Close Enough to Whisper

"The best escapes aren't the ones where you run. They're the ones where you wave goodbye first."

The success of our experiment washed away the frustrations of the morning. The revelation that Beatrix and I could block each other's portal access when one was active had implications—potentially dramatic ones for our future operations—but the clarity it provided was invaluable. Understanding the rules of the game, even rules that complicated our play, gave us a strategic edge we hadn't possessed before.

We'd run the test three times to be certain. Each time, while my portal remained open, Beatrix’s Portal Key had refused to activate. The moment I closed mine, hers worked perfectly. The interference was consistent, predictable, and—now that we understood it—something we could plan around.

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 for the caravan. Reflecting on his earlier irritation—the way his excitement about the internet had been dismissed, the way I'd snapped at him to keep up—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 truck in Bixbus was practical. With the increasing police interest back on Earth—Detective Jenkins sniffing around, Terry watching from across the road—having a vehicle connected to our activities sitting in plain sight was a liability. The truck had served its purpose. Better for it to remain here, away from prying eyes and forensic examination.

With the day's immediate concerns addressed, I turned my attention back to the house. The portal deposited me in the study, the familiar surroundings a jarring contrast to the ochre dust and warm sun of Clivilius. I'd been gone for... how long? An hour? Time moved strangely when you were jumping between worlds.

My phone sat on the kitchen bench where I'd left it, and even from across the room I could see the screen lit up with notifications. I crossed to it, picking it up to find missed messages and calls from Gladys filling the display. The voicemail icon beckoned, and I pressed play, bracing myself for whatever urgency her voice would convey.

"Luke!" The panic in Gladys's voice was unmistakable, her words rushed and ragged 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 messages, her written words echoing the urgency of the voicemail. My heart pounded, a visceral drumbeat of fear and adrenaline. When had she sent these? How long ago? Were the police already here?

Before I could scrutinise the timestamps, the soft shuffle of footsteps 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, that the police had peeled off somewhere along the way. With cautious steps, I moved across the kitchen tiles, each footfall calculated 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, instinctive. Gladys had house keys. She wouldn't need to knock. Which meant either it wasn't Gladys at the door, or it was and the police were with her—both scenarios fraught with danger.

The muffled sound of multiple voices outside confirmed my worst fears. Not one person. Several. The jingle of keys—Gladys's keys, presumably—served as the catalyst for my next move. I couldn't be caught in the kitchen like a cornered animal. I needed somewhere to hide, somewhere to think, somewhere with an exit route if everything went wrong.

Darting back through the house I made my way down the hallway toward the back bedroom. The broken window there was a liability—cold air and easy access—but it was also the room furthest from the front door, buying me precious seconds if the police decided to search the house.

As I opened the back bedroom door, a cold breeze greeted me, raising goosebumps along my arms. The broken window gaped like a wound, a chilling reminder of Detective Jenkins's earlier intrusion. Glass still littered the carpet near the wall—I'd pulled the door closed and left the mess, planning to deal with it later, if at all. Later kept getting pushed further away.

Jamie was the handyman. The one who kept the house in order, who could fix anything that broke, who would have organised to have this window replaced within a day of it shattering. A frown crossed my face as I confronted the uncomfortable truth: without Jamie, this house's days were numbered. Even if the police weren't circling, even if we could somehow continue using this place as a base, it would slowly fall apart without him. The leaky tap in the bathroom. The loose step on the staircase.

The realisation brought a heavy sense of foreboding, a mourning for more than just the relationship we'd destroyed.

Gripping the door handle tightly, I took care to close it with controlled, deliberate movements. The wind wanted to slam it—wanted to announce my presence to everyone in the house—but I held firm, easing it shut until the latch clicked softly into place.

"Jamie!" Gladys's call echoed down the hallway, her voice carrying clearly through the thin walls. "Jamie!"

The performance was obvious—too loud, too theatrical—and I couldn't help but scoff silently at her acting. She knew as well as I did that Jamie wouldn't respond. Couldn't respond. He was in Clivilius, grieving Duke, hating me, completely unaware that police were in his house awaiting his presence.

A slight grin broke through at the cleverness of her act, the way she was playing along with whatever story she'd been forced to tell. And just as quickly as it appeared, the grin vanished. The reality hit me with renewed force.

"Jamie is never going to reply," I whispered to myself. Not to Gladys's calls. Not to my apologies. Not to any of my attempts to make things right. The permanent silence of that truth echoed the permanent silence of Duke's absence—both of them gone from my life, one to death and one to hatred, and I wasn't sure which loss hurt more.

