Dent in the Plaster

"Nothing reveals how badly you've underestimated a situation quite like finding yourself pinned to someone's wall with their forearm against your throat."

As I turned Jamie's car onto Glenda's street, I fished her driver's licence from my pocket and squinted at the numbers printed there. "Forty-six," I read aloud, the address becoming more concrete now that I was actually navigating toward it. "Probably about halfway up," I mumbled to myself, the words a soft murmur against the steady hum of the engine.

Looking up, I observed the steep incline that stretched before me—the hill climbing upward with the particular determination that Hobart's geography seemed to specialise in. The car hesitated for a moment, as though gathering its resolve, before I nudged the accelerator and felt it begin the ascent. The wheels protested as they bumped over a low gutter, the jolt travelling through the chassis and into my spine with uncomfortable intimacy. I brought the car to a stop, positioning it in that half-on, half-off-the-road manner that Tasmania's narrow streets often demanded.

Gripping the steering wheel, I leaned forward, my attention captured by the view that had opened up beyond the windscreen.

It was as though the world had decided to reveal itself all at once—the expanse of Sandy Bay spreading out below like an intricate tapestry woven from rooftops and gardens and the particular green of Tasmanian winter. There, nestled among the vegetation that clung to the hillside, was the De Bruyn residence. The house commanded its position on the slope with quiet confidence, its lines clean and elegant, speaking of the kind of meticulous care that came from both resources and attention.

Beyond the tranquility of this residential haven, the harbour lay glittering beneath whatever sun had broken through the morning's clouds. The water served as a vast mirror, reflecting the grey-blue of the sky in shades that shifted with every passing moment. Ships moved across its surface—tiny from this vantage point—their sails creating a ballet of white against the deeper blue, their progress marked by wakes that caught the light like scattered diamonds. And there, standing proudly along the shoreline, was Wrest Point casino, its hotel tower a beacon amidst the landscape, its familiar silhouette undiminished by the distance.

I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the scene before me, an unexpected moment of beauty that seemed almost at odds with the purpose of my visit. The juxtaposition was not lost on me—the elegance of nature and the evidence of human endeavour coexisting in a balance that felt almost choreographed. It was a reminder of the complexity of life, of the countless experiences that shape our existence, each one a thread in whatever pattern we're weaving with our choices.

For a moment, I allowed myself to be lost in the view, in the serenity and the grandeur that Tasmania offered so casually to anyone who bothered to notice. But then the reality of why I was here tugged at the edges of my contemplation, pulling me back from reverie with the insistence of obligation. The house before me, with all its beauty and apparent tranquility, wasn't merely a backdrop to admire—it was the stage upon which the next scene of my increasingly complicated narrative would unfold.

I slipped Glenda's keys into the deep recesses of my trouser pocket, feeling the cool metal settle against my thigh through the fabric, and closed the car door with a soft but decisive click. I stood there for a moment, taking in a deep breath of air that tasted clean and sharp.

"Tasmania has the cleanest air in all of Australia, I'm convinced of that," I whispered to myself, the words floating away on a gentle breeze that carried eucalyptus and something else—the particular freshness of altitude, perhaps, or simply the absence of city pollution.

The mission ahead was etched clearly in my mind: Use Glenda's keys to enter her house, gather a selection of her clothes, and leave unnoticed. Simple enough in theory. The kind of task that shouldn't require excessive planning or concern. But the sleek silver BMW parked in the driveway spoke of complications I hadn't anticipated, its polished surface reflecting the muted colours of sky and garden like a silent warning.

My eyes lingered on the vehicle, its presence announcing what I'd hoped wouldn't be the case—Pierre, Glenda's husband, was apparently home. A knot of apprehension began to form in my stomach, tightening with each breath. I had not planned for this contingency. The assumption had been an empty house, an uncomplicated retrieval. The BMW suggested otherwise.

With measured steps, I approached the front door, my footsteps muffled by the lush grass underfoot. The house loomed larger as I drew closer, its façade carrying that particular quality of well-maintained homes—a blend of charm and quiet authority that seemed to assess visitors before they'd even knocked. I reached out, my hand steadier than my pulse, and delivered several loud raps of my knuckles against the dark hardwood door.

The sound resonated more deeply than I'd intended, echoing through the quiet expanse with an ominous quality that made me wince internally. I stood there, waiting for response, studying the intricate grain of the wood before me—each line and swirl a testament to the tree's long history, now serving as the barrier between me and my objective.

My mind raced through scenarios with the particular intensity of someone who hadn't prepared for the situation at hand. Was Pierre already striding toward the door, his footsteps silent on whatever flooring lay within? Or was the house as empty as I'd hoped, the BMW a mere decoy left to deter would-be intruders?

The uncertainty gnawed at me, a stark contrast to the serene beauty of the landscape that surrounded this place. Here I stood, caught between the tranquility of nature and the mounting tension of human affairs, a lone figure at the threshold of consequences I couldn't predict.

Then the door opened, and uncertainty crystallised into something far more immediate.

A middle-aged European man stood in the doorway, his appearance strikingly well-kept—every hair in place, a hint of stubble framing his jawline that lent him an air of rugged sophistication rather than neglect.

"Hello," he greeted, his voice carrying the unmistakable music of a French accent, each syllable shaped with the particular care of someone speaking a second language fluently but distinctively. "Can I help you?"

