Sharkmitts by Dan Stewart

The knife is 18 centimetres long; two thirds blade.

The split would be nearer 50:50 but the acrylic handle that marked it part of a table set is long gone. All that remains is the mis-shapen spike of black metal which formed its core.

This is Sharkmitts. It is my da’s tattie peeler and I hate it.

Sharkie owes its name to a previous owner, a three-fingered bad man who gave the knife to my da when he saved him from a two on one beating. Technically he didn’t deserve it since he was doing his job: warden at a men’s hostel. Sharkmitts, though, knew it didn’t work like that. Most wardens would let things sort themselves out.

My da, by his own admission, loved to get involved. Not tall, he was super-fit from months of climbing. He’d got a kick out of fighting as a kid and found the Warden’s Rules – never give a violent guest more than one warnings and hit them hard the second they put a hand on you – gave him an edge he liked. Plus he was sober, pretty much, and in the kingdom of the blind-drunk the half-cut man is king.