We all have a story to tell but we don't always choose to do so. The story we cannot avoid telling is the one that our body inevitably narrates.

Danny's traumatic early life was etched in ink ± across his arms, his neck and

his face. He sat opposite me, in the little room in which we would meet for

two years, in a young offenders' institution, and I struggled to look at him. On

his left cheek he had the tattoo of a skull, with a pierced ring running through

its nose. I felt assaulted by his appearance. Yet, behind this armour of ink, I

grew to know a terri®ed young man who was serving a sentence for

manslaughter. He was only ®fteen at the time.