Colour tattoo of four cartoon turtle heads in purple, orange, blue and red masks, stacked down a lower leg above the ankle.

Four cartoon turtle heads down a lower leg

Calf · Colour · Photo

Four cartoon turtle heads sit in a vertical line down the lower leg, each with a differently coloured mask: purple at the top, then orange, blue and red at the bottom. The outlines are bold and dark, with simple shading on the green faces and smiling mouths. Colour ink dominates against the pale skin, and the bottom head sits just above the ankle.

Calf Ankle Turtle Cartoon Character Mask Head

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The manhole on Carver Street had been burping up the smell of chip fat for a week, and by Thursday the council had stopped answering the phone. So at ten past midnight I was crouched on the kerb with a torch in my teeth, listening to my cousins argue about who was going down first.

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Lorcan took the purple mask because he said it made him look sensible, which set the others off laughing so hard Mags dropped the crowbar on her foot. Orla wore the orange, the loudest of the lot, and she was already halfway down the ladder singing something about drains. Tuan had the blue and the coil of rope. Bea, who was twelve and furious about being left out of the good jobs, had the red and a canvas bag of spanners that clanked with every step she took.

Under the street it was warm and wet and smelt of something worse than chips. We followed the old brick channel for a hundred yards until the torchlight caught a grate half-buried in silt, and behind it a rusted shopping trolley, a traffic cone and, wedged upright like a judge, a pale plastic duck with its beak pointing at us. Nobody said anything. Bea reached through the bars, pulled the duck free and held it under her chin. "It's the one from the fountain," she said. "Nan said it went missing in 1994."

We hauled the trolley out between us, which took an hour and most of Tuan's patience. When we climbed back into the orange glow of the streetlamps, the sky over the bus depot had gone the colour of weak tea. We fitted the lid back on, sat in a row on the kerb, and watched the first delivery van wind up Carver Street. Bea kept the duck. Nobody could tell her it wasn't hers.