The House of Thin Walls

"Silence is never safety—it just means you haven’t been caught yet."

As I brushed the ochre dust from my knees, the fine grains clung stubbornly to my palms, leaving a faint, rust-coloured sheen on my skin. My gaze swept the barren expanse before me, the air warm and dry, the silence broken only by the faint hiss of the wind dragging itself across the empty ground. Whatever bustle had existed during my last visit was gone; the place felt hollowed-out, stripped of presence.

Carried faintly on the shifting breeze came Paul’s voice—distinct, confident—its direction clear enough to point me towards the Drop Zone. I took a single step that way before the sheer weight of my reality clamped down on me, pinning me in place. Gladys was still out there, darting between danger and disaster in that bloody car chase. The police were at Collinsvale and Myrtle Forest, sniffing around like bloodhounds on the scent. Every instinct screamed at me that I didn’t have the luxury of lingering here for conversation, no matter how steadying Paul’s voice might be.

You could ask Sergeant Charlie for help. The thought flickered through my mind, bright and tempting for a heartbeat. But almost as quickly, the memory of his warning resurfaced—sharp, clear, absolute: Don’t try and make any contact with me. The echo of it flattened the idea before it could take root.

Leigh? The single name drifted through my mind like a testing line cast into deep, uncertain waters. My shoulders rolled back, vertebrae clicking into alignment with a series of satisfying cracks that broke the still air. I stood there for a long moment, letting the sensation ripple down my spine as I sifted through my shrinking list of viable moves.

A slow, deliberate exhale left me, my lips parting around the unspoken truth. We need to work this out ourselves. It wasn’t resignation so much as cold acceptance—the kind that sits heavy and unmoving in your chest. We walked a razor-thin line, and every call for help was another risk, another tug on the delicate strands of secrecy holding our world together. One wrong move, and it would all come apart.

With a determined step, I crossed the threshold of the Portal, the familiar kaleidoscope collapsing behind me, and the muted, cold air of the Collinsvale property closing in.

My arrival was so abrupt that the solid presence of a wall loomed up before me like an ambush. I halted, toes skidding against the worn carpet, and felt the icy nearness of the bare plaster mere inches from my face. Its bland, unyielding surface offered no welcome—only the stark reminder that I was back in a place bristling with risk.

I pivoted sharply, the movement as much instinct as intent. My left foot clipped the edge of the door behind me, sending it swinging shut with a sharp click that ricocheted around the stillness. The sound wasn’t loud, but in a house under police scrutiny, it might as well have been a gunshot.

My pulse thudded in my ears, rapid and insistent, each beat a drumroll to the possibility of discovery. Just beyond the room, framed by the archway linking a cluttered living room to the dining space, two officers stood—dark silhouettes against the dim spill of daylight from another window. Clear plastic evidence bags dangled from their hands, glinting faintly as they shifted them, the contents catching the light in brief, damning flashes.

I froze mid-breath, every muscle locking in place, my lungs refusing to draw air lest the faintest sound betray me. Their voices carried low and measured, threaded with the quiet authority of people piecing together a story from fragments. I caught only broken phrases, nothing concrete—yet every syllable scraped at my nerves.

If they’d heard the door, they gave no sign. Their focus remained glued to the bags, their conversation uninterrupted. My shoulders eased fractionally, but the coil of tension in my chest refused to loosen until they turned and began to move—measured steps away from the room, away from me. Only then did I let my breath out in a silent, steady stream, the relief subtle but tangible.

The immediate danger may have receded, but the sudden intrusion of loud voices from outside snapped the taut thread of my concentration and yanked my attention to the window. Their tone—sharp, overlapping, edged with frustration—carried the distinct cadence of a man arguing with a police officer. Curiosity and caution rose in equal measure, quickening my pulse.

I moved towards the large window with the deliberate care of someone picking their way across broken glass. The old floorboards beneath my shoes murmured faintly, their whispers drowned beneath the muffled but insistent rise and fall of the voices beyond. The glass offered little more than a murky outline of the veranda and the sweep of the yard beyond. The figures remained indistinct, their movements hinted at rather than revealed, as if the house itself conspired to keep me blind to the confrontation unfolding just metres away.