Standing there, I sized him up with the rapid assessment that had become second nature over recent days. This had to be Pierre. I'd never met him, but there was something in his bearing that matched the fragments I'd assembled from Glenda's occasional mentions—a certain self-possession, an air of competence that came from professional success and personal confidence. Despite the circumstances, there was softness in his features too, a kind of unspoken welcome that momentarily disarmed the defensive posture I'd been cultivating.

"Is Glenda home?" I ventured, my voice steady, aiming to bridge the gap between us with a question I already knew the answer to.

The transformation was immediate and unsettling. Whatever warmth had flickered in Pierre's eyes extinguished as though someone had closed a shutter, replaced by a veil of caution that hardened his expression into something approaching hostility. "I'm sorry, I can't help you," he responded, his tone shifting from curious to dismissive as he began pushing the door closed with a firmness that left no room for negotiation.

"Pierre, I know where she is," I blurted out, the words escaping in a rush of desperation before wisdom could intercept them. In a motion that felt more instinctive than planned, I wedged my foot into the narrowing gap between door and frame, preventing the barrier from completing its journey.

What happened next was a blur of violence I hadn't anticipated.

With speed that belied his earlier composed demeanour, Pierre's hand shot out, his grip closing around my arm with strength that caught me completely off guard. Before I could react, before I could even process what was happening, he'd yanked me across the threshold with force that made my shoulder protest. The world inside the house spun into view as momentum carried me forward, the entry hall a smear of colour and shadow. The door slammed shut behind us with a definitive thud that seemed to seal off escape routes I hadn't consciously been tracking.

Pain lanced through my left arm—a sharp, twisting agony that announced Pierre knew exactly how to apply leverage. In the same motion, he shoved me against the entryway wall with force that drove the air from my lungs in a single violent exhalation. My free hand, flailing for balance, caught a small vase on a low stand beside me and sent it toppling. The sound of it shattering on the floor punctuated the chaos—fragments of ceramic scattering across the tiles like the pieces of the civilised conversation I'd imagined having.

Pierre, his face a mask of determination that suggested he'd done this sort of thing before, seemed entirely unfazed by the collateral damage.

"Speak!" he demanded, his voice a harsh command that echoed off the walls. His forearm pressed against my throat with pressure that made breathing an immediate concern rather than an assumption.

The cool wall against my back offered no comfort, merely a solid reminder of how thoroughly I'd miscalculated this encounter.

In the vice-like grip of Pierre's hold, my struggle for breath became a tangible representation of my fight for control of a situation that had slipped entirely beyond my grasp. Bile rose in my throat—whether from the physical restriction or the panic flooding my system, I couldn't tell and didn't have time to analyse. With desperate effort, I managed to wriggle my left hand free, extending it toward my pocket with trembling urgency.

The fabric seemed to resist for a moment, as though conspiring against me, before finally yielding. My fingers closed around the cold metal of the Portal Key, and I pulled it free with the particular relief of someone finding a lifeline.

Clutching the Portal Key, I extended my palm outward, keeping my movements slow and unthreatening despite the instinct screaming for more dramatic action. "She's in Clivilius," I managed to choke out, the words gasped through a throat that wasn't cooperating, my eyes dropping to the device in my hand.

"Merde!" The French curse exploded from Pierre as his arm retracted from my throat. His frustration found a different target—his fist connecting with the wall beside my head with a thud that made me flinch. The impact left a dent in the plaster, a physical testament to the force he'd redirected from my windpipe.

Air flooded my lungs in a rush that was almost painful after the constriction. I sucked in breath after breath, my hand instinctively rising to touch the tender skin of my throat whilst my heart hammered against my ribs with a rhythm that felt unsustainable.

I flinched again—not just at the force of Pierre's outburst, but at the raw emotion it conveyed. The French curse, sharp and bitter in the midst of our English exchange, seemed to underscore the intensity of everything that had just occurred. In the space of a few heartbeats, the dynamic between us had shifted wildly, the balance of power oscillating like something unmoored.

"What the fuck were you thinking? Who the hell are you?" Pierre's voice was a tempest of confusion and anger.

"Luke Smith," I responded, forcing my voice into steadiness despite the turmoil still coursing through my system. At this point, transparency seemed like my only remaining strategy.

At the mention of my name, a shift overtook Pierre that I hadn't expected. He stepped back, his posture loosening, as a flicker of recognition passed through his eyes. The transformation was startling—hostility giving way to something more contemplative, almost understanding.

"What do you need me to do?" he inquired, his tone softening into something that sounded almost like cooperation.

The abrupt change left me momentarily disoriented, my brain struggling to reconcile the man who'd just had his forearm against my throat with this suddenly amenable figure. My initial assumption—that Glenda had shared nothing of significance with her husband—crumbled before my eyes like the ceramic shards still scattered across the floor.

Why the sudden change? Why did he recognise my name? What did he know, and why was he suddenly so willing to assist?

The questions multiplied faster than I could process them, each one branching into further complications I didn't have time to explore. But despite the confusion threatening to pull me under, I recognised the need to focus on the immediate purpose of my visit.

"I need you to pack Glenda a suitcase," I stated, my voice firm, masking the chaos churning beneath my composed exterior.

"Of course," Pierre replied, his acquiescence swift—perhaps too swift, leaving a trail of ambiguity that I filed away for later consideration. "Follow me."