His voice sounded raw, laced with emotion, and Rory was stunned to silence, he knew about Ollie’s father, abusive physically and mentally to Ollie and his younger brother, but he wasn’t supposed to know. Rory didn’t want to sit there and play oblivious, instead he tried to steer the subject away from Ollie’s father.

“I’m glad you like the classes. Art is enough for me.”

Ollie smiled. “I’m sure the novelty will wear off after a few years.”

“By the time you’re out of here, you might be a professor or something.”

Ollie pursed his lips. “Or maybe my defining moment will be playing a tree in the prison play.”

Rory laughed, but it felt forced. Ollie’s smile faded, and he tapped the table.

“I—I know people don’t talk about why they’re in here…”

Rory shook his head. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“But I want to. I trust you.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“You barely know me.”

Ollie frowned. “I know you enough. You know it’s a murder charge, and I stabbed someone.”

“Ollie, I don’t think this is a good idea—”

“It was my father. He came home drunk, and started on us like he always did, and I’d had enough. I was getting it from every angle, and when he hit Leo, I had to do something. I got a knife from the kitchen and stabbed him. I couldn’t stop stabbing him. I didn’t want him to hurt me, or my brother again and I don’t feel guilty about it. The worst part was seeing my brother’s face after I did it, knowing I might’ve fucked him up forever.”

“You did it to protect him.”

“He lives with my aunty and uncle now, and I’ve sent them visiting orders, but they never reply. I’ve sent them letters, too, but I’ve not got any back. I want to see him. I want to explain why I did what I did. I don’t want him to hate me.”

“How old is he?”

“Fourteen. When I get out of here, he’ll be twenty-five. How messed up is that? He might be married by then, he might have a kid, or two…”

Rory didn’t have any comforting words and squeezed Ollie’s shoulder instead.

“I’m not even gonna be there when he has his first beer…”

“He’s not tried alcohol?”

“Not officially—us two sipping dregs from my dad’s whiskey bottle doesn’t cut it.”

“Whiskey? Your first taste of alcohol was whiskey?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus. Mine was a pint of bitter, my … friend told me it would put hairs on my chest and I downed the thing.”

Rory could remember Erica’s wide eyes. She hadn’t expected him to guzzle it down, but she’d been a little less shocked when it came back up.