Black and grey tattoo of a Cyberman figure with smoke clouds at the base, on the upper arm, with another tattoo partly visible above it.

Cyberman on an upper arm

Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A cartoon-style Cyberman figure with a helmet, chest unit and outstretched hand stands on a cloud of smoke or mist. The outlines are bold and the figure is filled with soft grey shading and highlights. The tattoo sits on the upper arm against a plain olive top, with part of an outlined tattoo visible at the top left of the frame.

Upper arm Robot Cloud Smoke Figure

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The Cyberman came down out of the beech wood on a cloud, which was the first thing Mrs Pell complained about. 'Clouds are for weather,' she said, shaking flour off her apron at the gate. 'Not for men in tin suits.' The thing stood on the verge by the post box, grey as wet slate, one arm stretched out like a man asking the time, and it said in the flat voice of a bus announcement that it required assistance locating the correct hour.

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Nobody in Fenwick Lane had a clock that worked after the storm, so I was elected. I walked it along the lane with my bicycle, the cloud following at knee height, pale and puffing like a dog that had eaten something it shouldn't. Mr Ashdown's cockerel went off twice at it. The Cyberman asked me questions I could not answer: how many sheep were in the top field, whether the church bell was tuned to the sea, why the lane bent at all. Each answer it wrote down on nothing, with one finger.

At the edge of the forest it stopped and looked back at the village. Its face had two round eyes and a mouth like a dropped stitch, and for a moment it seemed to lose interest in the business of conquest. 'Fear is not recorded here,' it said. 'Tea is.' So I took it to my mother's kitchen, where the kettle was already on, and she gave it a cup with two sugars and a digestive. It held the cup in its tin hand as though it had been told about cups but had never been handed one.

It left before dusk, sitting back on its cloud and lifting over the beeches. Mother washed the cup and put it on the dresser beside the others. The cloud has never come back, but every Thursday she leaves a biscuit on the gatepost, just in case the clock is still wrong.