The Lie That Lingers

“Every deception feels small when you speak it—but it hangs in the air long after, a weight that follows you from one room to the next.”

The stillness of the house seemed amplified by Duke's quiet vigil.

It wasn't just the absence of noise but a weight that pressed in around the edges of the room, settling into corners and pooling in shadows. Duke remained immovable on the arm of the couch—a tiny sentry, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with a patience I could never quite understand. That sleek black leather couch, normally a centrepiece of comfort, looked almost funereal in the muted light, its surface swallowing reflections until it felt more like a shadow than a piece of furniture.

"Nobody is coming, Duke," I whispered once more, the words tumbling from my lips with the tiredness of a refrain that had already been uttered too many times. Yet saying them again felt necessary. But if my reassurance was meant for him, I knew deep down it was as much for me.

He didn't even blink. His body remained taut, his gaze unyielding. Whether it was hope or instinct that held him in thrall, I couldn't tell. Perhaps dogs possessed some sixth sense humans had long since abandoned—an ability to feel the shape of approaching footsteps before they arrived, to taste change in the air before it manifested.

I sighed, my hand reaching instinctively for him, fingers threading through the soft fur at the crown of his head. The familiar warmth of his body, the quiet trust in his stillness, drew from me a tenderness I hadn't realised I was desperate to feel.

Maybe I was the one needing comfort, I thought, though I cloaked the gesture as one of giving.

"Daddy has gone away for a few days," I murmured, my voice low, as though I were explaining a delicate truth to a child. But the words, stripped of their context, felt absurdly insufficient here. How could I make him understand the reality of doors that opened not to neighbours or family, but to entire worlds? How could I explain that Jamie wasn't coming back through the front door—that the path home for him no longer existed?

Duke tilted his head, the slight movement catching the light in his eyes. For a heartbeat, I could have sworn that he understood—that his dark, intelligent gaze wasn't just registering sound but grappling with meaning. Of the two dogs, it had always been him who seemed to bear a kind of quiet wisdom, a contemplative streak that made moments like this feel impossibly profound.

"Good boy," I whispered, though the praise felt redundant. He wasn't just good—he was steadfast, grounding me when everything else was shifting sand and uncertain horizons.

Meanwhile, Henri was proving himself Duke's polar opposite in every imaginable way.

Where Duke had been all focus and restraint, Henri was chaos incarnate. The chubby little creature rolled about on the lounge room floor as if gravity itself had become his playmate. His stubby legs flailed with abandon, paws paddling at the air while his round belly rocked from side to side. Every grunt, every squeak, seemed to echo his sheer delight at simply being, as though the world existed for no greater purpose than to entertain him.

Watching him, I couldn't help but feel my lips tug into a smile—the kind of involuntary reaction Henri had always been able to coax from me, even in the darkest of moods. There was something almost medicinal about his obliviousness, his complete refusal to acknowledge that anything might be wrong anywhere in the universe.

"Your brother worries me, Duke," I muttered under my breath, the words carrying a mixture of affection and mock exasperation.

The sight of Henri living so utterly without care was a stark contrast to Duke's brooding vigilance. Between them, they embodied two halves of existence—one thoughtful and watchful, the other joyous and oblivious. It was impossible not to love them both for it.

Perhaps Duke sensed my softened tone, or perhaps it was simply that wild streak in him that could never be tamed.

Without warning, he gathered himself and launched from the arm of the couch. His leap was a thing of beauty—front legs outstretched in a perfect imitation of a sugar glider, his little body suspended for a fleeting second as if he truly believed the air might carry him.

But Duke was no glider, and the fantasy ended as it always did—with a graceless thud upon landing. The sound reverberated through the room, followed by the scrabble of claws on tiles as he righted himself.

My heart lurched, as it always did in those split seconds, before relief set in at the miracle of his unbroken resilience. It was reckless, it was fearless, and it was so very Duke. A creature who leapt first and never once thought of the fall.

As Duke rose onto his hind legs, prancing in tight little circles with his ears pricked and his eyes shining, the atmosphere shifted.

His entire body seemed to vibrate with expectation, a living barometer of change. Then, punctuating his performance, came the sound—the crisp thunk of a car door slamming shut outside.

