Yes, It's Forever

Yes, It’s Forever tattoos was holed up in a tiny rented den, in a narrow dead-end, in an ungentrified hollow of London. Its door was always closed. What’s more, it was obscured by a row of bins. It didn’t have a phone number, it barely had a website - and yet, if you wanted a spot with Aisling Stabs, you had to join the end of a year-long waiting list. For Petra Köhler, the other artist-in-residence, it was just six months.

Aisling never emerged from behind its blinds, instead relying on Petra’s daily missions to the local Food and Wine corner shop to forage some liquorice laces and a “mystery can”. Today's - sparkling water with a hint of rose - had been a real winner. Petra sighed, preferring to see Aisling grimace at some E-number nightmare or influencer-linked fad-juice. Over the year they’d been holed up in the den, she increasingly brought the schadenfreude energy of a sibling - which felt all the more apt, what with her actually being German.

You couldn’t call it a parlour by any means. The sofa ate up the reception, which branched off into two even tinier rooms, each offering just a needle’s breadth between artist and client. It was the smallest, safest space Aisling had ever had.

The client in with her today - Dennis - didn’t even fully fit in from head to toe.

After his first consultation, six months before, Petra had shaken her head, hand over her mouth.

‘He will not have a tattoo. He will have a mural.’

Whatever she wanted to call it: after eight sessions over six months, Aisling considered it her most beautiful project yet.

On arrival, Dennis had edged his hi-vis and hard hat into the den. He saw the size of the cubicle. He tried to reverse - clattering into cabinets and photos. She saw him wishing he’d gone to Steve’s Steel and Skin.

From the cubicle, she sliced her way into the room, all sharp edges in monochrome. Her fringe swooped - a black kite after prey. Skin was porcelain and studded, the bridge of her nose spiked on either side. Black jeans, black corset, black buttoned-up poet shirt, and black boots which would be considered much too heavy duty for actual builders. He took off his hat, rotating it in his hands: suddenly lowly, shielded.

‘Er… Ays-ling?’ he’d asked.

‘Ash-ling,’ she replied, motioning to the couch. ‘Aisling Stabs. Sit.’

He sat.

‘You want a memorial tattoo, for your mum?’

‘M- my mate Kev got a tattoo from you,’ he said. ‘It’s really good.’

She stared at him.

‘And, er - it has to be special, don’t it?’

‘Special, she can do,’ said Petra.

He’d shown Aisling a photo: a corner estate that looked like by rights it should be abandoned, above shuttered establishments.

‘She lived here,’ he said, about the estate. ‘You see that launderette? Spent all her time loitering outside, on that wall. Smoking rollies with the nutters and wrong ‘uns. Everyone knew her, had a story about her. And this one -’

He swiped to a canal. Emerald algae carpeted it in luxuriant summer - if Eden had canals, it’d be this one.

‘Regent’s Canal. If she wasn’t at the launderette, she was off down the towpath. Meandering. She went on about the wildlife like it was the Maasai Mara - felt like she knew every damselfly and kingfisher. Obsessed. People regretted showing an interest in them kingfishers once she’d chewed their ear off, I’ll tell you that for free.’

They shared a smile.

‘So you want to bring them together,’ said Aisling.

‘Right,’ he said.

‘Because she’s both. Equally and completely, the electric blue zip of the damselfly, and the storeyed grime of the housing block.’

‘She was,’ he said, blinking more rapidly. ‘You know someone like that, too?’

Aisling reached for her papers without answering. She left a silence where an answer, the one she wanted to give, should be. ‘I’ll get the drawings over to you,’ she said. ‘Watch your inbox.’

So she’d composed a lined and shaded vision of his mum’s two heartlands, a half-sleeve mapped over his arm, shoulder and torso, in which the kingfishers nested in the concrete nooks of a brutalist block untouched for decades, and the launderette washed its dirty laundry and its stories into the canal, and the two blended with reciprocal beauty.

This session was their last. She cleaned him up, rounded cling film over his arm.

