‘Well, you’re not going to believe this but it’s all in the eyes … I see little glints of silver in White Witches’ eyes.’
My mouth must have dropped open.
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’
‘Jim, I’m just … amazed. What exactly are these glints of silver like?’
‘Oh well, like nothing else, really. The nearest I can say is that they are thin slices of silver and they move around, twistin’ and turnin’, like bits in one o’ them snow-shaker toys. That’s what it’s like.’
‘You see it in your own eyes when you look in the mirror?’
‘I do. I do.’
‘Amazing.’
‘Yes, it is. Beautiful, really. Witches have beautiful eyes.’
‘And what do you see in my eyes, Jim?’
‘Oh well, your eyes … you’ve got interestin’ eyes for sure.’
‘Do you see silvery sparks?’
‘Ivan, if I’m honest, I’d have to say, not so much silvery …’
I sit on the floor and lean back against the wall.
‘Do all White Witches have silvery bits in them?’
‘As far as I’ve seen they do.’
‘Have you ever met any Black Witches?’
‘A few. Their eyes is different.’ He looks worried. ‘Not silvery.’
‘Like mine?’
‘No. I’d say yours are unique, Ivan.’
No. They’re like my father’s.
Jim gives a huge sniff and swallow then sits next to me.
‘I can tell Half Bloods as well.’
‘You can?’ I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a Half Blood, someone who is half witch and half fain. They are despised by witches.
‘They’ve got real pretty eyes. Weird, though … like flowing water.’
There’s a knock on the door and I’m on my feet behind it, looking at Jim. He’s smiling at me.
‘All right, Ivan, all right. It’s just Trev.’ Jim looks at his watch. ‘He’s late, though. He’s always late, is Trev.’
‘Who’s Trev?’ I whisper.
Jim gets up and stretches his back before wandering to the door.
‘Trev’s the brains. He’s got skills, has Trev –’ and here Jim lowers his voice to a whisper – ‘not a lot of magic but a lot of skills. He’s goin’ to take a look at them tattoos for you.’
Trev looks like an expert, but I’m not sure in what. He is exceptionally tall, balding, with wispy grey hair growing from below the level of the top of his ears to his shoulders. He’s wearing an old brown suit, thick beige shirt and rust-red knitted waistcoat. Trev is expressionless in every way. His body seems to float along with hardly any arm or even leg movement. His voice when he says, ‘Hello, Jim,’ is flat and toneless. He shows minimal interest in me and hardly looks at my face, which is fine. He is, however, brought to life by my tattoos.
‘I’ll have to take samples,’ he says, peering at me and pulling my skin around and moving from my neck to my hand and then my leg. ‘Of the skin and bone.’
‘The bone?’
‘I’ll take it from your ankle.’
‘How?’
Trev doesn’t answer but kneels on the floor and opens a scuffed black leather bag. It looks like an old-fashioned doctor’s bag.
I notice that Jim is grinning.
‘Are you a doctor, Trev?’ I ask.
Trev possibly hasn’t heard as he doesn’t reply. Jim sniggers and sniffs heartily.
Trev pulls out a plastic bag, rips it open and lays a blue surgical sheet on the floor. Next out of the bag is a scalpel; it too is in a plastic bag that is quickly ripped open and thrown to one side. Soon there is a glinting row of surgical implements, most worryingly a small hacksaw.
By this stage Jim is hopping around with glee.
Trev lays another blue sheet beneath my leg and then starts to clean my ankle with a surgical wipe, saying, ‘It’s better if I don’t use anaesthetic.’
‘What?’
‘Except the patient usually jerks around too much. Think you can hold still?’
‘Probably not.’ My voice has gone higher.
‘Shame.’ And he turns to his bag and removes a hypodermic needle and some clear liquid. ‘I need to analyse the skin, tissue and bone. If there’s some anaesthetic in there it may skew the results.’
I don’t know if he’s making this up and just wants to make Jim’s day.
Jim looks expectant.
‘OK. I’ll hold still.’ And I wonder at what stage I can change my mind.
‘Jim can help …’
‘No, I don’t need him.’ I don’t want his snotty fingers anywhere near me. They’re more terrifying than the hacksaw.
‘Don’t do any healing until I say I’ve finished. I’ll be quick.’
To give Trev his due, he doesn’t hang around.
I don’t jerk. I’m rigid, watching it all. I don’t make a sound either, no screaming or moaning, though my jaw and teeth ache as I’m clenching them so tightly. I’m drenched in sweat by the end of it.