Small black serif 9¾ tattoo on the inside of a wrist, with a raised clenched fist above it against a plain light background.

Black 9¾ numerals on a wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A raised clenched fist fills the upper part of the frame, with a small black tattoo of the numerals 9 and ¾ on the inner wrist. The serif lettering is solid black with smooth, even fill and no shading. The plain pale background keeps the focus on the tattoo and the hand.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Now, you'll want the fire built up before I go on, because the snow has shut the Lowmoor road and the last train to pass through here came in on a Tuesday and never left. Hush a moment. Listen to the clock above the bar. It has nine hands and none of them agree, which is how you know we're near the gap.

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Old Mrs Ashdown kept the Junction Inn when I was a boy, and she had one rule for anyone sleeping under her roof: walk the platform at midnight and count. Platform nine, then platform ten, and between them a stretch of brick that was no brick at all. You paced it out. Nine paces to the lamp post, then three quarters of a pace more, and the timetable went soft at the edges, and a train with yellow windows slid in out of the white as if it had been waiting for someone to be stupid enough to count.

Thomas Pell didn't believe a word of it. He came in off the moor with a dead torch and a ticket for a town nobody could spell, and he walked that platform to prove her wrong. He counted nine. He counted the half and stopped, stubborn, and the wind snatched his hat and dropped it on the sleepers. When he went to fetch it, the lamp post had shifted a yard to his left, and the figures chalked on the board above it were in Mrs Ashdown's hand. Nine and three quarters.

He never did board that train. He stayed to mend her stove and carried the sum about with him for the rest of his days, and he would tell anyone who'd listen that the number was never the trouble. The trouble was whether you'd take the last step. Mind the gap, now. And when the snow is deep enough, you can still hear the brakes sighing on the far side of the wall.

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