The Sophie Transaction

"Sometimes the hardest part isn’t lying to strangers—it’s remembering where the lie ends and where I begin."

I arrived early at the designated meeting point in the Queen’s Domain—a tactical choice disguised as punctuality. Part of it was nerves, sure, but mostly I wanted to see the lay of the land before the seller arrived. Arriving first meant claiming the advantage; it gave me time to scan the scene, pick a spot with a clear view, and make sure I spotted anyone who might be watching before they spotted me.

The Queen’s Domain was familiar territory, though it wore a sharper edge under the weight of my current mission. The park rolled gently towards the River Derwent, the water visible in glints between the gums. The tall eucalypts here stood like sentinels, their trunks straight and dark against the pale winter light, while clumps of dense wattle and overgrown shrubs made for convenient places to disappear—comforting to Sophie, quietly unsettling to me.

The air had that particular bite of Hobart’s late winter, the kind that slipped past your clothes no matter how tightly you wrapped them. I tugged my jacket closer, the zip catching before yielding with a reluctant rasp. The motion felt less like keeping warm and more like sealing armour.

Somewhere down by the water, the breeze picked up, carrying the mingled scents of salt, eucalyptus, and faint smoke from a food truck parked along the foreshore. It might have been almost peaceful if not for the taut undercurrent in my chest, a sense that the Domain was holding its breath right along with me.

Reviewing the seller’s description once more, I let my gaze sweep the park with deliberate slowness, as though my eyes were another set of fingers tracing every detail. It didn’t take long to spot them—a retired couple seated on a weathered bench beneath a sprawling oak, its bare branches clawing at the pale winter sky. They were soaking up what little warmth the day offered, the sun catching in the lines of their faces.

The husband was tall and wiry, with a kind of understated elegance that made me think he’d once worn well-tailored suits to work, the sort of man who ironed his handkerchiefs. His thick white hair stood out starkly against the muted palette of the park, and the quiet dignity in his posture suggested a patience honed over decades. His smile—gentle, measured—felt like a polite invitation, the sort that could just as easily be withdrawn if you overstepped.

Beside him, his wife radiated a softer warmth. She was shorter, her figure rounded in a way that made you imagine her hugging people with abandon, her blue eyes carrying a sparkle that spoke of an enduring fondness for the messiness of life. She looked like the type to feed stray cats and keep their names straight.

I inhaled deeply and let Sophie slip over me like a well-cut coat. Sophie was lighter, easier, deliberately unthreatening. She’d never raised her voice in an argument, and she thought the best way to solve a problem was over tea and biscuits. Sophie didn’t carry the weight of Clivilius or the bite of suspicion in her tone. She could smile without calculating.

With each step toward the couple, I felt the subtle shift—shoulders rolling back, chin tilting just so, the faint, rehearsed curl of lips into something open and pleasant. It was a performance, but a good one, the kind that blurred into truth if you stayed in character long enough. My mind ticked over the script I’d built: the friendly questions, the interest that felt genuine without prying, the mannerisms designed to leave no trace beyond “that nice woman we met in the park.”

By the time I reached conversational range, Beatrix was tucked neatly away. Sophie was ready to shake their hands.

The couple looked up as I approached, their expressions open and entirely unsuspecting of the scaffolding of fiction holding up this encounter. Beneath the wide, sheltering boughs of the oak tree, I was Sophie—bright, approachable, and here for nothing more complicated than a caravan inspection. The truth sat hidden under layers of easy smiles and conversational padding, like a letter sealed beneath several envelopes.

"Hello, you must be Sophie," the husband greeted, his voice warm and steady, a sound that could easily belong to someone reading bedtime stories to grandchildren. As he rose to his feet, the sunlight caught on the silver in his hair, making it shimmer faintly, as if he were briefly haloed. His hand extended toward me with the kind of ease that comes from decades of shaking hands in good faith.

"I'm Jack, and this is my wife, Mary. Thanks for coming along." His words matched his manner—inviting, grounded, unhurried. Yet his politeness couldn’t quite untie the small knot of tension coiled low in my stomach, a reminder that trust was a currency I couldn’t spend carelessly.

"It's no problem at all," I said, giving Sophie’s voice a calm, lilting quality I could never quite manage as Beatrix. I took his hand, noting the firmness of his grip—not crushing, but confident, the handshake of someone who’d built or repaired things with his own two hands. The connection was brief, but grounding, the tactile reality of it momentarily cutting through the quiet performance I was staging.

"I'm very interested in the caravan you have for sale. Can you tell me more about it?" I asked, letting Sophie’s tone carry that careful mix of curiosity and warmth, the kind you might hear from someone considering a rescue puppy. Behind it, my real thoughts were neatly filed away, each one reminding me that this was as much reconnaissance as it was shopping.

"Of course," Jack said, his face lighting up in a way that suggested he’d been looking forward to this part all day. With a gracious tilt of his head, he gestured for me to follow, Mary falling into step beside us as we crossed toward the nearby car park.

