Watching from the Wrong Side

“People think the worst thing is not knowing. But sometimes, knowing is what breaks you.”

The engine was off, but I hadn't taken my hands off the wheel. I didn't trust them not to tremble if I did. Outside, the cold crept in through the seams of the old Corolla, threading into my sleeves and stiffening my fingers. My breath fogged the windscreen in slow, rhythmic pulses, each exhalation a small ghost that clung to the glass before fading. I'd wiped it clear twice already, but it kept returning—as if the car itself was telling me to stop looking.

But I couldn't stop looking.

Across the road stood the house. Number 2, Wallcrest Road. A split-level brick home, modest in the way all houses in Berriedale were modest—functional, unpretentious, designed for people who worked for a living. The front garden was carefully tended, the lawn recently mowed despite the winter. Flax plants bordered the small square porch, their blade-like leaves swaying gently in the early evening breeze. The blinds were down in every window but one—the kitchen, facing the street, left slightly ajar. Too far away to see inside properly. Too deliberate to be accidental.

I'd been sitting here for... how long now? Five minutes? Ten? Maybe longer. Long enough for the light to shift from grey to darker grey. Long enough for my arse to go numb on the worn seat, for my shoulders to ache from the tension I couldn't release. A few houses down, someone had started dinner—onions frying, maybe sausages. The scent drifted faintly through the crack in my window, making my stomach clench. Not with hunger. With something closer to dread.

Or memory.

Jamie was in there. I knew it with the same certainty I'd known I was pregnant nineteen years ago, before any test could confirm it. Just that deep, cellular knowing that lives in your bones. And if Jamie was in there... then Joel might be too.

My fingers curled tighter around the steering wheel, knuckles going white. The urge to get out, to march up that path and hammer on the door until someone answered—it was pulling at me like a riptide. But I couldn't move. Not yet.

What if he slams the door in my face?

What if he doesn't recognise me?

What if Joel's already gone?

The thought came uninvited, sharp as broken glass. My throat closed around it, and I blinked fast, swallowing it down before the burning behind my eyes could turn into something worse. No. Joel wouldn't just leave. Not without telling me. Unless... unless Jamie had told him something. Told him lies. Or worse—told him truths I'd spent nineteen years burying.

I leaned forward, breath steaming the glass again, squinting through the gathering dusk for any movement. Nothing. No lights flickering on. No curtains twitching. No silhouettes moving past windows. Just that one blind, half-raised like a sleeping eye, watching me watch the house.

I should have gone back to the police days ago. When Joel first didn't come home. When his phone went straight to voicemail for the third, fourth, fifth time. But what would I even say? "My nineteen-year-old son left the house after reading his birth certificate and I'm afraid he's gone to find his father"? They'd have smiled politely, filed the report under 'voluntary disappearance,' and told me to wait forty-eight hours. Wait. As if waiting was something I hadn't been doing my entire bloody life.

Waiting for Maurice to get better after the accident. Waiting for the bills to stop piling up. Waiting for Leah to call back. Waiting for Joel to forgive me for things I'd done to protect him.

Always waiting. Never knowing.

But I knew now. I'd known the moment Joel went quiet after opening that envelope—the one with his birth certificate inside. I'd watched his face change as he read it. Watched him see the name. Jamie Nigel Greyson. Not "deceased." Not "unknown." Just a name. A real, living name. And then he'd looked at me with something I'd never seen in his eyes before.

Betrayal.

And now here I was. Sitting in the bloody driveway of the past, frozen by fear and guilt and a mother's desperate hope that somehow, impossibly, I could fix this.

The light was fading faster now. The sky had gone from grey to charcoal, streaked with the last bruised remnants of sunset. My hands were aching from gripping the wheel. I flexed my fingers, watching them shake slightly in the dimness. I needed to move. Needed to do something. I couldn't just sit here like a coward whilst my son was somewhere inside that house, maybe hurt, maybe angry, maybe—

And then I saw them.

Two figures, moving fast across the corner block towards the house.

Women. Not Jamie. Not Joel.

I sat bolt upright, heart suddenly hammering.

The first woman came into view like she'd been conjured from the shadows—tall and broad-shouldered, striding across the grass with purpose. She wore a black jacket, collar turned up against the cold, dark hair pulled back in a messy knot. Behind her trailed another—shorter, slighter, blonde hair catching what little light remained. She wore a red hoodie and kept close to the first woman, like a child following a parent through a car park.

They weren't walking like neighbours. Weren't chatting like friends popping round for tea.

They were moving with intent.

I watched, pulse quickening, as they approached the front door. The tall one didn't knock. Didn't even pause. She went straight for the handle, tried it—locked—and then turned to speak to the other woman. I couldn't hear the words, but I could see the urgency in her movements. Quick. Hushed. Agitated.

The blonde woman glanced around nervously, shoulders hunched, clutching the sleeves of her red hoodie.

What are they doing?

My gut twisted. Something was wrong. This wasn't a visit. This wasn't normal.

The tall woman turned back to the door and crouched slightly, hands moving to her jacket pocket. She pulled something out—something small, metallic. Tools. My breath caught in my throat.

