my inner surfaces. I smile at their welcoming familiarity.

'f.u.c.k me,' shouts the man. 'f.u.c.king f.u.c.k me.'

'You see? Told you he was special.'

'He's not special; he's a b.l.o.o.d.y lunatic. He's killing himself, and me a part of it. Get him out of here,' he shouts.

'Wait,' shouts George. 'Look, he's not done.'