Nothing as obvious as the letting of blood for these brothers in way of initiation, wrists crossed as the warm wetness seeped into Swiss Army Knife rust. Instead, a ragged blue circle stabbed into the back of each boy’s hand, held steady to deter any act of cowardice. Doubtful the ten-year-old tattooist had reached the top of his trade; needle made white-hot in the corporation yard bonfire, pot of ink pocketed from class. Whichever one of them stepped up first to prove this wasn’t a game, stomaching agony as the needle snaketoothed into skin, the soft gristle, ink floundering in the bloodstream; took this solemn ceremony as the end of time passing. In simple design, the blue spot the start of a new understanding. Forty-five years on, we have brought you back to the Birkenhead street names of your stories. Passing the corporation yard’s spilt blood and ink, the ritual site buried beneath new homes; gone voices rising through the floorboards. In this makeshift chapel, as if to show off the tattoo they have placed your hands one over the other, which I now smother in my own and rub that they should not be so cold. Rub the spot as you must have done when a new wound, determined not to cry. It’s not so bad after awhile, you said to the others still waiting in line; already tending the backs of their hands, where the blue spot would begin to travel as the flesh grew. Published in 'Pulp Literature'