The sudden swing of the bedroom door shattered my spiral, its hinges creaking as it flew open. I jumped back instinctively, heart slamming against my ribs, hands rising in defensive reflex before I registered who it was.

Gladys entered, her calls for Jamie now directed into the room with continued pretence. "Jamie? Are you in—"

She saw me and stopped dead.

"Luke! What the fuck," she hissed, her eyes wide, panic and frustration warring for dominance in her expression.

My mouth opened to respond—to explain, to reassure, to offer some plan I hadn't yet formulated—but her hand clamped over my lips before any sound could escape. Her grip was firm, insistent, her eyes boring into mine with an intensity that conveyed 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 even in the quiet of the room.

Two. Not just Jenkins. Someone else.

"Karl Jenkins?" The name slipped out the moment she removed her hand, almost instinctive, the detective's face surfacing in my mind.

"Yes," Gladys confirmed, short and sharp. "You know him?"

"Yeah." The weight of my earlier encounter pressed down on me. I'd hidden from him in this very house, listened to him interrogate Terry, watched him smash through my window. How much to tell Gladys? How much would help, and how much would just add to her panic?

"I caught him snooping around here the other day," I admitted, leaving out the depth of the ordeal—the chase through the house, the failed Portal Key, the near miss of discovery.

"Did he see you? Did you talk to him?" The urgency in Gladys's voice was palpable.

"No," I assured her quickly, wanting to defuse at least that fear. "Do you know the detective with him?"

Gladys's brow furrowed as she summoned the details. "No. She's a little taller than me, long, black hair, and quite attractive, really."

The description stirred something in my memory—a name surfacing from depths I hadn't accessed in months. "Sounds like Sarah Lahey," I found myself saying, the familiarity of it prompting a mix of intrigue and concern.

Really? I questioned internally, doubting my own recall. Sarah Lahey. The name hovered in my thoughts, a puzzle piece that seemed to fit yet felt oddly out of place. If it was really her—if she was partnered with Jenkins—then there might be an angle here. An opportunity hidden within the threat.

"Befriend her," I instructed, the strategy forming even as I spoke.

"Befriend her?" Gladys's surprise was evident, her voice rising slightly before she caught herself and dropped back to a whisper.

"Yeah."

"What? Why?"

"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 underneath. It was a gamble. A significant one. But we were running short on options, and desperate times demanded unconventional strategies.

"To cover up the disappearances?" Gladys's question cut straight to the heart of what I was suggesting.

You surprise me sometimes, Gladys. A flicker of admiration stirred within me, hope reigniting at the realisation that her mind was already working ahead of mine, already seeing the angles and possibilities.

"You'd better get back out there," I directed, my hands gently pushing her toward the door. The detectives were waiting. The longer she stayed hidden in a back bedroom supposedly looking for Jamie— "They'll be getting suspicious if you don't get back there."

Gladys's reluctance was palpable, her feet dragging against the carpet as she hesitated.

"What do I tell them?" she asked, panic threading through her whisper.

With a final nudge, I pushed her out of the room. "I really don't know," I admitted with a shrug. Honesty, however unhelpful. "Just don't tell them about me."

As the door closed softly behind her, sealing me off from the hallway and the detectives beyond, a profound sense of isolation settled over me. The muted click of the latch marked the end of our brief conference, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the chill seeping through the broken window.

I pressed my ear against the wooden door, straining to catch any fragment of conversation from the living room. But the voices remained just beyond comprehension—a muffled blur of tones and rhythms that told me nothing useful. The cold air raised goosebumps along my bare arms.

The thought of fetching a jumper flitted through my mind and was dismissed almost instantly. Moving through the house while detectives occupied the living room was an unnecessary risk. Better to endure the cold. They'd leave eventually, and then I could move freely.

Leaning back against the doorframe, I conceded defeat to the impenetrable barrier. Through the gap at the bottom of the door, I could see shadows moving—feet passing back and forth—but nothing that helped me understand what was happening.

Then a stray thought crossed my mind: This garbage really is beginning to stink.

The black bags piled in the corner of the room—rubbish I'd been meaning to relocate for days—had reached a critical mass. The smell wasn't overwhelming yet, but in the confined space of the bedroom, it was becoming noticeable. A whimsical idea suggested itself: registering a portal location at the tip for effortless waste disposal. The absurdity of it—solving our garbage problems with inter-dimensional shortcuts—brought a brief chuckle, a momentary lightness in the tension.

The sound of soft footsteps approaching killed the amusement instantly.

