Small colour tattoo of the cartoon Tasmanian Devil Taz wearing a navy New York Yankees cap and pinstriped shirt, arms crossed, on the skin of a limb.

Taz in a Yankees cap

Calf · Colour · Photo

A small cartoon Tasmanian Devil, Taz, sits with arms folded and a sly grin, wearing a navy cap with a white NY logo and a pinstriped shirt. The design uses bold black outlines with brown fur shading and orange and white accents. It is centred on a fairly plain area of skin with a soft, slightly faded photographic finish.

Calf Cartoon character

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lift in Harrow Court stuck between seven and eight on a Thursday, which was no surprise, and I was wedged in beside a man called Dennis with a holdall on his shoulder and a face like a shut bookmaker's. He hadn't spoken since the ground floor. Then the holdall started to hum, and something inside it began to laugh in short, greedy bursts.

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Dennis didn't flinch. He unzipped the bag, and out climbed a small brown devil in a navy cap, its peak pulled so low it looked like a visor, arms folded across a pinstriped shirt with buttons like sweet tins. It perched on the handrail, grinning sideways, and said it had come about the debt. Dennis had lost a bet in 1998 on whether the Dog and Duck would ever pay out its jackpot, and the devil had been waiting twenty-six years to collect in kind. I offered it a packet of custard creams from my coat. It looked at them the way a bailiff looks at a cheque.

The lights dimmed. The devil spun to the bottom of the bag, dragged out a dented raffle ticket and waved it at the panel. Dennis said nothing. He only pressed the alarm, and somewhere far below us a caretaker's radio crackled into life. The devil's grin widened. 'Told you,' it said. 'Nobody ever answers the bell.' Then the doors shuddered open on eight, and all that was left was the striped shirt folded neatly on the rail, my own cap gone from my head, and Dennis already halfway down the corridor, whistling.