He spat and he spluttered and walked up and down the ranks of bunks.
He swore and coughed. His head down and forward, a glower on his brow, he was dark and sour and ill-lit by light from his lantern burning yellow.
We called him long-knife, and cowered in our beds, waiting for him to pass. Because: if he turned; if he turned at your bunk; you didn't want to know, and hoped he picked the one above, below, just not you.
