Small cross tattoo on the wrist
Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A small, solid black cross sits on the inner wrist, near the base of the palm. The lines are bold and simple, with soft edges and little shading. The photograph is black and white, and the hand rests against a dark, out of focus background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Bosun Harry Lusk pricked the cross with a sail needle the night before the boat sailed, working under the galley lamp while the lad sat with his hand flat on the table like a plaice. He rubbed soot from the stove into every hole. The lines wandered where the skin folded over the bone, and Lusk swore at them, but the mark was black and would stay.
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"It's no use to the sea," the skipper said when he saw it. "The sea doesn't read."
"It's not for the sea," Lusk said, wiping his needle on his trousers. "It's for the dark. Ten men on a deck at four in the morning, all in the same yellow oilskins. You'll know your own hand by that."
The Constance Rowe went out past the breakwater with the wind backing north, and for three days the boy hauled warps and gutted fish until he stopped being sick over the side. On the fourth night the net came up snagged on something heavy, and the deck went dark with men shouting at each other. Somebody's hand grabbed the rope beside his own in the blackness. He felt the small hard shape of the cross against the wet manila and knew it for his own before he knew anything else.
They landed on the morning tide with the gulls screaming over the fish market. Lusk took the lad's wrist in his fist, turned it to the grey light, and grunted. The soot had softened into the skin, a little blurred at the edges, but the cross was still there.
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