‘Aisling, I’m going to miss ya,’ he said, ‘But I am - I’m gonna say it - fucking ecstatic that it’s over.’

Some people didn’t mind the pain - even pleases some people. Dennis, it did not. ‘Do you ever get used to it?’ he asked. ‘The pain?’

Aisling shrugged. ‘No idea,’ she said.

Dennis looked her up and down. Suddenly realised he’d never seen an inch of skin below the neck.

‘You don’t have any tattoos?’ he asked.

Aisling shook her head.

‘Mad,’ he said.

‘Well, you’re a builder,’ she said. ‘But do you build your own house?’

This was clearly confirmation of her insanity.

‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘Only man for the job. Well -’ he winced. ‘No wonder you don’t mind doing this, if you’ve never had it done. Bloody hurts, you know.’

She shrugged. He’d get more out of this than pain.

‘What if I told you the ink just… won’t stick?’ she asked him, like it was a joke.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘And maybe the Earth’s flat while we’re at it.’

Petra was holding open the door for him. ‘Go on, get out of here,’ she said. ‘Happy healing. And take this.’

She handed him a lurid yellow can, nothing but Mandarin on the label, steered him out the door.

Outside, a man stood in the alley. Just hovering, staring up at the door, puzzling something.

‘Are you lost, friend?’ asked Petra.

He flinched, turned and hurried, head down, swatting her question away with a hand.

‘I'll make sure he gets wherever he’s going,’ said Dennis.

After he’d gone, Petra dropped onto the sofa.

‘Last session?’ she asked.

Aisling nodded.

She leaned in, eager. ‘What’s it going to be, for him?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Aisling. ‘I feel like he means it, you know? Knows himself. I can’t see beyond it.’

Petra wasn’t one for speculating, but at last she spoke.

‘But you’ll still give him something really beautiful.’

Because Petra was the only other one who knew: Aisling had two gifts. One she earned - through grit, and ink, and practice, despite the odds. It was conscious.

The other gift could only be seen from the inky blank side of the eyelids. It was the final part of the making - the last look at any artwork, when she could say, this is done. It was her gift to have, but also her gift to give. It was the reason that the invisible, silent studio, was always full.

Tonight, it was Dennis’s turn.

As Aisling’s eyes closed, she found herself in a little corner shop. Not hers and Petra’s own, but one of those impossible shops which could fit in your pocket and still had everything you asked for, from drain cleaner to pomegranates to an endless supply of unfamiliar canned drinks.

She opened the door and found herself in a place she knew. Right in the nook of Dennis's tattoo. There was the canal, kingfishers darting in the early evening light. The launderette hummed steadily, machines spinning, and right there in the pavement, an evil eye watched over them. Across from that, on the walled edge to a bed of grass (fast becoming hay) was an old woman, stick resting easy beside her. She patted the wall. Aisling sat.

‘You seen the damselflies?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ said Aisling. ‘Beautiful. Gone in a blink, though.’

‘You've met one too many flutterers,’ she said.

‘You're not wrong,’ said Aisling. ‘But we're not here for me. Dennis.’

The old woman took her by the hand.

Aisling asked: ‘What can I give him?’

‘He doesn't want to forget me,’ she said. ‘He loves what you’ve done, but he's worried about my voice. Specially losing how I sounded when I was young.’

And as she said this, she seemed to lift her face and body out of time - she sat more easily, drew her shoulders up straighter.

‘Then he'll have it,’ said Aisling. ‘He’ll always have it.’

She'd told Petra about her gift one night in the den. That evening, Petra had surprised her, not with a mystery can, but with a less than mysterious litre of Glen’s Exciting Vodka, and some cherry cola.

‘I had to lure you out of your cave somehow,’ she said.

Four hours later, cramped on their tiny sofa, she'd found herself trying to explain. She said the words out loud: and Petra believed her.

‘And … this happens every time?’ she asked.

‘Every time.’

‘Your dream shows you why they've got it.’

‘Whether they know it or not,’ said Aisling.

