Blue police box on thigh
Thigh · Colour · Photo
A shaded blue police box sits upright on the upper thigh, shown from a front three-quarter angle with its door panels, windows and roof lantern outlined. The linework is clean and the blue ink is graded from pale to deep to suggest light and volume. The subject fills the centre of the frame against plain skin, with a pink garment and a dark leather surface visible at the edges.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Mae had the tiller in one hand and a mug of stewed tea in the other when the blue box appeared on the towpath at Stanner Lock, wedged between a bollard and a heap of wet sandbags as if someone had been careless with furniture. Her father would have called it a shed. He had called most things sheds, the wheelhouse included, right up until the morning he went over the side at Thrupp and the water took his cap and not much else.
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She tied up the Gerty Mae below the lock gate and walked up the towpath with the rain running off her hood. The box was the colour of a gas flame seen through blue glass, its lantern on the roof catching the grey light. The lamp above its door was dead. Mae put her palm flat on the panel. It was warm, like a loaf fresh from the oven, and under her hand something hummed in a low key, the way the diesel did when the engine was running well.
Nobody had ever told her a police box could be bigger inside. The lock-keeper, a man called Dessie with one bad eye and a pocketful of barley sugar, had said it was a tale for tourists. Mae pushed the door. Inside was a hall of blue panels climbing into dark, with a stair that went up further than the bridge and a smell of rain on cold brass. Somewhere above, a clock ticked the wrong number of times.
She stood there a long while, weighing her father's shed against the whole of the canal. Then she stepped in, pulled the door shut behind her, and left the tea going cold on the bollard for the first time in her life.
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