10 #2
Her eyes widen.
‘Oh darling,’ she whispers when she takes in my face, and she’s suddenly there – hands on my shoulders, steering me down.
We sit on the edge of the bed, and she presses my head forward, low between my knees as if she can physically shove the panic back into my body. ‘Breathe, love. You’ll faint. What in the world has got into you?’
‘It’s him,’ I manage. ‘Elias. The news.’
She blinks rapidly until the meaning catches and blooms behind her eyes like a bruise surfacing. ‘You think he had something to do with it?’
I don’t tell her about him never showing remorse for killing Arthur. I don’t tell her how calmly he’d spoken about belonging behind bars, about being satisfied there – safe there – because outside he might do worse.
God.
Have I really been that blind—
‘Leah.’ Anna’s face pushes into my vision and she cups my cheeks. Firmly. Her brown eyes lock onto mine, as if the sheer force of her stare could keep me grounded. ‘Listen to me. You are starting a new life tomorrow. You are leaving. This does not concern you.’
Right.
That’s the sensible shape of it. The cleanest version.
There is nothing that tethers me to Elias Crane. I was a prison pastime. He was an escape hatch. We were a temporary madness with visiting hours.
Only…
The thought won’t stick. Because it’s true and neat and reasonable on the surface… and completely useless underneath.
‘I’ll see if I can try and find those pictures of us,’ Anna says as she rolls my ten-kilo bag beside her. Conall drags the bigger one, shadows carved beneath his eyes as though he hasn’t slept in days.
The airport is quiet in the early hours. I’m thankful for that as we near the self-check-in screens.
‘The house is a mess,’ Anna exhales. ‘Make sure to send me your new address when you’re settled so I can get them over to you if I find them.’
I’m nodding, though I’m unsure whether or not I had taken them out of the blue folder on the last day I’d seen Elias. I’m almost certain I hadn’t. If he had ever accepted the envelope, I can’t imagine how baffled he would have been to receive something like that.
‘Are you frightened?’ she then asks me.
My head snaps towards her, the faint creases on her forehead making me suddenly self-conscious. And guilty for making her worried.
‘Of the plane?’ I try.
‘That too.’
Hoisting my camera and my tiny leather backpack, I start first as we proceed away from the check-in.
‘New beginnings are always hard,’ Conall supplies stoically. I notice his hand snaking up Anna’s spine. Her shoulders loosen, and something in my chest follows.
‘I’m a little frightened,’ I admit. To myself as well. ‘I’ve never been anywhere outside Britain. This is an entirely different country, with a completely different culture and a language that would take time to learn—’
‘—beautiful scenery, aurora borealis! Handsome Norwegians?’ Anna supplies with a wink.
Conall clears his throat and she gives him an apologetic, if wry, smile.
I chuckle, but it comes out as a tired, sharp exhale.
Reaching the sign that says, ‘Passengers only from this point on’, I stop and turn to them both.
Anna smiles, launching herself at me.
I bend down a touch and envelop her with my arms. I’m going to miss her fragrance: vanilla and laundry detergent. The familiar blend winds around me as the nylon of her puffer coat rasps under my palms.
I try to memorise the weight of her. Even as I hold her, my chest aches with the knowledge that this sound – her heartbeat pressed to me, her stupid little sniff – is about to turn into something I might rarely hear after today – unless it’s through a phone speaker.
We detach from each other.
I pinch her cheeks. ‘Go easy on Conall,’ I divert.
She chuckles, wiping the tear that spills over. ‘Call me as soon as you’re there.’
Nodding, I look at the Irishman who leans closer and gives me a soft hug.
‘You’ll be fine,’ he says.
The words come easily enough.
His eyes, however, don’t quite meet mine.
He gives me a weak smile as he retreats to Anna’s side.
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘I’ll let you know when I land.’
Anna nods. Beside her, the last of the colour drains from Conall’s face. His gaze slips past my shoulder for the briefest beat as he quickly wrenches his gaze away.
As I start walking backwards, I keep him in my sight, trying to decipher what the hell it is I’m missing. Anna stands with her hands clasped in front of her, her cheeks glistening under the fluorescent lights. And that pulls me out of the gloom.
I need one picture before I go.
Pulling the camera from my bag, I thumb off the lens cap, then raise it. The shutter clicks several times before I let it rest against my chest.
