“Yes.”
“Can I see the other pictures?”
“Sure.” He taps the phone screen before handing it to me. “There’s five in total if you swipe.” He leans back in his chair. “I would have used my SLR but I didn’t have time to get it out of my bag.”
I want to take my time, even though his eyes are making me self-conscious. I zoom in on every detail. The fact that these photos even exist blows my theory that the original was photoshopped or made with AI. There’s no way he would have gone to the trouble to make five or six images perfect and I can’t find any obvious signs of editing when I zoom in. The lighting is the same in every single one. My body is in motion, which would be even harder to fake.
“Can you forward these to me?” I ask, handing him the phone.
“Yes, of course.”
“And then I’d appreciate it if you deleted them.” I lower my chin, levelling my gaze at him. “I understand why you did this, and I don’t believe your intentions were unkind. But I think you can appreciate that these images are not ones I would ever want the internet to see. You have put me in an extremely vulnerable position.”
His olive skin turns grey. “I deleted the original once I knew you were okay.”
I shake my head. “Too late. It exists everywhere now.”
“Sorry. I really was?—”
“I know.” I sigh. “Can you send me the photos?”
Jason nods before tapping the screen. A moment later, my phone chimes and I check my Twitter notifications to find all the photos ready to download.
“Okay, and now I’d like to see you delete the photos from your camera roll.”
Jason angles the phone so that I can see them. One by one, he taps delete, and a weight lifts from my chest once it’s done.
“That’s a relief,” I say.
Jason stares down at his Americano.
“What time of day was it?” I ask.
“About 6:30 a.m. I’d been out on the moors taking photos of the sunrise. I decided to walk home.”
“Did you see any visible injuries?”
“It was hard to tell. I thought I saw some blood on the back of your head,” he says. “But it didn’t really show up much in the photos.”
My hands instinctively reach to the back of my head, groping my scalp. There’s nothing. No cut. No bump.
“Are you sure?” I ask again. “About the blood?”
He taps his finger against the mug handle. “You know, I can’t be completely sure. But that’s my recollection. You were dirty, confused and I thought I saw blood. That’s why I was worried.”
“Okay,” I say.
Jason wipes sweat from his forehead. “Look, I could do with going back to work. But you can always DM me if you have any more questions.”
I nod. “All right. Thank you for meeting with me today. I appreciate it.”
There’s a flush of red on Jason’s cheeks as his guilt eases.
He trips over his feet as he leaves the café. I watch, my stomach in knots and adrenaline flooding through my veins. Caffeine will only make it worse, but I still finish the cappuccino before leaving. And then I wander down Whitby pier in the cool sunshine. This place reminds me of summers with my younger cousins, making sandcastles with them and watching them do cartwheels until they were dizzy. I can taste the candyfloss and stroke the soft fabric of my Nirvana t-shirt that Mum told me “did me no favours”.
Those memories will fall away eventually. Will it be tomorrow? Or in six years? Ten years?
I sit on a bench and touch the back of my skull. If that was me out on the moor, where’s the injury to the back of my head?
