Portal Blunder

“In my defence, I only took a sip after the situation became unmanageable. Which is to say: immediately.”

Just a little taste won't hurt, I silently rationalised with myself, the weight of the morning already bearing down on me like a thick fog. Every muscle in my body felt tight, wound with nerves and unreleased tension. I leaned across the seat with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in my chest, reaching for the bottle of shiraz that had become, bizarrely, both my solace and my adversary today.

My fingers curled around its neck with something like reverence. The cool glass was familiar, a tactile reassurance amidst the mental instability. I unscrewed the cap with a soft pop and inhaled deeply. The scent hit me instantly—ripe plums, cracked pepper, the faintest trace of oak. It was intoxicating in its own right. My dry mouth flooded with anticipation. I hadn't realised how badly I needed a break until the wine reminded me.

But as I opened my eyes, bottle poised at my lips, my stomach dropped.

There he was—the man from the ute. The same one I’d watched roll up beside Jim’s truck. Tall and lanky, his silhouette moved with the sort of ease that came from either confidence or indifference—maybe both. A lit cigarette dangled between his fingers, its lazy trail of smoke swirling upward like a warning signal.

“Fuck it,” I muttered under my breath, caught between defiance and resignation. I brought the bottle to my lips and took a quick, sharp swig. The wine hit my tongue in a rush of dark velvet, rich and bold, a punch of flavour that seemed to scold me and soothe me at once. I closed the bottle with a swift twist and tucked it into the foothold like a guilty secret, just as Adrian continued his approach.

His steps were unhurried, but there was purpose behind them, a deliberateness that made me wary. The closer he came, the more I felt that unsettling churn of apprehension and curiosity. He didn’t look like he belonged out here—not in the Owens’ still, half-forgotten sanctuary. And that made him dangerous.

Pulling myself upright from the car, I folded my arms on the edge of the doorframe, crafting a posture that was half-defensive, half-dismissive. My eyes didn’t leave his face.

“Luke’s not here,” I called out, letting the words cut the distance between us. It was a gamble, but one I felt was necessary. It anchored the conversation, planted me as the gatekeeper to a place he clearly expected access to.

Adrian’s response was immediate. He stopped mid-step. A faint ripple of irritation passed over his features, subtle but telling. He took a long drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring orange in the sunlight, and exhaled a dense plume of smoke that drifted slowly between us.

“He far away?” he asked, the words short, clipped, edged with impatience.

“No,” I said, shaking my head, hoping the gesture would lend my voice some credibility. “Not far.” My tone was calm, measured, but underneath I was scrambling. Not far? I didn’t even know where Luke was. My lie felt flimsy, like wet paper trying to hold back a tide.

From this distance, I caught a stronger whiff of something less legal than tobacco. Weed. The sweet, unmistakable tang of it clung to Adrian’s clothes and clashed absurdly with the eucalyptus and damp earth around us.

“Might be best if you wait by your ute for him,” I said, with a tilt of my chin toward the vehicle that had brought him here. My voice came out even, but it carried a brittle edge. “I have a few things I need to do.”

He didn’t move right away. Just stood there, slowly working through his joint like he had all the time in the world. His presence was like a static hum in the air—unsettling, persistent. I didn’t want to linger near him any longer than I had to.

Without waiting for a reply, I turned and made my way toward the Owens’ verandah. My boots thudded softly against the dry dirt path, each step a deliberate act of distancing.

I didn’t look back. Not yet. I needed that space—mental, emotional, physical. I needed to think, and more than anything, I needed to feel like I was still in control, however false that sense might be.

Once on the verandah, I fumbled for my phone, my fingers slick with sweat and half-numb with cold. I dialled Luke’s number with more force than necessary, already half-knowing how this would end. My heart beat faster with each ring, the sound loud and isolating in the stillness around me.

One ring. Two. Voicemail.

I stared at the screen, the recorded message cutting in with dispassionate efficiency. No signal from Clivilius. No Luke. No lifeline.

Sighing, I lowered the phone, the tension in my shoulders tightening like drawn wire. From the corner of my eye, I kept watch on Adrian, who had made himself right at home. He leant against the bonnet of his ute like it was his living room couch, legs crossed casually at the ankle, dragging on what was clearly not his first joint of the day. His exhale came in deliberate rings and spirals, the smoke curling through the morning air with maddening ease.

