Black and grey tattoo on a forearm showing a police box with Bad Wolf lettering above and a Dalek below, in a sketchy, splattered style.

TARDIS, Dalek and Bad Wolf lettering on a forearm

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows a police public call box, which is set high on the limb, with the words BAD WOLF painted in heavy lettering above and to the left. A Dalek shape sits in the lower foreground, with ink splatters and loose brushwork around the edges. The piece is rendered entirely in black and grey ink, with light and dark contrast on the doors and windows and a three-view composition across the image.

Forearm Tardis Police box Dalek Lettering Splatter

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mara Okonjo had stamped passports at the Hallow Brook crossing for eleven years, and she knew the sound a lorry made when it lied about its load. So when a police box appeared in the lay-by at four in the morning, its lamp dark and its paint the colour of wet slate, she assumed the haulage lads were up to something. She walked out with her torch and her clipboard anyway.

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Someone had sprayed BAD WOLF across the barrier arm in letters as tall as her shoulder, the grey paint still running in tears down the posts. The doors were unlocked. Inside there was no stock, no kettle, nothing a box ought to hold, only a brass rail that hummed under her palm and a squat grey casing in the corner. A plunger arm lifted from its side and its eyestalk swung round slowly towards her boots, as though it had been waiting for a form to be completed.

"Name of traveller," it said, in a voice like a kettle that wanted to be heard. Mara did not answer. She looked at the clipboard, then at the wet letters on the barrier, then back at the casing, and found she was already uncapping her pen.

She wrote: Passenger, none. Destination, anywhere the wolf is not. Then she stamped it, pressing the rubber hard, and the box hummed once and went dark. At first light the barrier lifted by itself and the lay-by was empty except for a faint grey scorch on the tarmac in the shape of a door, and the ink from her stamp, smudged across the back of her hand like a bruise that wouldn't fade.