The success of our experiment washed away the frustrations of the morning like a tide receding from the shore. The revelation that Beatrix and I could effectively block each other's portal access if one was active had its implications—potentially dramatic ones for our future operations—but the clarity it provided was invaluable. Understanding the rules of the game, even those that complicated our play, gave us a strategic edge we hadn't possessed before.
Paul, having grown bored and frustrated with our prolonged experiment, had drifted back to camp in search of a vehicle equipped with a tow bar. Reflecting on his earlier irritation, a pang of guilt nudged at me. In a gesture of brotherly conciliation, I opted to drive the small truck loaded with fencing supplies to the Drop Zone myself. It was a small act of consideration, leaving the task of unpacking to Paul but sparing him the additional chore of fetching the vehicle. The decision to leave the small truck in Bixbus was practical, given the increasing police interest back on Earth. It had served its purpose, and with the law's eyes possibly scouring for any sign of our activities, it was safer here, away from prying eyes.
With the day's immediate concerns addressed, I turned my attention back to the house, only to be greeted by the incessant jingle of my phone. Missed messages and calls from Gladys filled the screen, a stark reminder of the world beyond our immediate concerns. The voicemail icon beckoned, and I pressed play, bracing myself for whatever urgency Gladys's voice would convey.
"Luke!" The panic in Gladys's voice was unmistakable, her words rushed and laden with anxiety. "The police are following me back to your place. They're expecting to find Jamie. What do I do?"
"Shit!" The word escaped my lips as I hastily opened the text message from Gladys, her written words echoing the urgency of her voicemail. My heart pounded, a mix of fear and resolve churning within me as I prepared to verify the timing of her messages. However, before I could scrutinise the details further, the soft shuffle of sneakers on the front porch sliced through my concentration.
Gladys? The thought flickered through my mind, a sliver of hope that perhaps she had made it back safely. With cautious steps, I moved across the kitchen tiles, each footfall a calculated risk as I inched towards the front door.
Then, the unmistakable sound of knuckles rapping loudly against the wood sent a jolt of adrenaline through me, propelling me to duck behind the island bench. Don't answer the door. The internal warning was clear, born of the realisation that Gladys had house keys and wouldn't need to knock. This left two possibilities: either it wasn't Gladys at the door, or it was, and the police were with her, either scenario fraught with danger and complication.
The muffled cacophony of multiple voices outside the door confirmed my worst fears, a sinister chorus that spelled trouble. The jingle of keys, a sound that should have been innocuous, now served as the catalyst for my next move. Darting back into the hallway, I made my way to the back bedroom, my mind racing with possible escape routes and contingencies.
As I opened the back bedroom door, a cold breeze greeted me, a chilling reminder of the state of neglect the house had fallen into. Jamie was the handyman, the one who kept the house in order, who could fix anything that broke. A frown marred my face as I faced the uncomfortable truth: without Jamie, the house's days were numbered. The realisation brought a heavy sense of foreboding, a fleeting mourning for the life we had built and the home that had sheltered us.
Gripping the door handle tightly, I took care to close the door with controlled, deliberate movements, ensuring the wind didn't cause it to slam and alert our unwelcome visitors to my presence.
"Jamie!" Gladys's call, echoing down the hallway, momentarily lifted the veil of tension that had settled over me. "Jamie!" she repeated, her voice a blend of urgency and feigned confusion. I couldn't help but scoff silently at her performance, a slight grin breaking through as I recognised the cleverness of her act. She knew as well as I did that Jamie wouldn't—couldn't—respond. And just as quickly as it appeared, the grin vanished, the reality hitting me with a renewed force. "Jamie is never going to reply," I whispered to myself, a solemn truth that echoed the permanent silence of Duke's absence.
The sudden swing of the bedroom door shattered the brief calm, its creaking hinges a jarring reminder of our precarious situation. I instinctively jumped back, my heart racing as Gladys entered, her calls for Jamie now directed into the room with a palpable pretence.