The walk couldn’t have been more than a minute, but it felt like one of those overly long establishing shots in a film—time stretching as I worked to keep Sophie’s gait relaxed and friendly, while my eyes worked like a camera operator, scanning the surroundings. A weathered playground sat off to the left, a lone child in a red coat clambering up the slide ladder with the grim determination of someone tackling Everest. The air carried the faint tang of salt from the Derwent, mixing with the heavier scent of wet asphalt underfoot.

Jack kept talking as we went. “We’ve owned this caravan for several years now, and it’s served us very well.” His voice had that steady rhythm of someone recalling fond memories, and I nodded along as though picturing family road trips, rather than mentally measuring the thing against the needs of a settlement in another world.

Mary joined in, her voice warm but tinged with pride. “It’s taken us all over Tasmania—Coles Bay, Strahan, even up to Stanley. We’ve kept it in good condition; Jack’s meticulous about maintenance.” She shot her husband a fond glance, and I caught the faintest blush from him in return.

If Sophie had been real, she might have thought it sweet. Beatrix mostly thought about whether “meticulous maintenance” translated to “no catastrophic surprises later” or “he just cleans it a lot.”

As the caravan came into view, it gleamed in the pale winter light like it had been buffed for an awards ceremony. Sleek lines, a spotless white exterior, and a bold blue stripe running the length of its side—it was the vehicular equivalent of someone turning up in a crisp suit and daring you to find fault with it. Jack’s pride radiated off him in waves, his voice carrying that almost paternal fondness reserved for something you’ve poured both time and care into.

Mary matched his enthusiasm with the ease of someone who’d told this story before, her words slipping neatly into the gaps in Jack’s narration. “The interior is just as impressive,” she promised, her tone warm yet confident. She spoke of plush seating that made long journeys a pleasure, a kitchen “fully equipped” (I pictured a kettle and a teaspoon), and a sleeping area “comfortable enough for weeks away” (which, in caravan terms, could mean anything from blissfully cosy to resembling a coffin with curtains).

She painted a scene of lazy afternoons spent under the roll-out awning, a glass of wine in hand, the sun warm on your face. I nodded and smiled like Sophie would—genuinely charmed, receptive to the idea of spontaneous weekends away—while the Beatrix beneath the veneer quietly filed each detail under ‘Potentially Useful’ or ‘Likely Irrelevant in Clivilius.’

Still, there was something refreshingly honest in their delivery. They weren’t slick salespeople rehearsing from a script; every word seemed laced with real memories. That, in turn, made Sophie lean forward a little more, eyes bright with interest, while Beatrix kept one mental hand firmly on the wheel. This wasn’t just about buying a caravan—it was about securing a piece of infrastructure for a settlement in another world without either party having the faintest clue of the stakes.

"It sounds like a wonderful caravan," I offered, summoning Sophie’s sunny warmth and wrapping it neatly around my words. Inside, Beatrix was less convinced. Perfectly suitable for the settlers’ needs? Absolutely. The sort of thing I’d have chosen for myself in another life? Not unless that life involved novelty tea towels and spending long weekends arguing about where the corkscrew had gone. Still—needs must.

"Can you tell me more about its history and maintenance?" I asked, fingers discreetly crossed behind my back like a child bargaining with fate. The gesture was for me, not them—a silent plea to the universe that my questions would lead somewhere useful and not into a three-hour slideshow of coastal sunsets.

Jack’s chest seemed to lift as though my inquiry had given him permission to stand taller. "We’ve always taken excellent care of the caravan," he said, pride in every syllable. He painted a picture of diligent upkeep and mechanical reliability, the sort of owner a caravan might brag about to its friends.

Mary’s tone softened as she joined in. "We’ve put a lot of love and care into the caravan over the years, and it shows in every inch of it." Her words landed with genuine weight; she wasn’t reciting a sales line—she meant it.

"I can see that," I replied, Sophie’s voice bright and sincere. And then, without warning, Beatrix slipped. "It’s practically sparkling enough to be driven into the afterlife."

Jack blinked. Mary tilted her head, as though deciding whether that was a compliment or a threat. Sophie scrambled back to the surface. "Er—what I mean is, it’s clearly been looked after beautifully." My smile was a little tighter now, but it held.

It was more than a vehicle to them; it was a capsule of memories and a history they’d polished along with the paintwork. And for me, it was something else entirely—an asset, a tool, a necessary link in a plan they would never imagine.

"I'm interested in making an offer. Can we discuss the price you listed?" I ventured, Sophie still firmly at the wheel but starting to feel the faint tug of Beatrix at the edges. The sooner this dance was over, the better.

"Of course," Jack replied, all agreeable tones and gentlemanly nods.

"We’re quite flexible on price," Mary added, her glance at Jack the kind that comes with decades of knowing exactly where the other stands on something without saying a word. It was like watching a well-rehearsed duet—sweet, efficient, and mildly irritating when you’re in a hurry.

My fingers drifted to the wad of notes in my purse, the slightly overstuffed bulk of it a reminder that this was Jarod’s money, drawn from his personal safe in the exotic reptile basement beneath the New Norfolk pet shop. Not a sentence I’d ever thought I’d think.