Frustration prickled at me, but caution held me fast. I cast a glance over my shoulder, my eyes settling on the living room door. It remained tightly shut, becoming more than a barrier—it was a line in the sand, a fragile separation between me and any officer who might drift down the hallway without warning.

And yet, it was also my salvation. Its smooth, featureless expanse stood ready to be more than wood and paint—my gateway home, my Portal back to Clivilius if the balance tipped and flight became my only option.

In that moment, ensconced within the dust-heavy stillness of this unfamiliar room, I could feel the delicate weight of the game I was playing. Every muscle stayed coiled, every sense honed to the faintest shift in sound or shadow, my mind measuring each heartbeat against the likelihood of discovery. I was both observer and fugitive, anchored here by necessity yet ready to vanish in an instant, the decision poised to tip either way with the next breath.

With meticulous care, I lifted each foot, setting it down in slow, deliberate movements, the floorboards creaking under the weight of my caution. My body stayed low, shoulders curved forward, almost folding into the contour of the couch as though I could become part of its dusty, forgotten shape.

The lace curtains brushed across my cheeks, their fraying edges cool and damp from the ambient moisture seeping through the window frame. I eased my head forward until my eye found a narrow gap in the weave, the muted daylight fractured into delicate patterns across my skin. Beyond the glass, vague forms moved, their gestures sharper than their features in the wash of the storm’s grey light.

The rain hammered the corrugated iron roof above the front deck with an unrelenting fervour, each impact a metallic drumbeat that tangled with the murmur of voices outside. I strained to separate words from the storm’s percussion, but the weather seemed determined to smother every syllable.

Driven by the need to know, I slid my fingers to the sash, feeling the cool dampness of the wood beneath my fingertips. Slowly, with the precision of a safecracker, I edged the window up an inch—no more—allowing a sliver of the outside world to spill in. The faint smell of wet eucalyptus and diesel oil drifted through, along with a clearer thread of sound.

"I need to search the truck," asserted an officer, his tone a careful balance of authority and civility. The faint scrape of movement followed as he tilted his broad umbrella over the man I guessed was the truck driver, shielding him from the rain in an oddly courteous gesture.

"It's just a standard delivery," the man replied, his voice pitched higher with restrained frustration. The shuffle of paper accompanied his words as he thrust a document into the officer’s hand.

"Shit," I breathed under my breath, the curse barely audible over the storm. The realisation slid cold into my gut, sharp and unwelcome—this wasn’t just some random encounter. My thoughts snapped back to the fence order Luke and I had placed. Had we been careless enough to use our real names? The image of the receipt, so mundane at the time, now pulsed in my memory like a beacon of impending trouble.

"I'm sorry. I can't let you leave yet," the officer’s voice was steady, final, carrying the weight of a man accustomed to closing doors rather than opening them. His words cut through me, the confirmation that whatever was happening outside wasn’t going away anytime soon.

As I crouched there, a silent witness to an exchange that could so easily ripple back towards me and Luke, a cold, weighty mix of dread and brittle resolve began to take root in my chest. The air in the room felt thick, almost viscous, pressing against my skin, as though the walls themselves were conspiring to hold me in place. I was caught in a strange purgatory—safe enough to observe, yet hemmed in by the knowledge that safety here was as fragile as a cracked eggshell.

Every word spoken outside was another knot in the tightening web that bound us to this property, to these people, to this day.

The driver’s heavy sigh carried into the room, more telling than his words—a long exhalation that seemed to empty him of resistance. A brief flare of orange punctured the gloom as he struck a match, the cigarette tip burning defiantly against the drizzle. For a moment, his face was etched in that dim glow, the sharp planes of resignation visible before the rain’s relentless patter swallowed the light again.

I’d heard enough. The crucial strands of their conversation were stored away, their implications already threading themselves into my next steps. With a steady hand, I eased the window shut.