‘And then you -’

‘- give the tattoo something. Something extra. A way to help.’

Petra’s eyes flicked to the walls. All those old projects, lined up in frames. She pointed at one: a close-up of a finger, inked with a spindly handlebar moustache.

‘Even that one?’

‘Why do you think they got that tattoo?’ asked Aisling.

‘Well,’ said Petra, ‘for a laugh, yes? It is not a serious tattoo.’

‘And that's what they said,’ said Aisling. ‘But in my dream, I saw them, playing with gender. Happy, and queer, and free.’

‘So you gave them…?’

‘Courage to do it,’ said Aisling.

Petra took in the number of framed photos. She wanted every story.

‘How do you choose which ones to do?’ she asked.

‘Same as you,’ she said. ‘The art. I can't guess what's under their skin. Couldn't guess what my dreams would show me if I tried.’

‘Tell me about them,’ said Petra.

So Aisling told her. She hadn’t meant to, hadn’t planned it, but it felt so good to name the power in her hands. She’d done so few things to be proud of.

There was the pin-up-on-the-bicep guy. ‘Because she's fit,’ he'd said. But in her dream? Couldn’t make eye contact with women he fancied. Desperate for connection. So the pin up - Aisling called her Ines - she gave him advice. Ines knew what was what, and she didn’t take any nonsense.

The woman with the repeating geometric pattern running down her calf. ‘I'm an architect,’ she'd said. ‘It kinda represents me.’ In the dream, Aisling had seen not the grown professional, but the child, etch-a-sketching shapes whilst her parents argued. Getting through it with lines and pattern and precision, and coming out the other side - but never sharing. Aisling gave her the ability to share the story of the shapes that held her up.

The man who wanted three wolf cubs playing together, on his left pec. ‘Always had a thing for wolves,’ he'd said. But in the dream she saw them: three babies, born too soon. So Aisling gave the cubs motion, when he felt like he’d never move again. When all games had ceased, they nipped him playfully, a bittersweet sting to wake him up to life.

The day after the dream of Dennis, Aisling woke up feeling light. She painted her eyebrows with extra flourishing detail - maybe today was the day for lunch out with Petra.

It was only when she headed down the little dead end to the den that she noticed the sound of blinds rattling in the wind. As she rounded the bins, glass crunched under her shoes, scattered beads of it inbetween the cobbles. The front window to Yes, It's Forever - entirely smashed in.

‘No,’ Aisling whispered, fumbling the key, rushing in.

Petra wasn't far behind.

They stared at the chaos. There wasn't much furniture to speak of but it had all been overturned. Glass everywhere here too - photos around the furniture had been thrown down from the walls. Every cupboard was open, contents spilling and strewn about.

‘You check if there's anything missing, I'll call the police and check the CCTV,’ said Aisling.

While Petra sifted through the mess, she pulled up the recordings from the night before. There - at two m. The idiot wasn’t even wearing a balaclava.

‘Hey,’ said Petra, looking over her shoulder. ‘It is the man from the street. The one yesterday, when Dennis left.’

‘Yeah.’

Aisling pursed her lips.

‘He’s one of my mum's old boyfriends. Current boyfriend. On off thing, I don't know. Or care.’

‘He is a real treasure,’ said Petra.

‘They all are. Broke as fuck and out for what they can get. Probably heard I was doing all right for myself,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. I had no idea he would -’

She gestured to the room.

‘Okay,’ said Petra. ‘I need to take this all in. A drink?’ she said.

Aisling nodded.

‘You call the police, okay? I'll be back soon.’

Aisling watched her leave. This was just a taster - a foreshadowing of the escape she’d make down the line. It was inevitable Petra would want to move on, now. There was nothing to keep her here. She was an independent worker, in a rented space - no ties except an unwavering loyalty to the local Food and Wine shop.

Petra came back with a garish looking can, absurdly oversized, a clenched fist on the side.

She grinned. ‘This is punishment for your bad family.’

Aisling took a swig and shuddered.

