Black linework tattoo of interlocking hearts with spiral centres and a central cross on the inner wrist, in a fine line style.

Interlocking hearts and cross on the wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The design shows four outlined hearts arranged around a central cross-shaped line, with a spiral inside each of the two larger hearts at top and bottom. The linework is black and varies in weight, with no shading or fill inside the outlines. The sepia-toned photograph is taken straight on at the inner wrist, with the design centred on the skin.

Fine line Forearm Heart Spiral Cross

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lamp over booth three has been buzzing since dawn, and the man who slides his papers under the glass has not once looked at your face. He keeps his eyes on the stamp in your hand. Between his passport and the ferry manifest is a sheet of squared paper, folded into quarters, and when you open it there are four hearts drawn in pencil, two large ones at the top and bottom, a line running through them like a rood through a church door. A spiral curls inside each large heart, tight as a fern.

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"Wrong form," you say, because the rules are a kind of rope and you have always held on to them. He says nothing. Behind him a lorry idles, its diesel breathing across the tarmac. You turn the sheet over. On the back, in the same careful hand, is a list: Tuesday, the cold store at Bramley Quay, a crate marked with a crane, and a name you know because it is your own middle name, spelled the way only one person ever spelled it.

You think about the spirals. Your mother drew them on every envelope she sent across the water, saying they were for luck and for finding your way back. You have not heard from her in eleven years. The man says, quite softly, "She told me you would know the mark." You follow the cross through the hearts and understand that it is a route, four stops on a map of the lower river, and that the stamp in your hand could be the thing that lets a crate of people roll through the gate unopened.

You bring the stamp down. It makes a neat purple rectangle on his form, and then, because your hand is steadier than you expected, a small loop beside it, the beginning of a spiral. "Go on," you tell him. "The lorry's waiting." The barrier lifts, and for a moment the road ahead is empty and bright as a blank page.