The need to speak to Luke flared in my mind, hot and insistent, shoving aside any notion of staying in observation mode. I retreated into the deeper shadows of the room, weaving between stacks of neglected science and nature magazines—towers of dusty curiosity that, in another life, I might have stopped to read. Here, they became my cover, a flimsy screen between me and the rest of the world.

Crouching low, I pulled my phone from my pocket. Its glow was stark in the dimness, the cold blue light casting sharp edges on my fingers. My thumb hesitated for the barest second before I pressed Luke’s name. The dial tone thrummed in my ear, each pulse a measured beat of cautious hope—proof, however fleeting, that Luke was still somewhere within my reach on this chaotic planet.

When the dial tone fell away, replaced by the faint, steady sound of breathing, a rush of conflicting relief and apprehension flooded me. The silent mantra I’d been chanting in my head—Luke, please pick up—cut short, my tongue racing ahead of my better judgement.

"I'm at the Collinsvale property," I blurted, the words spilling out in a hurried confession. My pulse was drumming in my ears, pushing me to get it all out before the moment was lost. "The police are taking it very seriously, Luke. They've bagged evidence and everything."

A harsh metallic rattle from the truck outside sliced through my concentration, the noise too close, too deliberate. I flinched, my head turning instinctively towards the sound—a reminder that the thin walls around me were no real defence.

"Get the fuck out of there, Beatrix!" Luke’s voice detonated in my ear, sharp and uncompromising. The authority in it jolted me like a hand on the back of my neck, forcing my thoughts into focus. The danger wasn’t theoretical—it was here, in the building, in the air I was breathing.

Murmured voices bled in from the next room, soft but gaining volume, the cadence of people moving closer. It was like listening to the swell of an orchestra just before the crash of cymbals. My time here was almost up.

"I will as soon as I hang up. Where are you?"

For a moment, all I got back was the rain—its patter on the roof, the occasional ping of water striking tin. That pause felt deliberate, like Luke was deciding how much of the truth I deserved.

"I'm at the property," he said at last.

The words hit me like a jolt of caffeine and cold water combined—shock running up my spine, tempered with an unwilling flicker of respect.

"Where?" I demanded, my eyes widening as if I might spot him through the walls. Reckless or not, he was here, deep in the lion’s den with me.

A small, involuntary smirk curved my lips—an almost treacherous crack in the tension. But then, I came here too, I conceded silently, the admission threading an unexpected strand of camaraderie through my worry. We were both here, both tangled in the dangerous choreography of our own design. Every move we made was a step on a cliff’s edge—risky, calculated, yet propelled by the same stubborn resolve to weather the storm we’d invited.

"I'm going to save that fencing order," Luke’s voice cut in, underpinned with a firm conviction.

"Let me help you," I blurted, my voice quick and insistent, the words escaping before I could pull them back into the vault of unspoken impulses. The need to do something, to be part of the action instead of skulking in the shadows, burned hot and immediate. Even if I had no concrete plan, standing idle felt like a betrayal.

A sudden, weighty thud broke the air—close, too close. Something heavy had hit the floor, and its impact reverberated through the walls into my bones. It was followed instantly by a sharp curse, the sort that carried both pain and irritation. I flinched, adrenaline firing in my veins, a stark reminder that the danger here wasn’t some vague, distant concept—it was prowling the next room.

"No! Go to Clivilius. You need to continue with the missions Paul is giving you," Luke’s voice came back, this time clipped and commanding, an attempt to wrest the narrative from my impulsive hands and steer me towards what he considered safe.

Through the walls, an officer’s voice rang out, clear and precise: "Better bag that too." The phrase slithered under my skin, chilling my blood with its implication. Evidence. More evidence. The net was tightening.

"And you need to find your sister!" Luke added after a pause—long enough for the weight of his words to build before they dropped like a stone.

"Luke, stop being such a stubborn prick. You can't do all of this yourself," I retorted, my tone a carefully measured blend of concern and reprimand.