He was too calm. Too unbothered. The kind of person who either had nothing to lose—or knew too much. The thought unsettled me.

My focus was so fractured that I barely noticed my foot miss the lip of the middle step. In one breathless moment, I pitched forward, the garden rushing up to meet me. My arms flailed instinctively, and my fingers caught the worn wooden railing just in time to halt the worst of the fall. My knees dipped awkwardly into the edge of the garden bed, the sharp scent of disturbed soil and crushed lavender shooting up into my nostrils.

I paused, frozen in that humiliating crouch, the heat of embarrassment already rushing to my cheeks. I could feel Adrian’s gaze prickling the back of my neck like a sunburn.

Not daring to look up, I reached out with exaggerated calm and tugged a single weed from the rich, damp earth. Intentional. That’s what this is, I told myself, summoning every ounce of false composure. I meant to do that. Just a bit of weeding. Totally normal.

As I stood, brushing the dirt from my trousers with far more focus than necessary, my eyes drifted over the garden in earnest. It was pristine. Not a single dead leaf, not a sign of neglect. Whoever had tended to it had done so with care and precision. The neatness of the flower beds—everything symmetrical—stood in stark contrast to the chaos I was juggling behind my eyes. The sight was both soothing and, somehow, deeply alienating.

Still needing something to do, some purpose to justify my presence on my hands and knees, I began plucking a few daisies from. A frilly sprig of lavender. Some delicate white star-shaped thing I couldn’t name. My fingers trembled slightly as I gathered them—nerves disguised as industry.

Behind me, Adrian remained unmoved. Smoking. Waiting. Watching.

Please hurry, Luke, I begged silently, wrapping the stems of the flowers tighter in my hand. Because I’m running out of things to pretend I’m doing.

The sudden swing of the front door startled me. My fingers twitched reflexively, and several white flowers slipped from my grasp, drifting to the ground in soft, disjointed spirals. I stared as their fragile petals fluttered down, catching on the breeze like scraps of paper, their fall oddly poetic. For a beat, I felt exposed — a strange figure clutching a bouquet of plundered blooms, frozen in the middle of a lie I had no time to maintain.

"Hey there, Adrian," Luke's voice rang out, his tone upbeat but edged with urgency. He emerged from the doorway with the energy of someone already in motion — part greeting, part apology, part mission. He waved with one hand, the other tugging his coat closed against the chill as he half-stumbled down the steps, his feet moving too fast for his centre of gravity. His pace was all wrong — hurried, distracted, off-balance — and my chest tightened at the sight.

I barely acknowledged the fallen flowers. My attention snapped to Luke, and for a moment, the world narrowed to him and his brisk descent down the veranda. He tossed a quick “hello” in my direction, more an afterthought than a proper greeting, and my stomach knotted with the realisation that whatever this was — whatever Adrian was here for — it had already started without me.

I discarded the remaining flowers, letting them fall unceremoniously onto the edge of the decking. My legs moved instinctively, chasing after Luke’s retreating form. I caught up to him just enough to lean in.

"I think he's high as a kite," I murmured, barely above a whisper. My eyes flicked toward Adrian, who was still casually draped across the bonnet of his ute, exhaling yet another slow drag of smoke like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. I didn’t know why I felt the need to warn Luke, only that the weight of my unease had grown too loud to ignore.

"Good," Luke muttered, glancing sideways at me with a sly, unreadable smirk. His tone was low and controlled, but there was something calculated behind it — a layer of meaning I couldn’t quite grasp. He tilted his head in the way he did when thinking hard and saying little, and then he moved on, his focus locked ahead like a man walking straight into a storm he already expected.

I slowed, then stopped. Something in Luke's stride told me I was no longer needed. Maybe I never was.

A few paces behind, I watched his back recede from me, his frame tall and deliberate as he crossed the yard towards Adrian. The realisation settled in my chest with quiet finality — I didn't know this man, Adrian, nor did I know what business he had here. I didn’t even know if I was supposed to know. A hollow, uncertain feeling swelled inside me. Perhaps it was better to retreat, to let Luke handle this on his own. He clearly had a plan. I did not.

