1 #3
Angling my head slightly, I realise it’s the first thing he’s given me: ‘I read’. I’d rather be talking about what got him to the point of ending a life – but clearly, he wasn’t going to let me close without barbed wire between us. So I grab on to that fragile thread and hold for dear life.
One deep breath. ‘Apologies. I didn’t mean it like that.’
The quiet trickles slowly. Though fragile, it’s enough to loosen the tension by a fraction.
‘What are you reading now?’ I ask, tone lower, less derisive.
‘Nothing.’
I hum at that, unsure if he’s just deflecting or giving me an honest response.
‘I could send a book in for you, if you’d like.’
His head tilts sideways. ‘Why?’
I match the angle. ‘Purely selfish reasons. I’m thinking… if I give you more words, you might actually say some back to me rather than just stare.’
That twitch again – not quite a smile, but close enough. And it’s genuine.
If it weren’t for the prison greys and the chain, if I’d seen him on a run in the park – handsome in that wrong-kind-of-right way – I’d probably have looked twice.
‘What are you doing here, Leah?’ The question leaves him without that earlier bite, and the amusement somehow thins out of him. With it goes the unsettling pleasure he seemed to find in making me uncomfortable.
I lift my shoulders, unsure whether I’m answering him or asking myself. They don’t fall straight away, just let the moment linger atop them for a second.
‘I like volunteering.’ The breath that sticks in my throat makes it sound rehearsed. ‘I’m a photographer,’ I add quickly, deciding that if I offer something of myself, he might offer something back. ‘I volunteer wherever I can find genuine emotion. I like to try and capture it.’
He lets out a dry sound that might pass as a chuckle, then pushes forward again. The cuffs scrape against the table’s edge.
The motion unfolds my own arms.
‘So you came to a prison. To find… emotion?’ he murmurs sardonically.
It would be hard to explain my entire purpose as an artist to him. Emotion isn’t just joy at a birth, or tears at a wedding, or grief at a funeral.
It’s everything. History. It’s what lingers in rooms long after people have gone. The charge left behind after an argument, the indent in the wall after a frustrated outburst. The stillness after a slammed door. It’s longing soaked into things – plaster, wood, clothes… people.
‘Especially in prison,’ I tell him, watching for any changes on his face.
‘Whatever happened to bring you here began with an emotion, Elias.’ His lashes lower at the sound of his name, the eyes softening.
Then I hear the words back in my head and how presumptuous they sound.
‘It’s everywhere. It’s in the way those chains rest on your wrists.
’ My gaze flicks to the glint of metal between us.
‘In the way you dodge my questions. The way you almost smile, but don’t. ’
The tightness around his mouth falters. His fingers, previously curled as if expecting a blow, open slightly.
Then—
‘Guard!’ he calls. Calm. Without looking away from me.
The locks at the far end of the room clank in quick succession, and a few seconds later, George appears behind the door. His red-veined eyes narrow as he looks from Crane to me.
‘The lovely lady is leaving,’ Crane declares.
Nodding once, I smile at them both as I begin to stand.
My boots claim the tiles, a socially acceptable smile fixing to my face.
‘What’s the matter, Crane? Don’t like brunettes?’ The guard scoffs at him.
‘Not my type.’ Crane ruffles my feathers for the final time as my heels clack towards the exit.
‘Have a great day, Elias,’ I murmur.
Walking out of the facility, I keep turning the visit over in my head, looking for something useful enough to justify the drive.
On the surface, there isn’t much.
I came here intending to do something decent and left with my motives picked apart and handed back to me like they were something to be embarrassed of.
But as I reach the car park, my jaw already aches from clenching it. Old disappointments have a way of recognising one another. They now gather somewhere behind my tongue until I begin to consider swallowing optional.
I pull the belt over me and clamp my hands around the wheel.
Because it’s not that simple.
Something simmers beneath the disappointment.
Crane hadn’t been indifferent. Guarded – sure. Defensive – definitely. But not indifferent.
He reacted to books. To being asked real questions. To his name. That was more than he’d probably meant to give me. Whether it was annoyance, instinct or something closer to nerves, I couldn’t yet tell.
Before I turn the ignition, my camera bag catches my eye on the passenger seat. Pressure builds at the base of my chest.
Elias Crane isn’t a breakthrough. He is not a distraction.
I repeat both lies as I start the car.
After I miss the first junction homewards, I find myself wondering which book might make him speak for longer than a few sentences.
He gave me almost nothing, and I’m already turning the absence into an invitation.
Because I’m well aware he noticed the addiction to corruption in me too. That should be my only warning.
Should.
But it’s a hook instead.