Luke’s reply came hot, his voice sharpened by strain. "You think I don't know how much trouble we're in? But if we lose that fencing delivery, those caravans you are sourcing are the camp's only line of protection." Each syllable struck with urgency, a vivid reminder that our survival was tangled up in both the physical and political defences we were scrambling to assemble.

And then—silence. A suffocating stillness that felt heavier than the conversation itself.

"Luke?" I hissed, my voice barely above the hum of the rain against the roof. The screen of my phone was black now, an unblinking void staring back at me. The abruptness of the disconnection made my skin prickle, the dead line carrying all the finality of a slammed door.

I tried to redial, but the attempt was met with emptiness—no dial tone, no faint ring—just a void that screamed of deliberate action. Luke had gone dark. He didn’t want to be found. Or overheard.

A rush of urgency and self-preservation tightened in my chest. Keeping low, I moved, each step measured to avoid the minefield of obstacles scattered across the room. The uneven stacks of science and nature magazines threatened to slide underfoot, while the coffee table sat like a sentry in the room’s centre, demanding a wide berth. My body flowed through the dim space with controlled caution, my focus locked on my next destination—the window.

From there, I could see the truck and the officers, the very heart of the scene still unfolding outside. The rain blurred the outlines into moving silhouettes, but the tension was clear as ever, drawn taut across the space like invisible wire.

Leaning forward, I fixed my gaze on the stationary vehicle, my eyes narrowing against the shifting veil of relentless rain. Droplets raced down the glass in erratic rivulets, distorting the scene beyond into a living, restless painting. And then—there he was. Luke. His movements were low, deliberate, his body folding into the landscape as though he had been trained for this very sort of infiltration. There was a rhythm to him, almost animalistic, his figure a flickering shadow against the wet gleam of metal and the muted palette of the storm. I tracked his every step until the truck’s bulk swallowed him whole, leaving nothing but the memory of his presence.

A flicker at the edge of my vision snapped my attention sideways—an officer, sharp in movement, pivoting with the quick precision of someone who had caught a scent. His course shifted with unsettling decisiveness, heading toward Luke’s last known position.

"Shit!" The word slipped from me on an exhale, fragile and urgent, my breath clouding the pane. Panic slid cold fingers around my ribs. My mind churned through half-formed strategies and desperate contingencies—none of them particularly good. This was a narrowing corridor of options, a dangerous little maze, and Luke was already at its centre.

Despite his firm, almost barked order for me to stay out of it, the thought of watching from the sidelines was unbearable. He might think he could manage alone, but the reality was plain—Luke needed a distraction. He needed time.

My hands moved before my better judgement could pin them down. I eased the window open, wincing at the faint squeal of swollen wood against its frame. My fingers groped for the nearest substantial object, brushing past a stack of old periodicals before closing around the solid heft of a book. The cover was faded, the spine cracked, but the weight felt reassuring in my grip—tangible, purposeful.

With one swift, instinct-driven motion, I sent it arcing outside. The dull thud of its landing reverberated off the veranda’s waterlogged boards, an abrupt note in the drumming symphony of the downpour.

It worked. The officer slowed, then turned, his attention snagged by the unexpected noise. His head cocked slightly, scanning for the source.

From behind the blinds, I shrank into the shadow I had become, the faint tremor in my pulse matching the quick staccato of my breathing. Adrenaline throbbed hot in my veins, urging me forward even as the risk of discovery loomed like a hunter at my back. I had bought Luke seconds, perhaps a little more—but seconds, in our world, could mean everything.

I was acutely aware of my appearance, a lone, out-of-place figure in a scene that thrummed with official purpose and high-stakes urgency. I didn’t belong here—not in this uniformed choreography of authority and suspicion—and the last thing I needed was for the officer to spot me, to register the face at the window as something other than one of his own.

The rain outside blurred the world into streaks of slate and silver, but time itself seemed to stretch into a thin, unyielding strand. The officer’s silhouette loomed against the dreary backdrop, his stillness speaking of calculated thought, of weighing possibilities. Each fraction of a second scraped against my nerves.