I stepped back, folding my arms across my chest as if to contain the unease rising through me. The morning sun cast long shadows across the gravel, elongating the figures of the two men until they looked like distorted silhouettes in some surreal theatre.

Luke doesn’t need me for this, I told myself again — not out of resentment, but as a small concession to reality. Whatever this was, it belonged to him.

As I stood there, quiet and alone, a spectator to whatever conversation was about to unfold, I felt like a ghost in my own life. The world around me had moved without permission, morphing into something opaque and uncertain. And I was left, once more, on the outside looking in — wondering when it all became so impossibly complicated.

Adrian remained almost completely still, leaning with one shoulder against the warm panel of his ute, his posture oozing a casual kind of defiance — the kind that came from a man who wasn’t easily rattled. “This isn't your property,” he stated bluntly to Luke, the words cutting through the morning air like a thrown stone. His tone was firm but calm, edged with challenge. Without breaking eye contact, he took a long, deliberate drag on his joint — the motion exaggerated, purposeful, like he was daring either of us to interrupt.

The smoke curled from his lips in a slow, controlled plume, drifting lazily towards us. Its scent — pungent and skunky — reached my nose a moment later, mingling unpleasantly with the fresh, earthy perfume of the Owens' garden. “What am I doing here? Where are the Owens?” Adrian asked, and this time the doubt in his voice was sharpened by suspicion, the question laced with a quiet accusation.

Luke, usually poised to the point of arrogance, suddenly looked like a schoolboy caught somewhere he wasn’t meant to be. "I..." he began, stumbling over the single syllable as he waved his hand ineffectually through the dissipating smoke, more flustered than I’d ever seen him. The pause stretched uncomfortably long. "The Owens need your help," he finally said, the words sounding more like a guess than a statement. His tone lacked its usual certainty, and I felt the awkwardness settle over the scene like a damp fog.

"My help?" Adrian repeated, his voice dry and bemused. He placed the joint back between his lips, squinting slightly as he considered the absurdity of it all.

Then Luke turned to me — and for a split second, I saw the real him. Not the clever fixer or charismatic manipulator, but the man beneath the bravado. His eyes were wide, wild with uncertainty, and I could see the flickering panic behind them. He had nothing. No plan. No lie prepared. No thread to tug at to control the narrative. He was grasping — and now, grasping at me.

My heart sank.

I returned his pleading look with a deliberate shrug. Neutral. Distant. Letting him know without words that I wasn’t going to save him from this one. I had no idea why Adrian was here, or what Luke thought was going to happen, but it was his mess, not mine. I had played loyal sidekick enough times already.

Luke’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he turned back to Adrian, eyes briefly skyward in a silent, frustrated curse. I could practically hear the unspoken Seriously? burning behind his teeth.

"This is going to sound crazy," Luke began, his voice suddenly solemn, as if preparing to deliver a sermon rather than a confession. I blinked, caught off guard by the shift. Something in his tone changed, and it made my stomach twist.

"But we're all grown adults here and I'm fairly confident you can handle the truth."

Oh, shit.

The words rang in my ears like a warning bell, sharp and unmistakable. I glanced instinctively toward the car, drawn to the comfort of its familiarity. The bottle of shiraz still sat nestled in the footwell like a waiting friend. I began moving towards it, the gravel crunching beneath my shoes with each deliberate step. I needed distance. This was spiralling too fast.

Adrian let out a cough, more amused than irritated, his shoulders shaking slightly with the exhale. "You and your girlfriend here are the ones asking me to meet you on someone else's property and you want to talk to me about truth." His tone was barbed, sceptical, and I could feel the heat rising again between him and Luke.

I was almost at the car now, and for a brief second, I considered just getting in and driving off. Let them deal with whatever this was. But I didn’t.

Instead, I half-turned back just in time to see Luke snap his attention to me, his expression one of incredulous irritation. "Girlfriend?" he echoed, clearly not pleased at the complication — or perhaps the idea — that the label implied. I felt heat flood my cheeks.

And then, almost without thinking, the words escaped me. Too blunt, too raw, too revealing.

"Just show him the Portal."