"Luke! What the fuck," she hissed upon seeing me, her eyes wide, a tumultuous mix of panic and frustration swirling within them. My initial instinct was to respond, to offer some explanation or reassurance, but her hand quickly covered my mouth, silencing any words I might have offered. Her intense gaze held mine in the dim light of the room, conveying more than words ever could.
"There are two detectives in the living room, waiting for me to return with Jamie," she whispered, her voice barely audible, each word infused with the heavy burden of our current crisis.
"Karl Jenkins?" The name slipped out, almost instinctively, the mention of the detective bringing a specific face, a known entity, into the fray.
"Yes," Gladys confirmed, her reply short, her eyes searching mine for something—reassurance, a plan, any indication of what our next move should be. "You know him?"
"Yeah," I responded, the weight of my encounter with Detective Jenkins bearing down on me. A heavy pause filled the space as I grappled with how much to divulge. My decision to shield Gladys from the full extent of my interaction with Jenkins was deliberate, a protective instinct to spare her from additional worry. "I caught him snooping around here the other day," I admitted, leaving out the depth of the ordeal.
"Did he see you? Did you talk to him?" The urgency in Gladys's voice was palpable. Her concern was not just for the immediate issue but for the potential ramifications of any interaction with law enforcement.
"No," I assured her quickly, wanting to alleviate her immediate fears. "Do you know the detective with him?" I redirected, curious about the identity of Jenkins's companion and the role they might play in our unfolding drama.
Gladys's description of the other detective painted a picture, albeit a vague one, that stirred a sense of recognition within me. "No. She's a little taller than me, long, black hair, and quite attractive, really," she offered, her tone laced with a hint of unease at the memory.
"Sounds like Sarah Lahey," I found myself saying, a name surfacing from the depths of my memory, its familiarity prompting a mix of intrigue and concern. Really? I questioned internally, doubting my own recall. The name Sarah Lahey hovered in my thoughts, a piece of the puzzle that seemed to fit yet felt oddly out of place.
"Befriend her," I found myself instructing Gladys, an unexpected strategy forming amidst the uncertainty. It was a curveball, indeed, one that carried with it a mix of risk and potential insight. If this detective was indeed Sarah Lahey, then perhaps there was an avenue through which we could navigate this precarious situation with a semblance of control.
"Befriend her?" Gladys's query, laced with evident surprise, echoed the improbability of the suggestion I had just made.
"Yeah."
"What? Why?" Her confusion mirrored the complexity of the situation we found ourselves in.
"We need to find some allies. My gut tells me that Sarah might help us," I explained, the conviction in my voice belying the uncertainty that underpinned such a gamble. The idea of turning potential adversaries into allies was a testament to the desperate times we found ourselves in, a reflection of the unconventional warfare we were engaged in.
"To cover up the disappearances?" Gladys's question, probing deeper into the implications of my suggestion, revealed her quick grasp of the situation.
You surprise me sometimes, Gladys, I mused silently, a flicker of admiration for her astuteness stirring within me, hope reigniting knowing that her messed up brain was already ahead of mine.
"You'd better get back out there," I directed, my hands gently pushing her towards the door. The urgency of maintaining appearances before the detectives waiting in the living room was paramount. "They'll be getting suspicious if you don't get back there.”
Gladys's reluctance was palpable, her feet dragging along the carpet as she hesitated. The weight of the task before her, the uncertainty of the outcome, hung heavily in the air between us. "What do I tell them?" she asked, her voice tinged with panic, seeking direction in the mire of deception we were entangled in.
With a final nudge, I pushed Gladys out of the room, the gesture more one of encouragement than dismissal. "I really don't know," I admitted with a shrug. "Just don't tell them about me." My words, a plea for discretion, underscored the delicate balance we were trying to maintain.
As the door closed softly behind her, sealing off the room from the hallway and the detectives beyond, a profound sense of isolation washed over me. The muted click of the latch marked the end of our brief conference, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the weight of the unknown future.
