Colour tattoo of a red Dalek with lightning bolts, red rays, wheat and a pink blossom, with a banner reading EXTERMINATE, on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Dalek and lightning forearm tattoo

Traditional · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A red Dalek with gold studs and a grey dome sits at the centre, surrounded by teal lightning bolts and red radiating lines. A teal banner reading EXTERMINATE, wheat stalks and a pink blossom sit at the base. Bold dark outlines and flat, bright fills give it a classic colour finish, shown in three cropped panels of the same forearm.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The reunion is in the sports hall at Ashgrove Comprehensive, because nobody could agree on anywhere else. By nine you have been cornered twice by people who remember you as the girl behind them in Chemistry, and you are edging towards the fire door with a warm plastic cup of Lambrusco when Gavin Trobridge taps your shoulder. He once set light to a wheelie bin on the Year Eleven trip. He has not changed.

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'You still got the dustbin?' he asks. You don't, but you know where it ended up. In 1998 Mr Pargeter, the drama teacher, built a Dalek from a wheelie bin, gold card and a hoover hose, and Year Nine took turns inside it for the Christmas show. You were the one who got stuck. You were also the one who bellowed the word so loudly that the hall lights flickered, and Mr Pargeter laughed so hard he had to sit down on the stage.

Gavin wants to show you the bin, which is actually in his mum's garage in Luton, so you follow him out to the car park anyway. A single sodium lamp buzzes overhead, flickering like a storm about to break. Beside the bollard someone planted a cherry sapling for the school's centenary, and its first pink blossom is already opening. Gavin is quiet for once. Then he admits he has been waiting twenty-six years to say sorry for the bin.

'Go on, then,' he says, holding his hatchback door open. 'Say it.' You lift your chin the way you did at fourteen, and "Exterminate!" rolls out across the empty tarmac. The lamp stutters. Behind the sports hall doors, forty people in lanyards stop talking to look, and you laugh harder than you have all evening.

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