Black and grey realism tattoo on a lower leg showing a Roman numeral clock face in front of a pyramid, with birds flying through clouds above and scrollwork below.

Clock, pyramid and birds on a lower leg

Realism · Calf · Black and grey · Photo

A black and grey tattoo shows a clock face with Roman numerals set in front of a pyramid, with a pale sun-like disc behind the hands. Birds fly across a shaded cloud above the clock, and a stone-like band and baroque scrollwork sit beneath it. The shading is soft and smooth, with strong contrast in the clock rim and numerals, and the composition runs vertically down the limb.

Realism Geometric Calf Clock Pyramid Bird Cloud Roman numeral Scrollwork Sun

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Maud,

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The clock on Hollis Street stopped again last night at twenty to three, which is when the gulls give up complaining and the whole city goes quiet enough to hear the tram wires hum. I went up the tower with the oil can and the little brass key you never gave back. From the top you can see everything: the ironworks chimney, the bakery lamps going out one by one, and the stone pyramid on the Fenwick warehouse roof that some banker built as a joke in 1890 and nobody ever had the heart to pull down.

Mr Okafor from the bakery was waiting at the foot of the ladder with his flask, as he always is when the clock misbehaves. He reckons the damp has got into the numerals, though I think it's the starlings. They roost in the pyramid's gables every night, and at first grey light they lift off the warehouse in one long black sheet and cross the cloud over the dial, and the whole face seems to lean after them. Last night the cloud was thick as wet wool and I couldn't see the hands for a full minute.

When I could see again, the minute hand had slipped off the X and was pointing straight at the pale disc behind the spindle, the patch the old maker painted and nobody can explain. I wound it back by hand, one careful turn at a time, while the birds went over, counting them the way Dad taught us. Fourteen. Always fourteen, whatever the weather.

I've decided I'm not going to fix the damp. I'm going to leave the clock stopped at twenty to three and let the birds keep their own time. Come home when the lease on your flat runs out. Bring the key. Mr Okafor sends his regards and a loaf he says is for you, though I've already eaten the crust.

Love, Tom