The moment they left my mouth, I regretted them. A heavy silence followed, like the air itself was holding its breath.

I looked away, focusing instead on Adrian’s hand — the one resting casually on his hip, a plain gold band glinting under the sun. He probably has family, I thought, guilt tightening in my chest. A wife. Kids, maybe. People who needed him. People who deserved better than whatever revelation Luke was about to unleash.

And I had just invited it in.

Without further hesitation, Luke marched across the uneven ground towards the smaller shed nestled between Adrian’s parked ute and the larger structure now stacked high with firewood. The morning sun cast elongated shadows across the yard, and the dull creak of Luke’s boots echoed unnervingly in the stillness. A cautious glance over his shoulder ensured Adrian was watching before Luke pulled the Portal Key from his pocket — the device gleaming faintly, charged with eerie potential.

There was no ceremony to it. Just a silent pulse of energy that whirled through the air, followed by an explosion of swirling, iridescent colour across the shed’s timbered side. The light show was hypnotic — a mixture of neon greens, deep purples, and pulsing golds, like someone had torn a hole in reality and revealed a kaleidoscope beneath. The colours churned and buzzed as if alive.

"That's where the Owens are," Luke said plainly, as though this inter-dimensional rift was as mundane as a garage door.

I stood rooted to the spot, the wind catching the loose strands of my hair as the swirling portal reflected in my eyes. For all the chaotic choices Luke had made recently, this—this moment—was bold in a way I hadn’t expected. He’d finally crossed the threshold from evasiveness into brutal transparency. I should have been afraid, maybe even furious. Instead, I felt a strange flicker of admiration, like watching someone leap off a ledge knowing full well they couldn’t fly—but doing it anyway.

"Fuck me!" Adrian’s voice cracked the spell. He reeled back, his pupils wide with disbelief, his hand trembling so much the joint nearly fell from his fingers. "I know I'm a little high, but it's not a fucking psychedelic." His words came quick, defensive, as though he was trying to outpace his own mind’s collapse.

He stared at the portal, the colours reflected in his eyes like he was watching the world implode.

Luke didn’t flinch. He was locked in now, all-in on the story he had to sell. "I need you to walk through that and help them with a small building job. It won't take long. They've already got all the materials. They just need your skills." His voice had taken on a soft coaxing quality — the same tone I’d heard him use when he convinced people to do things they wouldn’t ordinarily agree to. It was persuasive, disarmingly calm. Too calm.

And your life, I thought bitterly, arms folded tight against my chest. He was leaving out the most crucial truth — the reality of what crossing into Clivilius meant. Luke always knew how to skirt the line, to frame a disaster as an opportunity. And Adrian was his latest mark.

"You must think I'm a fucking nutter," Adrian growled, his tone now laced with fury, the disbelief curdling into resentment. He turned abruptly, his boots crunching across the gravel as he stormed back towards his ute.

I watched helplessly as the moment unravelled like a string pulled too tight. Luke’s expression morphed into horror, the reality of his miscalculation dawning across his features. His mouth fell open, a breathless "wait" caught somewhere in his throat.

I didn’t need to say anything. My shrug said it all: You’ve lost him.

"Adrian! Wait!" Luke shouted, desperation surging as he jogged after the man, his arms flailing awkwardly. But Adrian was already hauling himself into the cab, slamming the door with such force the entire vehicle jolted.

The engine roared to life, angry and immediate. I caught up with Luke just in time to see Adrian lower the window with theatrical slowness.

"But I think you two are the fucking whack jobs!" he bellowed, his voice ripe with contempt and disbelief. There was a finality in the words, as though he was sealing a door he never wanted to open again.

The ute’s tyres spun violently against the leaf-littered ground, kicking up dust and dried twigs in thick waves. Instinct took over — Luke and I threw ourselves forward, arms up, half-heartedly attempting to block the path in some useless show of urgency. But Adrian didn’t even ease up. His vehicle swerved slightly, avoiding us by inches, the wheels cutting deep tracks through the damp earth as he sped towards the open gate.

In the silence that followed, the portal’s colours still danced against the shed like an unwanted guest that wouldn’t leave.