One last wave, a slow turn, and the rattle of my cabin bag punctuates every step towards leaving.
I’m actually leaving.
An hour later, the quiet gate area has filled so completely that the boarding queue for Oslo doubles back towards the neighbouring shops. Every person in the entire airport appears to be flying to Norway with me.
I glare at my boarding pass, re-reading the seat number for the twentieth time, then abandon my place in the queue and head towards the vending machine across the pathway.
I’m parched. I’ve been rolling the past in my head, which has been fermenting the excitement for the opportunity to photograph new streets, new faces – the frost, the snow, the sky…
I’m of half a mind to order three shots of something biting once I’m seated, in the hope they’ll knock me out for the duration of the flight.
By the time I return, the queue hasn’t moved an inch, and the staff hasn’t yet begun boarding.
I slip in near the back, tuck my boarding pass between the pages of my book and take a sip from my water bottle, then I thumb back to the dog-eared page I’ve been stuck on since security.
I bought it yesterday, thinking it might help me to mentally prepare for the photoshoots; heavy, white paper, a cover photograph of a woman in a bright blue gákti – traditional Sámi clothing.
Hers is cut into a belted tunic with red and yellow bands that flare at the cuffs.
‘Indigenous Peoples of Sápmi’ smiles in bold at me.
Old black-and-white photos of faces that once stared straight through the lens bloom on the paper. The style is simple, but I like the composition.
Half of me is already there, in the north: frost on my lashes, camera around my neck, trying to catch the way the colour of their clothes hits this kind of landscape. God, those marvellous blues and reds against all that white…
For a brief second, I forget about grey cars, prisons and blue eyes. It’s just me and the idea that maybe, finally, I can point my lens at something that isn’t a broken piece of me. Or someone else.
A long shadow swallows mine. A body crowds in behind me; a shoulder strikes mine hard enough to jolt the book from my hands.
‘Pardon me!’ I grumble, squaring my shoulders.
Before I can turn, cold fingers clamp around my elbow – hard enough to lock the joint as I’m turned forwards and steered into the queue that begins to finally move.
‘Keep walking, eyes ahead,’ a deep voice mutters beside me. ‘Smile—like we’re talking.’
My heart is already trying to outrun me when the first flashback of the grey car surfaces.
‘What—?’ I murmur shakily, keeping it quiet, afraid to look sideways. ‘Sir, what are you doing?’
The blue brim of a cap shades most of his face as he angles himself half a step behind me, using his body to nudge me into motion. His other hand settles at the small of my back – seemingly intimate and comfortable, without needing to push.
My brain scrambles. The concourse tilts. Stale coffee, perfume and overheated air saturate my lungs until I taste metal.
‘Excuse me, I—’ I try to inconspicuously twist my arm free.
His fingers tighten in warning. ‘Don’t,’ he says conversationally. ‘I wouldn’t make a scene if I were you, Leah.’ I can hear the smile in his voice even if I can’t see it – as if we’re mid-conversation about weather.
The sound of my name freezes my blood more effectively than the final overhead announcement calling the passengers for our flight.
My legs keep moving on their own.
He eases the handle of my cabin bag and starts dragging it after him.
A family drifts past; someone laughs too loudly at the neighbouring gate. Normal airport noise drowns the erratic breathing coming from me.
‘Smile,’ he insists softly. ‘Now.’
I bare my teeth in something that might pass for a grin if one were half-blind. My pulse hammers so hard my vision is getting spotty.
The queue moves. He moves with it, keeping me pinned between his body and the passengers ahead, as he lifts his other hand—
—with a boarding pass.
My gaze catches on the details, but I can’t recognise the name: Jakob Halvorsen.
For a second, the noise around me drops away.
Same flight.
Same gate.
Not coincidence.
Cromwell’s warnings crash into me. Elias’, too.
‘I said smile,’ he rumbles, squeezing my arm.
Tilting my head, as if to answer some private joke, I nearly fall over myself when I finally see his face.
The cap casts a shadow over his brow. Black hair, buzzed at the sides into a clean fade. Dark beard covering his face.
His mouth is flat. A muscle jumps once along his cheek.
But the eyes.
The blue holds me.
Too bright for this light. Too familiar to be anyone but his.
My smile fractures.
‘Elias?’