Page 8 of These Tears

I hate that my mind turns things into a challenge, hate even more that part of me wants a reaction simply to prove I can get one. But if I make him respond – even a little – perhaps it will ease whatever presses down on him. That is the generous version of the excuse, anyway.

With her signature irritation, Marina tugs the cuffs of her bubblegum-pink jacket back into place.

‘Why are you trying so hard, anyway?’ she drawls, glancing skywards as thunder growls somewhere beyond.

‘What do you mean?’ I blink at her, genuinely taken aback.

Because she’s an artist too – granted, one who does weddings and happy stuff, but still… I hadn’t expected this kind of cynicism from her. ‘It’s not just for my portfolio. It’s volunteer work. Why would I do it if I wasn’t all in?’

She’s shaking her head before I even get a chance to finish.

‘Because this isn’t one of the shelters, Leah. This is a prison. Proper dangerous men.’

I don’t deflect. I don’t defend him. But I also don’t apologise for the choice.

Most people wouldn’t think to volunteer at a prison unless they were chasing redemption themselves. Or punishment. Or to run away from other broken things – like I am. My best friend’s voicing what plenty think but never say.

Still, those inside the prison are there for a reason. And Crane’s reason, while scary, isn’t enough to make me step back.

‘The thing I keep chasing—’ I say aloud, my eyes trained on the path, because if I look at her, I’ll have to admit she’s right. ‘Something powerful had to have driven him as far as to do something horrible. I want to frame it.’ Understand it.

Because it might help me understand myself too.

‘Sure.’ She crosses her arms as we start along the path skirting Burrator Reservoir.

The air smells of damp earth and woodsmoke that tingles against the back of my throat. Leaves skitter across the ground in gusts of bronze and blood-red before they find themselves beneath our wellies. Behind us, the lake lies still like a sheet of tarnished silver under the clouds.

‘I don’t want to undermine your art. I’m asking why you’re driving nearly four hours for a man who kills people – who, by the way, you don’t even know.’

‘One person,’ I correct, hating how absurd that sounds as soon as it’s out. ‘He killed one person. Or… he is accused of it. He hasn’t been convicted.’

Marina snorts. ‘Oh well then, it’s fine! Let me just adjust my moral compass – only one body, folks! Worth the fuel!’

A chuckle escapes me.

The reasonable part of me agrees with her.

Crane hadn’t seemed pleased to have me there, either. Yet the more I think about him folded over the table, staring at his hands as though holding himself together, the less convinced I am that his boredom was what drove me out of there.

He’d applied to the programme, after all.

Was it me, then? Was it just the fact that he didn’t want me to be his civilian contact?

Rejection isn’t a good feeling.

I trail its gloom along the path, staring at the tips of my navy wellies until I stop and decide to capture this moment that bleeds through me.

The lens doesn’t care that they’re filthy. Or that they’ve taken me into that filth.

I can’t help thinking of the silence he left me with.

I frame the shot low: mud-caked tips in the corner, autumn leaves scattered around them; the navy stark against the dull browns and washed-out golds.

Some of my pictures are for my own personal portfolio. And this one goes straight in there. It’s more like proof that I have left a mark, even if some people had already decided I didn’t matter. Crane included – which is ridiculous considering I’ve met him once and shouldn’t care what he thinks of me.

‘My offer still stands.’ Marina drags me out of the mental cave I’ve slipped into.

When I lift my head, she is watching me with that soft, assessing look that makes the back of my neck itch – as if I were a bruise she keeps checking for change of colour.