"Shit!" Luke's exclamation sliced through the air like a whip, his hands launching skyward in raw frustration. The energy radiating off him was volatile, crackling with disbelief and pent-up rage as he spun away from the receding dust cloud Adrian had left in his wake.

"What the hell just happened!? I thought you knew what you were doing?" I blurted out before I could stop myself. The words were a strange blend of accusation and concern, my voice trembling with a desperate need for reassurance that Luke had something — anything — under control. But even as I said it, I knew I was clinging to a crumbling illusion. The façade of calm, of planning, had shattered.

"Fuck off, Gladys! I'm not perfect," Luke barked, his tone sharp, his eyes briefly catching mine with a mix of pain and fury. He began pacing in erratic circles, his boots kicking up dry soil and brittle leaves as though his thoughts were physically manifesting, swirling and ungraspable.

I didn’t reply. There was nothing I could say that wouldn’t either add fuel to his anger or feel hollow against the reality we were now facing. The sense of control Luke had so carefully cultivated had crumpled in seconds — a plan, a Portal, a single witness too rattled to process it. It wasn’t just falling apart. It had already fallen.

Still, I needed clarity. I needed some measure of assurance, some plan forward. “What do we do now?” I asked softly. “Do you think he’ll tell anybody what he saw?”

Luke stopped pacing long enough to fix his gaze somewhere in the distance, beyond the trees and smoke trails. “Doubt it,” he said eventually, his tone slowing, cooling. “He already thinks we’re crazy. He’ll likely rationalise it as just a hallucination of sorts.”

It should have been comforting — and maybe it was, to him. But in me, the words only stirred more questions, a deep discomfort I couldn’t swallow.

“So, we just let him go, then?” I asked, unable to contain the unease rising up in me like bile. My voice cracked slightly, and the question felt heavier than I intended, weighted by implication and consequence.

Luke didn’t respond right away. He resumed his restless motion, pacing again, but with a growing intensity — like a kettle nearing boil. And then he stopped cold, spun on his heel, and locked eyes with me.

“No,” he said. “We’re going after him.”

My breath caught. “We are?” The very idea of chasing Adrian — of escalating this further — struck me as borderline madness. But even as the protest formed in my mind, I already knew I’d follow.

"Come with me, Gladys. You're driving," Luke snapped, already sprinting toward my car before I had the chance to argue. His body moved like a soldier in retreat — not running away, but repositioning. Strategising. He reached the vehicle in seconds, yanked the door open, and launched himself into the passenger seat with a reckless kind of urgency.

I stood for half a second longer, dumbfounded, staring after him. Then I sighed and jogged over, resigned. The absurdity of it all — a man fleeing from a portal, another man chasing him with no real plan, and me caught in the middle — made my chest feel tight, my head foggy with disbelief.

I slipped behind the wheel. And there it was, lying innocently between Luke’s boots: the bottle of shiraz. My old friend. My twisted comfort.

A flicker of temptation bloomed instantly. Just a sip, my inner voice coaxed, silky and persuasive. Just to take the edge off. The air felt thick with anticipation, the weight of everything that had happened pressing down on my ribs. The wine whispered like it always did — that warm, dark lullaby promising a moment of stillness amidst the chaos.

Without thinking, I reached down, unscrewed the cap, and brought the bottle to my lips. The taste hit my tongue in a wave — bold, peppery, with a velvety warmth that slid down my throat like silk. I swallowed hard. Then again. Two generous gulps to brace myself.

I caught Luke staring. Mouth slightly open. Eyes flicking between the bottle and my face like he wasn’t sure whether to scold me or laugh.

I smirked, licking a drop from the corner of my lip. “What? I’m driving.”

He said nothing, just shook his head in disbelief — though the faintest twitch of a smile betrayed him.

I capped the bottle and shoved it back down into the foothold like a secret weapon. Then, without another word, I turned the key in the ignition. The car rumbled to life, the vibrations humming through my palms, grounding me.

As I shifted into gear and pulled out across the dirt, following the disappearing trail of tyre prints and swirling dust, my nerves steadied. The adrenaline kicked in, sharpened by the wine and the sheer ridiculousness of our pursuit.

We weren’t chasing a man.

We were chasing a secret.

And I had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time.