Will Gatti & Daniel Finn

Story Bag

The Tattooed Man

The Tattooed Man

Snake tattooHe looked ordinary enough, sitting there on the other side of the compartment in the tube: a blue suit, quite expensive, Italian shoes, polished so they looked like black glass. He was reading a paper, the Telegraph, as it happens, and it was because he was reading a paper, holding it up so I could see nothing of his face, just the top of his head, oiled black hair, cut close, that I was so taken aback when he lowered the paper to turn the page and I saw his face.

Tattoos are two a penny. I know that. Swirly things up the leg; stupid butterflies, Celtic bands around the upper arm; some stark symbol stamped onto the back of the neck. But this was different. There wasn’t a millimetre of skin that wasn’t inked, striped, swirled or coloured purple, green or deep, blood red. And such things crept and crawled up his throat and up around his mouth and eyes that his flesh seemed alive. It was a horror, I swear!

And there were not just patterns and demonic whorls calibrated with ant trails of tiny symbols and numbers, but there were also long, dark, bony fingers with dagger nails gripping his neck and a huge spider squatted over his forehead, its hairy legs digging into the corners of his eye and when he blinked, which he did, there were spider legs there too, stretching out, making a prison of his eye; while wicked green snakes striped his cheeks and disappeared into his ear and then, and then…

I don’t know what I said; just some exclamation. Perhaps ‘Oh my God!’ I don’t know and it didn’t matter anyway; no one in the carriage could hear with the tube rattling along. But I’m sure I jolted back in my seat because I was so shocked, and not just shocked because, stupid as this sounds, I was instantly and deeply terrified.

I have no idea whether anyone even noticed him or my reaction because I couldn’t turn my eyes away, though, dear God, I wanted to for he seemed to be less human, less a commuter on his way to work, than the living embodiment of some ghastly nightmare that had wriggled into a suit, a temporary shell of respectability.

It’s bad manners to stare, particularly on the tube. Of course, everyone looks and pretends not to, eyes sliding away the moment there’s danger of meeting the gaze of a fellow passenger. But this time I didn’t have that delicate option of turning away because he had caught my eyes. His expression didn’t change, maybe it couldn’t, but he stared at me, a level, appraising gaze, his eyes black as oil behind the cage of those spider legs and as I stared back, I swear everything on his face and neck began to move: the snakes writhing into his ear, his eyes widening, the ant-like symbols moving, jigging deep into the whorl of black circles in the spaces of flesh not taken up by the creatures that seemed not so much tattooed into his flesh as emanating from within, burrowing their way up into the light. I saw a crease at the edge of his mouth, his nostrils flaring, his eyes widen, and the oil black pupils distended as those bony fingers appeared to tighten around his throat. My God! He was being strangled, choked to death right there in front of me!

At that moment, the brakes squealed and the train rushed out of the darkness and into the hollow light of Waterloo underground station. The coach was suddenly alive with passengers shifting, getting up, moving along the carriage, pushing their way blindly, to the exit. No one saw anything.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I expected everyone to be gone, except for him or what was left of him. I didn’t know what I would see: a slumped body for he had been dying, choking to death, I was sure of it. Or perhaps an empty crumpled suit, all that was human consumed and just the quicksilver flash of green as serpents slipped along the seating and out onto the track.

Everyone was gone. No one stepped on. But even though this was my station, I just couldn’t move. The doors closed. The train started, gathered speed and dashed into the darkness.

Inside the carriage, I was quite alone. On the seat opposite me there was no one, no tattooed man. I should have been relieved, and yet I wasn’t. My heart felt horribly tight inside my chest and I had an unpleasant prickling sensation around my neck and eyes, like a needle dipping and stitching into my skin. And I felt as if he were still there.

Ridiculous, I told myself. Perspiration, that was all.

I took a deep, steadying breath and looked down at my hands, clenched on my lap. There were marks there, along the veins, writing, tiny letters forming words that meant nothing, letters I barely recognised; and the twisting sheen of a green serpent tail, the length of its body disappearing up my sleeve.