It was such an ordinary sound, one I'd heard a thousand times before. Yet in this moment it carried a weight that set my pulse racing. To Duke, it was vindication—proof of his unwavering conviction that someone was indeed coming. He barked once, a sharp, triumphant note, then spun faster, tail wagging like something possessed.

"Gladys?" I whispered, her name slipping out almost involuntarily.

A ripple of recognition coursed through me, mingled with the faintest touch of relief. Duke had always possessed an uncanny knack for sensing her presence before she appeared, as though some invisible thread bound them together. It was one of those quiet mysteries of life—unremarkable to an outsider, but profound to those who lived it.

I moved towards the window, leaning against the cool slats of the venetian blinds. The tips pressed faint grooves into my fingertips as I peered through, the outside light filtering in with a pale clarity.

And there she was—Gladys. Familiar, steady, and entirely herself, striding with measured purpose towards my front door.

A spark of anticipation ran through me, matching Duke's restless excitement. Without hesitation, I bent down and scooped him into my arms. His little body wriggled furiously, muscles taut with eagerness, his soft fur brushing against my chin as I lifted him.

Together, we crossed the short distance to the door.

The timing was perfect. Just as her hand rose to knock, I swung it open, the threshold between us vanishing in an instant.

"Duke!" Gladys exclaimed, her voice ringing with warmth so genuine it seemed to wrap itself around the little dog like a hug.

In that instant, he was the centre of her universe. Her eyes sparkled with delight as she reached for him. It was always the same whenever she came by—an unspoken ritual, as though their reunion were the true purpose of her visit. The affection between them was undeniable, a bond woven through countless greetings just like this.

I stepped aside, opening the space for her to enter, and with her presence, the air in the house shifted.

Familiarity trailed in with her, a subtle undercurrent of comfort, like the scent of an old jumper that had weathered many winters. Once the door clicked shut, sealing us off from the outside world, I lowered Duke to the floor. He hit the ground running—quite literally—his paws scrambling as he bolted straight for his overflowing toy box.

Moments later, he returned in triumph, horsey clenched between his teeth, his entire body wagging as if joy itself had taken possession of him.

Gladys laughed softly, then bent down, her voice dropping into that tender register she always reserved for Henri. "And you, my darling boy," she cooed.

Henri, never one to be outshone, launched into his signature display of enthusiasm. His tail—thick and bushy like a fox's plume—swayed with such vigour it practically carried the rest of him along for the ride. The sight was irresistibly comical: his hindquarters wobbling, his paws slipping, his whole body locked in a rhythm dictated entirely by the frenetic energy of his tail. Now and then, the exuberance got the better of him, sending him staggering sideways or tripping over his own momentum in a tumble that was more endearing than graceful.

Gladys's laughter joined mine, the room filling with a simple, heartening joy that felt worlds away from the burdens that weighed so heavily elsewhere.

"I'm just returning Jamie's cake container," Gladys announced, her voice carrying that matter-of-fact brightness she always seemed to bring with her.

At last, her attention shifted away from Duke and Henri and settled on me. She placed the container neatly on the kitchen bench, her gesture casual—almost too casual, as though this errand were the sole justification for her visit. For reasons I couldn't quite articulate, the act struck a quiet chord within me.

"Oh, thanks. I forgot about that," I replied, my tone sharper than I had intended.

The words slipped out clipped, as though I had to remind myself I belonged in the scene at all. A flicker of irritation—irrational, unwanted—bubbled to the surface. It was ridiculous, of course, but in that instant I felt like a supporting character in my own home, overshadowed by my dogs' joyous welcome. They basked in the spotlight of Gladys's affection while I stood at the periphery.

Small though the feeling was, it gnawed at me in ways I hated to admit. Relationships, I reminded myself, were an endless push and pull—connection one moment, displacement the next.

Gladys's cheeks coloured faintly, a delicate pink that betrayed the sudden shift in atmosphere. My reaction had made her self-conscious, and she ducked her head slightly as if to soften the moment.

"Well, it has been several months since my birthday. So, I figured it was about time," she murmured, her voice dwindling in an attempt to lighten the awkwardness.

But before the weight could settle between us, she deftly redirected the focus, her eyes darting towards the hallway as though she might catch sight of someone lingering unseen.

"Where's Jamie?" she asked, her tone a blend of casual enquiry and something sharper—an undercurrent of curiosity, perhaps even suspicion. It was less a question than a way of moving us forward, away from her embarrassment and into territory I wasn't sure I was ready to tread.

