Black and grey realism tattoo of a woman with an updo and smoke, holding a revolver, on the inner forearm.

Black and grey portrait with revolver on a forearm

Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A realistic portrait of a woman with an updated hairstyle, dark streaks beneath her eyes and wisps of smoke curling behind her head, while she grips a revolver held upright near her face. The shading is smooth and detailed, with soft grey gradients on the skin and sharp highlights on the metal. The tattoo fills the forearm, and the blurred, glossy black and white background shows skeletal hands and a gun design.

Realism Forearm Woman Portrait Smoke Revolver Updo Skeleton hand

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The Dunmore brothers came into the Cross Keys a little after nine, sure of themselves, asking for Ada Vane as if she were a debt they meant to collect. Ada stayed on her stool behind the bar, counting the Friday takings into neat grey stacks, her hair pinned high and smooth the way she had worn it since the war. Ron Tilley, who had never bought a round in his life, said her name twice. She let the silence sit until he understood it was not going to be answered.

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The revolver lived in the flour bin under a tea towel. Ray had carried it home from Normandy wrapped in a wool sock and never once spoken of it, and Ada had never asked him to. She lifted it out now and held it upright beside her face, the way she had seen women held things in the magazines Ray kept for the film room, and let the smoke from her cigarette climb past her ear. Pencil from the afternoon still clung in the corners of her eyes. 'Last orders were at ten,' she said. 'You've missed them.'

Tommy Dunmore laughed, and his brother did not, and it was the brother who turned for the door first. Ada had rung through to Hadley from the telephone under the stairs at half past eight, before the Dunmore car had even reached the green, and the constable's bicycle was already ticking against the railings outside.

The constable found her slipping the revolver back into the flour bin, the tea towel folded neatly over it. 'You'll want a statement, Ada?' 'I'll want a cup of tea first,' she said, pulling him a stool, and wiped the last dark line from her cheek with her thumb.