Pressing my ear against the wooden door, I found myself in a state of heightened anticipation, hoping to glean any information from Gladys's conversation with the detectives. The voices, however, remained just beyond comprehension, a muffled cacophony that did nothing but fuel my frustration. The cold air that wafted through the remnants of the broken window caused goosebumps to form along my arms, a physical reminder of the environmental contrast between the warmth of Clivilius and the chill of the Tasmanian winter. The thought of fetching a jumper flitted through my mind, dismissed almost as quickly by the knowledge that the detectives' imminent departure would allow me to move about more freely and warm up in the process.
As I leaned back against the doorframe, conceding defeat to the impenetrable barrier of the door, a stray thought crossed my mind: This garbage really is beginning to stink. The realisation was as sudden as it was unwelcome, the metaphorical stench of our situation mingling with the physical discomfort of piling up garbage bags. A whimsical idea suggested itself—registering a portal location at the tip for effortless waste disposal. The absurdity of the notion brought a brief chuckle, the idea of solving our waste management issues with inter-dimensional shortcuts a humorous distraction from the tension of the moment.
The sound of soft footsteps approaching broke through my musings, snapping me back to the present with a surge of adrenaline. The steps were too soft, too measured to be Gladys, her approach usually more pronounced. The realisation prompted a strategic retreat behind the door, my body tensed for a rapid exit. The urge to flee warred with a burgeoning curiosity, the latter holding me in place despite the risks. Karl Jenkins had already demonstrated a propensity for unexpected actions; what more could he be planning? The question lingered, a provocative invitation to stay and confront whatever came next, even as the rational part of me acknowledged the potential danger of such a choice. In that moment, poised on the edge of action and observation, I was acutely aware that each decision was laden with potential consequences.
The subtle hint of movement at the door handle sent a clear message: this was definitely not Gladys. My instincts kicked in, propelling me to sidestep swiftly behind the door, pressing my back against the wall in anticipation. The handle rattled, a clear sign of someone's intent to enter, the door inching open just enough to confirm my suspicions. The thought of opening the portal in this moment was out of the question; the vibrant hues of its activation would be impossible to hide from Karl's prying eyes.
As I stood there, hidden by the narrow gap the partially opened door afforded, a sly smile involuntarily crossed my face. Karl's attention was wholly absorbed by the black garbage bags in the room, their suspicious appearance evidently drawing his curiosity. It was a surreal moment, watching him from my concealed position, marvelling at his obliviousness to my presence. His cautious approach suggested he hadn't anticipated anyone in the room. Had he suspected otherwise, I was sure he would have entered more forcefully, his weapon at the ready. Yet, it remained holstered, a sign of his perceived control over the situation.
Then, unexpectedly, Karl pushed the door open further, the edge grazing the tips of my shoes before beginning its swing shut. His second push was more deliberate, applying pressure against my shoes hidden behind the door. "Fuck!" The whisper of his frustration filled the room, a soft exclamation that broke the tense silence.
In that moment, the reality of our cat-and-mouse game hit me with renewed intensity. There I was, mere inches from a detective whose investigation could unravel everything I'd worked so hard to protect. The risk of discovery, once a theoretical concern, was now palpable, the physical barrier of the door the only thing separating me from exposure.
I stifled a scoff, the thrill of the moment enveloping me, a feeling reminiscent of those childhood games of hide and seek with Paul in the dark. The blend of anticipation and fear, the exhilarating rush of narrowly evading discovery, was palpable now, reignited in this new version of high-stakes game.
Gladys's angry voice, erupting from below, cut through the tension like a beacon of defiance. "Hey! What the hell are you doing up there!" she yelled, her tone laced with frustration and authority. Her demand, "I think you'd better leave," not only offered a momentary reprieve but also affirmed the effectiveness of our ruse. Her proximity, her voice carrying up the hallway, provided a tangible shield for my secrecy, a reminder of the roles we had all assumed in this intricate dance of deception.
