Black and grey realistic rose tattoo with script lettering on the abdomen, beside a hand holding a fan of banknotes.

Rose and script on abdomen with banknotes

Realism · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A torso photograph showing a black and grey tattoo on the side of the abdomen, with a shaded rose-like floral form and flowing script lettering below it. A hand holding a fan of US hundred dollar banknotes rests beside the tattoo, and the wearer's face is not in frame. The shading is soft and tonal against a dark background, with the bare skin and denim waistband filling the composition.

Realism Lettering Other Rose Script Banknote Hand Abdomen

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The hedge at the top of Coldharbour Lane had gone wild again by the time the solicitor's letter reached me in Hexham. Nobody had cut the briars since Dad went into the hospice in March. Mrs Pryce from the shop said the roses along the forest edge were only dog roses, pale as saucers, but the old bushes that climbed the oak by the stile were darker than that, nearly black in the evening, and they grew over the wall as if they had a grudge against it.

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The letter had nothing in it about the hedge. It had a fan of American hundred-dollar notes, gone soft at the corners, held together with a perished rubber band, and a single line in his square capitals: KEEP THE GATE SHUT AND PAY WHAT'S OWED. I had no idea what he owed, or to whom, and I was not in the mood to find out. But the forest warden, a silent man called Abe Rennick who came up the lane every Thursday with a dog and a billhook, had been clearing the path for my father for thirty years without ever once taking a penny for it.

So I went up on the Saturday with secateurs, a flask and the notes in my coat. Under the lowest cane, where the roots had lifted a slab of stone, I found a tobacco tin. Inside was a card in copperplate: For the path, Abe. Thirty years is a long time to owe a man. I stood there with the thorns catching my sleeves and understood that the debt had never been money at all.

I cut the first cane, felt the sting as a bead of blood rose on my wrist, and left the notes in the tin under the stone where they had been. Then I went down the lane and did not shut the gate.