"He's in bed. He's not feeling well," I heard myself say, the words gliding from my lips with unnerving ease.

A lie, carefully chosen and cleanly delivered. It surprised me how natural it felt, and yet deep inside, a part of me flinched. Every deception I told seemed to chip away at something within me, as though each falsehood layered a fresh burden onto an already sagging conscience.

But what choice did I have? The truth—that Jamie was stranded in another dimension, raging against a fate neither of us could undo—was unthinkable. The secret of Clivilius was too fragile to risk. Too impossible to explain.

"Oh no! What's wrong with him?" Gladys's face softened instantly, concern flickering in her eyes. She leaned forward slightly, her brows drawn together in an expression that was both tender and insistent.

"Not sure. I think it's just a tummy bug," I replied, the lie tasting bitter, as if the words themselves were tainted with ash.

Already I could feel the scaffolding of falsehoods mounting around me, a precarious structure I was building plank by plank. At what point, I wondered fleetingly, would it collapse under its own weight?

"I'll just pop my head in and say hello," she declared suddenly, her natural kindness propelling her into action before I could stop her.

She was already halfway down the hallway, her steps light but purposeful, each one pounding in time with the hammering of my heart.

Panic surged.

"No!" The shout tore from me with a violence I hadn't anticipated, rebounding off the walls and hanging in the air like a thunderclap.

Gladys froze, her body going rigid mid-step, confusion etched across her face. The silence that followed pressed down, suffocating in its intensity.

"I think he's asleep," I added hastily, my voice stripped of its earlier harshness, softened into something almost pleading. "He didn't sleep very well last night."

I tried to smile, though I could feel the falseness of it tugging at the corners of my mouth.

"Fair enough," she said after a beat, though disappointment tinged her voice.

With a small nod, she turned and retraced her steps, retreating into the living room. The tension loosened but didn't vanish; it lingered like smoke after a fire, leaving the air thick with a residue of unease.

I exhaled slowly, the breath shaky, knowing I had only just avoided disaster. But in that reprieve, the weight of my lie grew heavier still.

Seizing on the sliver of calm that had returned to the room, I forced my mind to pivot away from the near-disaster and latch onto the practical.

Paul's list—his neatly written inventory of necessities—was my lifeline now, the perfect diversion. I reached across the counter, sliding the folded page towards Gladys with what I hoped was a casual smile, though the tightness in my chest betrayed how carefully I was treading.

"But he was planning to start a new little house project. He's made a list of things he needs. Don't suppose you could do us a massive favour and grab a few things?" My tone was deliberately light, breezy, as if the request were nothing more than a neighbourly errand. "You know how I hate driving, and he is so excited to get the project started."

The lie slipped neatly into place beside the others, each thread of fiction weaving itself into the larger tapestry I was spinning to conceal the truth.

Gladys unfolded the paper with her usual thoroughness, her eyes scanning line by line. A faint frown creased her brow as her lips shaped the words.

"Concrete mix, cement mixer, post hole digger, mattock…" Her voice trailed off, laced with bemusement. She looked up at me, head tilted ever so slightly, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief. "This is quite the project," she remarked, the surprise in her tone betraying her attempt at composure.

I managed a weak chuckle, scratching at the back of my neck as if embarrassed by Jamie's supposed ambitions.

In truth, guilt gnawed at me with sharp teeth. I was not just bending the truth; I was twisting it into shapes unrecognisable. Gladys's generosity, her willingness to help, was something I had leaned on countless times before. But now I was drawing her unknowingly into a far larger deception—an entire world hidden behind a wall of light.

The sting of it pressed into me, but necessity was a ruthless master. Survival—in Clivilius, and in the fragile bonds that tethered us together—demanded sacrifice. And if that sacrifice was my integrity, then so be it.

"You can use this," I said at last, though my voice betrayed the tug-of-war between hesitation and resolve.

The bank card—Paul's—felt heavier than it ought to as it balanced between my fingers, its glossy surface reflecting the light. With a flick intended to look casual, though my chest was tight with unease, I sent it spinning through the air. It arced smoothly before landing in Gladys's outstretched hand.

Her brow furrowed as she turned it over, studying it with the curiosity of someone who sensed the story behind the object might be larger than the object itself.