‘It is very bad?’ cackled Petra.

‘Tastes like awful parents and their disgusting life choices,’ she said.

‘You have never told me about them,’ said Petra. It was a statement, but also a question.

‘What’s to tell?’ said Aisling. ‘Revolving door of boyfriends, sofa surfing, no food, shit parenting - then foster care.’

‘I'm sorry,’ said Petra, who wouldn’t stop looking Aisling in the eye. ‘You deserved much better.’

They were interrupted by the police. Two officers surveyed the damage, snapping pictures, taking fingerprints. Aisling showed them the CCTV footage, gave them the name.

‘OK,’ said one. ‘And was anything taken?’

Petra looked satisfied. Shook her head.

‘We put it all in the safe,’ she said. ‘Arschloch got nothing.’

Once the police had left, they grabbed their cleaning things - short of even a second broom, Petra had to improvise with the edge of a magazine. They scraped paper and bristles over thousands of shards of glass. Aisling knew what was coming: she was already wounded by it. Every scratch they made trying to tidy the place just made it worse.

‘I know you'll want to move out,’ she said at last.

‘Um, I suppose I was thinking about it,’ said Petra. ‘This alley is not so safe. As much as I would miss the bins.’

Aisling didn't know how she could joke. Maybe she thought it would make it less awkward. They worked together to clear the broken glass, set the overturned furniture back upright, and gather the scattered belongings.

‘Did you reschedule with your client?’ asked Petra.

‘Mm hm.’

She knew what Petra was thinking. No client - no reason to stay.

‘Ah,’ said Petra. ‘So you have a window in your schedule?’

‘We can't have anyone -’ she began to say, but before she'd finished, Petra had hopped up on the tattoo bench. Covered in ink herself, she pointed to a bare spot just behind her ear.

‘I would like a commission from the famous Aisling Stabs, please. A ring pull.’

‘You sure?’ asked Aisling.

‘Honestly, I think it is overdue,’ replied Petra.

Aisling buzzed as much as the gun, as she inked on the little ring pull. It took her out of the shock of the day, the scraping glass, and the relentless shadows which felt like they had a right to break down doors. Inking Petra was something special, and it fizzed.

After they’d boarded up the shop, they had grabbed lunch out, after all.

Both of them knew what the night held.

For Aisling, sleep took its time - but eventually she drifted off.

And there was Petra, flashing a cheeky grin, pointing at the building ahead.

‘I’ll miss the bins, but we need to dream about proper roots.’

Gone was the dead-end alley. This was something more open. In the centre of the street was a market, which was lined with indie vendors: galleries, salons, tattoo parlours, and an impressive collection of Food and Wine shops. This was a place where someone could browse abstract art and then buy a paper cup of whelks from a man in a folding chair. Aisling pointed to a nearby fascia.

Yes, It's Forever

‘Oh,’ said Aisling. ‘You meant us move. Us, not just you.’

‘Yes, dummy,’ said Petra. ‘And I knew you wouldn't believe me if I said it. Aisling Stabs, I would like to buy you mystery cans until I have bought all the cans in the world and there are no mysteries any more. That is to say, you have a lifetime supply. You had better not forget this when you wake up.’

‘What shall I give you?’ asked Aisling. ‘What’s your gift? You want… me? Forever?’

‘Just your friendship for as long as you'll tolerate me will do.’

‘Okay,’ said Aisling, unclasping her hands, embracing Petra. ‘I’m in.’

* * *

Dennis was back. He wanted electric blue added into his tattoo.

‘Mum told me to,’ he said. ‘I heard her voice, clear as day.’

He sidled into the room.

‘You know,’ he said. ‘Her actual words were - “Get that goth girl to zhuzh it up. It’s very important my damselflies are blue: don’t make me explain why again.’

‘Well,’ said Aisling, leaning across for her gun. ‘If mum says so, how can I refuse?’

He caught sight of something behind her ear.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘It finally stuck.’

She touched the spot where the marks Petra made had not faded. A little ring pull - and yes, it’s forever.