Page 54 of These Tears

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.