"What's this?" she asked, her tone quiet but pointed. Her eyes dropped to the name embossed in firm gold letters. "Paul Smith," she read aloud, the syllables carrying a weight they would not normally hold. When her gaze lifted to mine, it wasn't casual interest I saw there—it was sharp, searching, quietly insistent.

For a heartbeat, I wavered.

The truth clawed at my throat, desperate to spill out, to unburden me of this elaborate construction of lies. But the image of Clivilius—of Jamie and Paul waiting by the riverbank in a world that offered no retreat—rose before me like a wall. To speak plainly would shatter everything.

"Paul has come down to visit," I said, forcing steadiness into my tone. The lie rolled off my tongue with unsettling ease, as though my body had already surrendered to necessity. "Jamie asked him to. Apparently, he thinks Paul can help him with his project."

Each word fell like a brick, stacked carefully into the façade I was building. Not for me, I told myself—not out of cowardice—but for Gladys. To protect her from the truth, from knowledge that would entangle her in impossibilities she was never meant to carry.

"Are you sure he won't mind?" she asked slowly, her voice weighted with doubt. Scepticism lingered in her eyes, the kind born not from distrust but from an instinctive unease that her intuition was trying to unravel.

"Not at all," I said quickly, a little too brightly, as I tore a scrap of paper from the pad on the bench and scrawled the four digits. The sound of pen against paper felt far louder than it should have, like the scratching of something committing me to a path I couldn't retreat from.

Sliding the folded slip across to her, I forced a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "Oh, and you might need this too."

In that instant, the enormity of what I was doing bore down on me with suffocating clarity—the deception, the gamble, the way I had threaded Gladys into the delicate web I had spun without her knowledge. The card and the hastily scribbled PIN, innocuous in appearance, had transformed into symbols of my choices—of a hidden world leaking through the cracks into hers, of burdens I was quietly shifting onto her shoulders without giving her the chance to understand their true weight.

For a few agonising seconds, the room itself seemed to hold its breath.

Gladys's fingers lingered on the card, her hesitation hanging between us like a curtain of fog. Her eyes flickered from the scrap of paper to my face, searching for something—assurance, honesty, perhaps a crack in the façade I had built.

My chest tightened. I braced myself for the inevitable: a question I could not answer, a demand for truth I wasn't ready to give.

But instead, her shoulders eased with a reluctant shrug.

"Okay," she said at last, her voice soft, coloured by both uncertainty and commitment. "Yeah, I guess I can help."

Relief washed through me, sharp and dizzying. The chains of tension I hadn't realised had coiled so tightly around me loosened, leaving me almost light-headed.

I exhaled, the sound unsteady in the quiet. "Awesome. Thanks so much," I said, the gratitude in my voice more genuine than I had expected it to be. "If you get stuck with anything, just give me a call and I'll explain it to the cashier."

It was a flimsy promise, perhaps, but it gave the illusion of control.

"Sure, will do," she replied, slipping the card into her bag.

Her acceptance, however tentative, struck me deeply. It wasn't just compliance; it was trust. Trust I was actively exploiting.

In that moment, the complexity of our bond was laid bare—a precarious knot of loyalty and deceit, of friendship entangled with necessity. The fabric of it was fragile, yet somehow it held, woven together by a shared history that was being tested in ways she could never have imagined. And all of it, every thread, now carried the unspoken hope that she wouldn't tug too hard at the seams.

As Gladys bent over the list once more, her brows knitted in earnest concentration, the faintest crease forming between her eyes.

"It's an interesting list. What on earth has Jamie got planned this time?" she remarked, her tone laced with that familiar mixture of curiosity and mild amusement.

"I know. Isn't it just?" I replied, letting my voice carry a blend of intrigue and mock exasperation.

Leaning lazily against the cold granite of the kitchen counter, I folded my arms across my chest, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. "I'm not totally sure what mischief he's up to. He wouldn't tell me. I'm secretly hoping it involves a few chickens."

The words slipped out with deliberate levity, a carefully placed shard of humour designed to pierce the fragile tension that still lingered between us.

Gladys's laughter bubbled up, warm and genuine, filling the space with a kind of easy music. It swept away the remnants of unease like sunlight burning through morning mist. The sound loosened something in me, allowing my chest to expand with relief.

She would understand—or, at the very least, she would play along.