Too soft. Too measured. Gladys's footsteps were never this careful—she moved through spaces like she owned them, her presence announced before she arrived. These footsteps belonged to someone trying not to be heard.

I retreated behind the door, pressing my back against the wall, body tensed for rapid movement. The urge to flee warred with a burgeoning curiosity. Karl Jenkins had already demonstrated a propensity for unexpected actions—breaking windows, trespassing, pushing boundaries that most detectives would respect. What more was he planning?

The question held me in place despite the risks. Some dark part of me wanted to see how far he'd go, wanted to understand the man who seemed so determined to uncover whatever secrets this house contained.

A subtle hint of movement at the door handle confirmed my suspicions. This was definitely not Gladys.

The handle rattled, someone testing it from the other side. I sidestepped further behind the door, pressing myself flat against the wall as the door began to inch open. The thought of activating my portal was tempting—escape beckoning from within arm's reach—but the vibrant display of its activation would be impossible to hide. Karl would see. Karl would know.

Better to wait. Better to see what he did.

The handle rattled, someone testing it from the other side. I sidestepped further behind the door, pressing myself flat against the wall as it began to inch open. The thought of activating my portal was tempting—escape beckoning from within arm's reach—but the vibrant display of its activation would be impossible to hide. Karl would see. Karl would know.

As I stood there, hidden in the narrow gap between door and wall, a sly smile crossed my face despite the danger. Through the crack, I could see Karl peering into the room, his attention wholly absorbed by the black garbage bags piled in the corner. Their suspicious bulk was apparently far more interesting than a proper search—his imagination no doubt conjuring drugs or evidence of whatever crimes he'd convinced himself we were committing.

He hadn't stepped inside. Hadn't committed to the intrusion. Just stood there in the hallway, one hand on the door, observing through the gap like a man trying to decide whether the risk was worth it. His other hand hovered near his hip but hadn't drawn his weapon—a sign he didn't expect to find anyone here. Had he suspected otherwise, he would have entered differently. Gun drawn. Calling for backup. Instead, he was alone, curious, overstepping his authority in ways that would never hold up if challenged.

Then Karl pushed the door open further, the edge grazing the tips of my shoes.

I held my breath.

He pushed again, more deliberate this time, applying pressure against the obstruction he'd encountered.

"Fuck!" The whisper of his frustration was soft but unmistakable, his confusion evident in the single syllable.

The reality of our proximity hit me with renewed intensity. Inches separated us. A few degrees of door swing stood between concealment and exposure. One glance behind the door and everything unravelled—the investigation, the secrets, whatever fragile safety I'd managed to maintain.

I stifled the urge to laugh, the thrill of the moment wrapping around me like a fever. It reminded me of childhood games—hide and seek with Paul in the dark, that delicious terror of almost being found, the exhilaration when the seeker passed by without seeing you pressed into a shadow.

Gladys's voice erupted from down the hallway.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing up there!" Her tone was laced with outrage, with authority she had every right to claim. This was her friend's house. These detectives were guests—uninvited ones at that. "I think you'd better leave."

Her proximity, her righteous anger, provided a shield for my secrecy. Karl hesitated, caught between his curiosity about the garbage bags and the woman demanding his departure. The moment stretched, his indecision palpable.

Then he turned, retreating with reluctant steps toward the hallway.

A mischievous impulse seized me—irresistible, undeniable. He'd broken into my house. He'd chased me through my own rooms. He'd made my life considerably more complicated than it needed to be. And now he was leaving without even knowing how close he'd come.

I couldn't let that stand.

Activating my Portal Key, I initiated a subtle disturbance. The hallway lights flickered in response, electricity misbehaving as the portal's energy field expanded. Karl's radio crackled loudly, static filling the air with a presence that couldn't be explained by faulty wiring or bad reception. The hairs on my arms stood on end, a physical reaction to the charged atmosphere I'd conjured.

Karl stopped. I could see his silhouette through the crack in the door, frozen mid-step, trying to make sense of what was happening around him.

"Bye, Karl," I whispered, my voice carrying just enough to reach him through the gap—a mischievous farewell to the detective who had come so close yet remained utterly oblivious to the truth of what he was chasing.

I saw him spin toward the sound, saw his hand finally move to his weapon, saw the confusion and alarm cross his features in the split second before I stepped through the portal.

The swirling colours embraced me, and I vanished from the house entirely—leaving behind only the echoes of my departure, the lingering crackle of disturbed electronics, and a detective who would spend a very long time trying to understand what had just happened.