As Karl hesitated, then turned to retreat with reluctant steps down the hallway, a mischievous impulse took hold of me. It was a moment of irresistible temptation, a chance to leave my mark on the encounter. Activating my Portal Key, I initiated a subtle yet unmistakable disturbance. The hallway lights flickered in response, a visual testament to the portal's activation, while Karl's radio crackled loudly, static filling the air with a tangible presence. The hairs on my arms stood on end, a physical reaction to the charged atmosphere I had conjured.
"Bye, Karl," I whispered sharply, my voice barely carrying through the crack in the door, a mischievous farewell to the detective who had come so close yet remained oblivious to the true extent of my capabilities. With that, I stepped through the portal into Clivilius, vanishing from the house and leaving behind only the echoes of my departure and the puzzlement it would undoubtedly cause.
Crouched beside the portal, the release of a loud chuckle felt both liberating and necessary, a valve opening to let the pent-up tension escape. The exhilaration of the moment, of having successfully taunted the detective and then vanished without a trace, was intoxicating. Yet, I knew all too well that any desire to witness Karl's reaction firsthand was outweighed by the very real risk of capture. The decision to retreat was not just strategic; it was vital.
As I stood there, allowing my hands to rest momentarily on my hips, I took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm the racing of my heart. The adrenaline that had surged through my veins began to ebb, replaced by a more measured pace of reflection. From a distance, the sound of raised voices reached me—Paul and Beatrix, their discussion heated as they navigated their way to my position.
"Another caravan?" The words slipped out as a murmur, my gaze narrowing in an attempt to discern the details of the caravan that now accompanied them. It indeed appeared different from the one I had noticed earlier, sparking a mix of curiosity and admiration for Beatrix's resourcefulness. However, this fleeting moment of amusement gave way to a more pressing concern—Beatrix's financial means. The knowledge of her current financial situation added a layer of complexity to the equation, leaving me to wonder about the logistics behind her acquiring another caravan.
"What's got you so cheery?" Paul's voice, cutting through my contemplations, brought me sharply back to the present. His question, straightforward yet perceptive, hinted at his awareness of my momentarily lifted spirits.
"Nothing, really," I responded, adopting a tone of nonchalance. The attempt to mask the whirlwind of emotions and calculations racing through my mind was instinctual—a reflex developed from years of navigating the delicate balance between disclosure and discretion. The truth of my cheerfulness, rooted in the successful navigation of a potentially perilous encounter, was not something easily shared, even with Paul. Instead, I chose to deflect, to maintain the façade of calm even as my mind continued to race with the implications of our current situation.
"I need the car back, Paul!" Beatrix's yell sliced through my brief moment of levity, her voice carrying the unmistakable tone of urgency. I couldn't help but release a chuckle at the situation unfolding before me, the familiar dance of negotiation and frustration between Paul and Beatrix.
Paul's response, a frustrated sigh that seemed to carry the weight of Clivilius, was testament to the complexity of our communal life. "I just want to use it to take the caravan back to camp first," he explained, the beads of sweat on his brow indicative of the physical and emotional toll of his circumstances. "Then she can have the car back." His reasoning, practical yet caught in the crossfire of necessity and demand, left room for little else but compromise.
Choosing to stay neutral in their ongoing dispute was an easy decision for me. The dynamics of their disagreement, while important, seemed minor in the grand tapestry of challenges we faced. "C'mon, Paul, just help me unhitch it," Beatrix pleaded, her hands pressed together in a gesture that spoke volumes of her desperation. When her gaze shifted toward me, laden with a silent plea for intervention, I instinctively backed away, raising my arms in a gesture of surrender. "I have stuff to do," I declared, sidestepping the looming debate with a diplomatic evasion.
"We need more wood, too," Paul interjected, his sigh cutting short as if to punctuate the endless list of tasks that demanded our attention.
Beatrix, undeterred by my retreat, continued to motion toward the caravan, her determination to resolve the matter clear in her persistent gestures.