Gladys had never been particularly adept at keeping secrets. I was reminded of the time, only a few years earlier, when she had inadvertently let slip Jamie's plan to surprise me with a hen house. The poor man had invested weeks in the scheme, only for it to dissolve into nothing after her premature revelation. The memory brought a pang of nostalgia, softened by the fondness in which it was wrapped.

"So, you can get the stuff?" I pressed gently, seeking confirmation, though my eyes did most of the work. Locking with hers, I let them speak the gratitude I couldn't easily put into words, the unspoken plea woven into my expression. "I promise that I'll get Jamie to tell you what he's up to when you return."

The offer was a token gesture, a morsel of reassurance to balance the weight of the peculiar errand I had just laid upon her.

She held my gaze for a beat longer, her expression shifting subtly, a flicker of caution tempered by the undercurrent of trust that had always bound us.

Finally, she gave a small nod. "Sure. I'll get it all for him."

With that, the matter was settled.

Straightening with a quiet resolve, Gladys tucked the list neatly away and made her way towards the door. Her farewell to Duke and Henri was tender, her voice softening as she stooped to ruffle fur and scratch ears, her presence leaving behind a glow of warmth that lingered in the air long after the sound of the front door clicking shut.

As the door closed with a muted click behind Gladys, the weight of her visit lingered like a shadow.

Her smile, warm and obliging, had been betrayed by the faint glimmer in her eyes—a glint of suspicion that spoke volumes. She hadn't swallowed the story whole. No, Gladys knew Jamie too well for that. Their bond stretched back a decade, forged in laughter, confidences, and an unwavering trust that I could never hope to match.

The idea that she wouldn't reach out to him directly, to check for herself, was absurd.

The thought settled like a stone in my gut. I was working against the clock, balancing precariously on the thin edge of her goodwill.

The stillness of the house pressed in around me, every sound amplified by my heightened nerves. I had scarcely begun to wrestle with the implications when the familiar chime of Jamie's phone shattered the silence.

The sound, so ordinary in another context, now carried the weight of inevitability. My pulse spiked.

Drawn forward as though by some magnetic force, I hesitated only briefly before snatching up the device. Every fibre of me knew this was trespassing into a private world, yet the need to know outweighed the guilt of intrusion.

The screen glowed with a single new message.

Gladys: Sorry to hear you don't feel well. Call me when you wake up. G.

I muttered a curse under my breath. "Crap."

The word felt feeble against the dread blooming in my chest. The simplicity of her message belied its danger. It wasn't just an expression of concern—it was a thread tugging at the flimsy fabric of my lie.

Gladys wasn't fooled, not entirely. Her intuition, sharpened by years of closeness with Jamie, would gnaw at the story until it unravelled.

The realisation struck me hard, leaving my stomach knotted. My carefully spun deception wouldn't hold for long. The façade I had so clumsily erected was already beginning to fracture, and with it, the fragile window of opportunity I had left was shrinking fast.

A resigned sigh slipped from my lips, the sound of a man conceding to inevitability.

"Oh well," I muttered, the words little more than a fragile shield against the storm pressing in on me.

My shoulders sagged, surrendering briefly to the weight of everything I was juggling. But almost at once I forced them back, straightening my spine as though posture alone could reforge the illusion of control. A smile tugged at my face—thin, brittle, a mask I had already worn too often that day. It clung there awkwardly, like a poorly fitted costume, but abandoning it felt unthinkable.

I can deal with Gladys later, I told myself firmly, shoving the unease into the cluttered recesses of my mind where guilt and doubt already resided. There was no room for distraction. Too many fires needed tending, too many threads of this precarious tapestry I was weaving demanded careful handling.

Gladys's suspicion, while dangerous, could wait.

The greater truth pressed down on me: the clock was ticking, in more ways than one. Every moment spent here was a moment stolen from the countless tasks ahead—the survival of Jamie and Paul in Clivilius, the fragile semblance of order I was attempting to build, and the delicate lies I was stacking like cards in a gusting wind.

My life had become a game of simultaneous moves, each one balancing on the razor's edge between necessity and disaster.

For now, the path was clear, even if it was narrow and treacherous. I had to focus on the immediate crisis, improvise where I must, and keep momentum at all costs.

Later—when the inevitable confrontation with Gladys arrived—I would face it.

But not yet. Not now.