While he’s doing that I wonder what Gift he has. It’s considered rude to ask, but this is Jim so I do.

He says, “The usual. Potions. I hate ’em.”

He continues, “And I thought . . . we all thought that I was goin’ to have a strong Gift. From childhood I had this special talent, and my mother, bless her, said, ‘My son will have a strong Gift.’ See, already from age three or four, I could tell witches from fains. Could tell it easy, and that’s rare, that is.”

“Yes. Rare, for sure. So how do you do it, Jim?”

“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 gray hair growing from below the level of the top of his ears to his shoulders. He’s wearing a worn 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 anesthetic.”

“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 analyze the skin, tissue, and bone. If there’s some anesthetic 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.

“Okay. 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, I’m clenching them so tightly. I’m drenched in sweat by the end of it.

Jim watches me heal and says, “Blimey! You’re quick.”

Trev then asks how the tattoos were applied and while I talk he pops lids onto the four small, round plastic trays that contain the bits of skin, blood, flesh, and bone. Then he stacks the trays and puts a large elastic band round them, holding them together. He carefully places them in the corner of his bag. Next he rolls up the bloodied plastic sheet with the surgical tools into a large bundle, gets Jim to hold open a bin liner, and slides the lot in, then screws up the sheet that was under my leg and tosses that in as well.

He peers at my ankle and nods. “I took the ‘0,’ but you can see it’s already reappeared on the scab. That’s very clever. It’s all very clever. I’ll take a few photos.” He gets out his phone and clicks away.

“Interesting scars,” he says, looking at my hand. “Acid?”

“You’re studying the tattoos,” I say.

“Just professional interest.”

“How soon will you be able to tell me the results?”

Trev looks at me totally blankly. “I need to analyze what chemicals are in the tattoos. That should be straightforward, but there’ll be magic involved, which makes it a thousand times more complicated.”

“How soon will you know if they’re tracking me?”

Trev doesn’t answer. He snaps the lock on his bag and stands up to go. He says to Jim, “The tattoos are unlikely to be used to track him.” And Trev picks up his bag and walks out.

Jim shuts the door. “No manners. That’s ’cause he’s too bright for ’em. Still wouldn’t do ’im any ’arm to try.” He sniffs, swallows a mouthful, and then says, “He never rushes neither. Never. I’ll give you the latest when I see you in two weeks.”

“He didn’t mention money.”

“A sad failin’ of our Trev, that is. Thinks he’s above all that. ’Course he’s got to eat, ain’t ’e? Like anyone.”

“I’m guessing he isn’t cheap.”

“He’s an expert, Ivan. Experts ain’t cheap. Experts in passports, experts in tattoos, experts in anythin’ ain’t cheap. He charges by the hour. I’ll let you know what sort of region he’s goin’ to be in when I see you next time.”

Early one morning two weeks later Jim and I are in the changing rooms of a village tennis club. I’m not sure if the odor is Jim or the changing room, but I can’t imagine the tennis-club members would put up with this smell for long.

“You’re looking a lot better, Ivan. A bit fuller round the ol’ cheeks. Gaunt, that’s what you were, gaunt.” He is glancing to the door behind me all the time as he speaks.

“Is there a problem, Jim?”

“There shouldn’t be. Shouldn’t be. You did follow the instructions all right?”