"I'll take care of the wood," I reassured Paul, hoping to alleviate at least one of his concerns. My hand squeezed his shoulder in a gesture of solidarity before I turned to leave, the silent acknowledgment between us speaking volumes. The squabble between him and Beatrix, though momentarily entertaining, was just one of many such negotiations in our shared struggle for survival.
Entering the study, the ambient noise of distant conversation immediately put me on edge. The sound of chatty female voices sparked a momentary panic within me. I forgot about the detectives! The thought sent a jolt through me, followed by a rapid reassessment. They're not still here, though, surely!?
With urgency, I moved to press my body against the wall beside the door, a tactical position that allowed me to listen more intently without exposing myself. "At least they're static. Must be in the living room," I mumbled under my breath, trying to make sense of the situation. The realisation that the voices were contained, not approaching, provided a small measure of relief.
Then, the distinct sounds of cheers and clinking wine glasses filtered through the quiet, drawing my attention. What the hell is Gladys doing? The question slipped out, a mix of bewilderment and curiosity. Peering down the hallway for a clearer understanding, I caught sight of Detective Sarah Lahey placing an empty wine glass on the island bench. She then moved with a casual grace toward the front door, her departure seemingly unhurried and unencumbered by the weight of her professional duties.
A soft chuckle escaped me as I processed the scene. I couldn't help but admire Gladys's ingenuity and audacity. The very idea that she had managed to engage a detective in such a casual, convivial manner spoke volumes of her skill in navigating tense situations. If she can get a detective to drink alcohol while on duty, there's still hope for us all yet, I thought, the amusement mingling with a newfound respect for Gladys's tactics.
This unexpected turn of events, witnessing Detective Lahey's informal exit, reshaped my understanding of our current predicament. Gladys's ability to disarm and connect with someone who represented a direct threat to our secrecy was not just impressive; it was a lifeline, a glimmer of possibility in our tangled web of challenges. The realisation that we might yet find allies in the most unlikely places bolstered my spirits, offering a reminder that adaptability and ingenuity were among our greatest assets.
As the sound of the front door closing marked Detective Lahey's departure, I found myself drawn towards Gladys, who remained a picture of composure seated on the couch. "That was an interesting conversation," I remarked, my tone light, attempting to veil my genuine curiosity and admiration for her handling of the situation.
"You don't say," Gladys retorted, her voice dripping with a dry wit as she downed the last of her drink. The simplicity of her response, paired with the action of finishing her drink, spoke volumes of the day's tension and its resolution.
"Another?" I offered, moving to collect her empty glass.
"Cheers," she responded, a single word conveying her gratitude and readiness to move past the moment. She handed over the glass without a hint of hesitation, a silent agreement to the brief respite we were allowing ourselves.
As I poured another glass, the memory of my parting shot to Karl, "Bye, Karl," lingered with a sense of satisfaction. Impressive, I mused internally, a smile creeping onto my face as I reflected on the day's events and Gladys's adept handling of a potentially compromising situation.
"Can you organise a few tons of wood to be delivered to the Owen's property for me, please, Gladys?" I found myself requesting as I filled her glass with the red liquid, the task momentarily redirecting my focus from the earlier victory.
"I guess so," she replied, accepting the refill with a nod.
"Why can't you?" she inquired, a reasonable question given the nature of the task.
"I have business with Bonorong," I answered, my reply brief as I took a gulp of shiraz, the rich taste a small comfort amidst the whirlwind of the afternoon’s events. Anticipating her potential curiosity, I quickly added, "I'll text you the Owen's address," aiming to forestall any further inquiry into my plans.
Without waiting for her response, "Bye, Karl," echoed once again in my mind, a mantra of sorts that encapsulated the day's triumphs and the audacity of our actions. I drained the glass clean, the act a symbolic end to the conversation and a momentary pause in our relentless fight for survival and secrecy. The satisfaction of having outmanoeuvred Detective Karl Jenkins, even in such a small way, was a reminder of our resilience and the lengths to which we were willing to go to protect our sanctuary and each other.