Without hesitation, I armed myself with another book from the precarious stacks littering the room. Its edges dug into my palm as I sent it skimming out the window with a sharp flick, the thud of impact masked only briefly by the ceaseless drumming of rain.

"Who's there?" His voice sliced through the weather’s white noise—sharp, commanding, and carrying the weight of authority. The demand was a jolt, sending a spasm of tension through my chest. I could almost see the narrowing of his eyes, the flicker of suspicion pulling him toward me.

I lowered the blind with the precision of someone handling a live explosive, each slat settling into place with deceptive calm. With that fragile barrier restored, I slipped back into the living room’s dim recesses, deeper into the safety its shadows promised.

The window was no longer his vantage point; if he wanted to pursue this curiosity, he would have to take the long route. That bought me time—time I flung in Luke’s direction like a lifeline, silently willing him to make the most of it. But even as the thought took shape, another followed in its wake, heavy and unwelcome: was there even a plan for him to make use of?

The resurgence of loud voices outside snapped me back to the immediate reality. I had, in a moment’s lapse, forgotten the other officers entirely—ghosts at the edges of my awareness until now. Their presence crashed back into my mind with brutal clarity, each syllable a warning.

In my rush to reposition, my foot snagged on a precarious tower of nature magazines. The whole stack gave way in a papery avalanche, the glossy pages whispering and snapping as they slid across the carpet. My balance faltered, and with an ungainly thump I hit the floor, the impact reverberating through my bones and shattering the silence that had been my one ally.

I scrambled, half-crawling, half-stumbling, until I reached the shadowed corner of the room—a pocket of concealment that afforded me a view of the door. The air seemed heavier here, thick with dust and the faint scent of damp paper, but it also gave me the advantage of cover. Still, the walls seemed to lean inward, pressing closer, suffocating me with the reminder that there was no way out but one.

The Portal Key was in my hand before I even realised I’d reached for it, its familiar weight suddenly monumental, like a talisman and a trigger in one. My finger slid across the activation button, the motion so ingrained it was almost muscle memory—but this time, the gesture was charged with a jagged urgency.

"Shit, Luke!" I hissed, the sound raw with frustration and fear. I pressed again, harder, as if I could bully the device into life. Nothing. Again. Still nothing. My pulse pounded in my ears, drowning out even the storm of voices beyond the walls.

Then, cutting through the static of panic, a shadow breached the threshold—the blunt, unmistakable silhouette of a booted foot. It lingered, poised, as if weighing whether to step fully inside. My mind detonated in a silent scream: Close your damn Portal, Luke! The plea was both desperate and accusatory, an urgent hope that he’d sever whatever tether was keeping me trapped here, before that foot took one more step.

With what felt like the weight of the world pressing down on me, I made one final, desperate swipe across the Portal Key. My breath hitched, lungs tightening as though the very air had been siphoned away. Time seemed to suspend, the seconds stretching into an eternity.

Then—miraculously—a spark ignited. A small orb of light swelled into being, its glow fierce and urgent, hurtling forward until it struck the closed door. In an instant, the wood fractured not into splinters, but into a kaleidoscopic bloom of colour, the frame dissolving into a shimmering threshold. It was a vivid gateway, impossibly bright against the creeping shadow of danger closing in behind me.

Instinct eclipsed thought. My body propelled itself towards the light, muscles straining, heart clawing at my ribcage. I hit the threshold hard, tumbling into the ochre embrace of Clivilius dust. The alien grains puffed up around me in warm, dry clouds, clinging to my clothes and skin as if reluctant to let me go.

Without hesitation, I summoned the mental command to close the Portal. The swirl of colour snapped shut behind me with an almost audible finality, a severed lifeline. The air here was still, almost unnaturally so—a jarring contrast to the tense, rain-slick chaos I had fled only seconds before.

I lay there on the warm ground, my chest rising and falling in uneven gulps, the taste of dust sharp on my tongue. The relief was immediate but uneasy, threaded through with guilt for leaving Luke behind, worry for what might now unfold in my absence, and the hollow awareness that I had only postponed the danger, not eradicated it.