Black and grey realism tattoo of a woman with dark bob hair and dark lipstick, framed by a spider web, on the outer thigh.

Gothic portrait with spider web on thigh

Realism · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A black and grey portrait of a woman with a dark bob and dark lipstick, her hands resting together at her chest in a dark dress. A spider web fills the background behind her head and shoulders. The shading is soft and smooth, with strong contrast in the hair and dress and gentle grey tones across the face and web.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The picture house in Cwm Dorrin shut when the colliery did, but the woman who called herself Madame Sabine kept the key on a ribbon and opened it again on Friday nights for threepence a head. You were nine, and you had talked your way in by carrying the reels up the iron stairs. So you were the one who saw her climb into the projection booth before the ushers came, her black dress catching on the rail, a web of grey lace draped over her shoulders like something she had won at cards.

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She introduced every picture in a voice like cold treacle. The miners' wives came in their good coats, and the men came after their baths, smelling of carbolic and still pink at the knuckles. Madame Sabine would lift one long hand to the dark house and say, my dears, the spiders are watching, and the children in the front rows would shriek and the grown men would pretend they had not. Behind the screen she kept a jam jar of spiders trapped in the pit headgear, and each week she strung a fresh web across the proscenium with a sewing needle.

One Friday the last reel had gone missing down the lamp room drain, and the house was restless. She set her hand on your shoulder and steered you to the front. Tell them how it ends, she murmured. So you did, badly, making up a drowned lover and a train that never came. The audience laughed in the right places. When you looked back, she was gone from the wings.

At eleven the buzzer sounded for the night shift. Through the open doors you heard the cage bell ringing far down the valley. On the empty seat in the stalls lay her lace shawl, damp with coal dust, still warm, with one black thread of a spider's web caught on its edge.

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