"What discount can you give me if I pay in cash?" I asked, my voice steady despite the thrum of impatience under the surface. Sophie made it sound like a polite business proposal. Beatrix knew it was more akin to waving a steak in front of a hungry dog.

"Cash?" Mary echoed, her eyebrows making a brief dash northwards. It wasn’t disapproval—more the flicker of someone recalculating their afternoon plans.

Jack glanced at her. She glanced back. There it was again, that silent, spousal Morse code. Then Mary gave the faintest of nods, and Jack delivered the verdict. "We’ll knock twenty percent off the listed price."

"That sounds reasonable to me," I said, Sophie’s graciousness intact. Beatrix, however, was mentally high-fiving herself and muttering something about how antique shop haggling had finally paid off.

"Great," Mary said, extending her hand with brisk finality. Her grip was firmer than expected, like she was sealing not just a deal but a small test of character. Sophie shook it warmly. Beatrix just wanted to get the cash out before someone asked where it had come from.

With a shared eagerness to seal the deal, I counted the notes with meticulous care, each one sliding free from the wad with the precise, deliberate rhythm of someone who doesn’t entirely trust the other party—or themselves—not to miscount. The crisp rustle of the banknotes as they passed from my hand to Mary’s felt like the final note in the oddly domestic symphony we’d been playing, complete with crescendos of polite small talk and the occasional awkward pause.

"Do you need a receipt with that?" Jack asked, cautious and considerate, the question landing like an unexpected cymbal clash in my private score.

For a moment I froze, eyes on his, the implications sketching themselves in my mind in bold strokes. A receipt would mean a name. A name meant questions. Questions meant trouble. Sophie might be able to talk her way out of it, but Beatrix… Beatrix would rather set the caravan on fire.

Shaking my head, I opted for the path of least paper. "Um, no, I don’t need a receipt," I said, pitching my voice somewhere between casual buyer and woman-who-definitely-hasn’t-just-conducted-a-questionable-cash-transaction. The absence of a paper trail was as intentional as the smile I gave him—warm, agreeable, and entirely fabricated. "Just the keys."

"Congratulations," Jack said, handing over a small set of metal keys that were cool against my palm and heavier than they should have been. "She’s all yours."

"Thank you," I replied, my grip tightening instinctively. They weren’t just keys to a caravan—they were keys to another problem, another layer of responsibility, another thing to go wrong. And yet, for the moment, Sophie accepted them like a trophy, while Beatrix weighed them in her hand and quietly wondered how she’d ended up in this line of work.

Mary’s sudden attention to the time sliced through my quiet appraisal of the keys in my hand.

"Oh, look at the time," she exclaimed, consulting her watch with the kind of practised flick one might expect from someone who’d been using the same trick to end conversations for the past forty years.

"We promised we’d visit the grandchildren," she added, her face softening into that warm, syrupy glow reserved for blood relatives and Labrador puppies.

"You remember, don’t you dear?" she prompted, giving Jack’s arm a gentle tug that was equal parts affection and stage direction.

"The grandchildren… oh, the grandchildren. Of course," Jack echoed, his tone carrying just enough theatrical hesitation to suggest this might be a well-worn double act.

"It’s fine," I assured them, my hand waving in a gesture of dismissal that doubled neatly as my blessing for their exit. "I can handle it all from here." The words were outwardly polite, but inwardly they were a small, celebratory exhale—permission granted to drop the act and let Sophie quietly evaporate into the winter air.

Jack shuffled around to the tow bar, muttering to himself as he began the business of unhitching the caravan. Mary loitered nearby, clutching her handbag and offering occasional observations that did nothing to speed the process. It was a minor ordeal: knees cracking, tools dropped, one minor disagreement over which lever did what. I hovered uncertainly, unsure whether to step in or pretend I hadn't noticed the struggle. In the end, I stayed put, staring hard at a nearby bush as though it had something urgent to say.

Eventually, with a final metallic clunk, the caravan was free. Jack stood, hands on hips, and gave it a nod, as if severing some unspoken connection.

"She’s all yours," he said.

I thanked them both again, and Mary patted my arm with the brisk tenderness of someone who’s already halfway into their next engagement. Then they climbed into their silver Volvo estate and rolled off down the gravel track, their departure marked by the lazy sway of bare branches and the faint squawk of a wood pigeon.

I had the caravan. I had the keys. And I’d got it for a price that would’ve made Jarod smirk.

Not that it felt like much of a victory now. The caravan squatted lopsidedly on its tyres, looking both uglier and heavier without their car attached to it. I eyed the tow bar warily, already anticipating the battle ahead—getting it hitched to my own vehicle, figuring out the angles, the weight, the bloody logistics of it all.

Still, it wasn’t going anywhere once I got it to Clivilius. That was the whole point, wasn’t it?

I turned back to the caravan. The shift was immediate—Sophie receded, and Beatrix stepped forward, spine stiffening, jaw tightening.

"It’s just a temporary shelter," I muttered to no one, eyes raking across the glossy white panel-work as if it might offer a glimpse of the future I was supposed to build.