‘I did, yeah. It’s not that hard. You like it?’

Nathan admitted, ‘I guess I do.’

‘I could give you a tattoo, Nathan. If I do that would you move that razor away from my throat?’

‘What kind of tattoo?’

‘Anything you like.’

‘I’m not going up top.’ He said this as if Billy had suggested strolling through a nuclear reactor core that was melting down.

‘No, I can do it here. I can give you a tattoo here. Would you like one?’

‘I guess I might.’

A nod at the backpack. ‘I’ve got my machine with me.’ He repeated, ‘It’s a hobby. I’ll give you a tattoo. And how ’bout some money? I’ve got some clothes too. I’ll give you all that if you move that razor and let me go.’

My Lord, he’s strong. How could he be that strong, living down here? Nathan could kill him with his hands; he hardly needed the shining blade.

Eyebrows flexing closer.

Nathan was kneading the razor, then gripping it harder, Billy thought. The blade moved as twitchy and train-clattery as Bear-man’s sentences.

‘Nathan?’ Billy asked.

The man didn’t answer.

‘Nathan. I didn’t know this was your block. I just was doing my work, checking the pipes and valves and things. I want people to be safe down here.’

The razor hovered.

And Bear-man’s breathing seemed harder now as he stared at the centipede. The red ink. The face, the fangs, the segments of the body.

The indecipherable eyes.

‘Nathan?’ Billy whispered. ‘A tattoo. You want that tattoo?’

Because what utility worker doesn’t cart around an American Eagle tattoo machine to ink people on a whim?

‘I’ll give you my best tattoo. Would you like that? It’ll be a present. And the clothes and money I told you about? A hundred dollars.’

‘It won’t hurt?’

‘It’ll sting a little. But not bad. I’m going to get my backpack now. That’s where the money and clothes are, and my tattoo machine. Is it all right if I reach into my backpack?’

‘I guess you can,’ Nathan whispered.

Billy slid the backpack closer and extracted the parts to his machine. ‘You can sit down there. Is that all right?’ The razor was still not far away and was still open. God or Satan or the ghost of Abraham Lincoln might tell Nathan to kill this interloper at any moment. Billy moved very slowly.

Hmm. It seemed that Nathan was receiving transmission from on high.

He laughed and whispered an indecipherable string of syllables.

Finally he dropped into a cross-legged position and grinned. ‘Okay. I’ll sit here. Give me a tattoo.’

It wasn’t until Billy too squatted on the packed-dirt ground that his breathing steadied and his thudding heart began to tap more slowly.