Oh God. Lock picks.

She worked at the lock with quick, practised movements. No fumbling. No hesitation. Just smooth, efficient manipulation of the mechanism. I should stop them. I should honk the horn, shout, do something. But I was frozen, watching this violation unfold like a film I couldn't pause.

Within seconds—maybe fifteen, maybe twenty—I heard the faint click even from across the road. The door swung inward. The tall woman straightened, glanced once more over her shoulder directly towards my car, and I held my breath, certain she'd seen me. But her gaze swept past, and she stepped inside.

The blonde woman hesitated—just for a heartbeat, her body language screaming reluctance—before following.

The door stayed open behind them. A black mouth, gaping into the darkened house.

They're breaking in.

The realisation crashed over me with physical force. My hands were already moving, scrabbling for my phone on the passenger seat. I nearly knocked it onto the floor, cursing under my breath as I grabbed it, fingers clumsy with adrenaline. The screen lit up, painfully bright in the darkened car.

I pressed the emergency number with a shaking thumb.

Police. I need police.

The phone rang once. Twice. Each ring felt like an eternity whilst those women were inside, doing God knows what. What if they hurt someone? What if Joel was in there? What if—

The call connected.

"Emergency services, which service do you require?"

"Police, please!" The words tumbled out too fast, too loud, my voice cracking with urgency. "There's a break-in happening right now at a house on Wallcrest Road, Berriedale."

"Connecting you to police now. Please hold the line."

I pressed the phone harder against my ear, eyes fixed on that open door across the road. The transfer tone hummed in my ear—four seconds that felt like four hours. My heart was thrashing in my chest like a trapped bird, and I realised I was holding my breath.

The line clicked.

"Police emergency, what is your location?"

The voice was calm, measured, professional. It should have been reassuring, but it only made my panic sharper by contrast.

"I'm parked outside 5 Wallcrest Road." My words came out in a rush. "There are two women breaking into a house across the road—number 2. I'm here looking for my son, Joel Gibbons. They're picking the lock right now!"

Even as I said it, I knew it was past tense. They were already inside. Already doing whatever they'd come to do.

"Understood. Can you describe the two women for me, Kate?"

The operator knew my name. Must have pulled it from the phone. The casual intimacy of it—this stranger calling me Kate whilst I watched a crime unfold—made something in my chest tighten.

I forced myself to focus, to see them clearly in my mind's eye. "Yes, one is tall with dark hair, wearing a black jacket and jeans. The other is shorter with blonde hair, wearing a red hoodie and leggings. They've just... they've just got the door open. They're going inside."

I watched them disappear into the darkness of the house, swallowed by that gaping entrance. The door remained open, like an invitation or a warning.

"Thank you. Kate, I need you to confirm you're in a safe location right now. Are you inside your vehicle?"

"Yes, I'm in my car." I glanced around suddenly, awareness prickling across my skin. How exposed was I? Could they see me from inside the house? Could anyone? "I can see the front door from here. They've left it open... I can see shadows moving inside but I can't tell what they're doing."

The shadows were faint, barely perceptible through the doorway. Just hints of movement in the darkness beyond. It made it worse somehow—not seeing clearly, just knowing something was happening. Imagining.

"That's good, Kate. Officers are being dispatched to your location now. I need you to stay in your car and keep watching. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes." My throat was tight, voice barely above a whisper. "Yes, I can do that."

The house stared back at me, silent and dark. One minute crawled past. Then another. I could hear the operator breathing on the other end of the line, a small steady sound that tethered me to reality. The shadows inside the house had stopped moving—or moved deeper, out of sight. I couldn't tell which.

What are they doing in there? Where's Joel?

My imagination conjured horrors—Joel tied up somewhere, those women ransacking the place, violence unfolding in rooms I couldn't see. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force the images away, but they clung like cobwebs.

"Kate, are you still there? Can you see anything?"

The operator's voice pulled me back. I opened my eyes, refocusing on the house.

"I'm here." My voice sounded hollow, distant. "The house is still. I can't see them anymore. The front door is just... open. It's so quiet."

Too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against your eardrums, that made you strain to hear something, anything. The flax plants swayed gently by the porch. A tabby cat wandered past on the footpath, unconcerned. The ordinary world continuing whilst something extraordinary—something wrong—happened just metres away.

"That's okay. Just keep watching. Officers are approximately three minutes away."

Three minutes. I could do three minutes. I just had to sit here and watch and wait and not think about what might be happening inside that house. Not think about Joel. Not think about Jamie. Not think about nineteen years of lies catching up to me all at once.

The seconds ticked past with agonising slowness. I found myself counting them. One. Two. Three. Watching the open door like it might suddenly snap shut or vomit out something terrible. Four. Five. Six.

Forty-five seconds passed. Then a minute. Then more.

Still nothing. Just that open door and the darkness beyond and my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my temples.

Please, I thought, to whom I didn't know. Please let him be alright. Please let this be nothing. Please—

Movement.

The door burst wider, and they came stumbling out—the tall woman first, moving fast, controlled grace abandoned. Behind her, the blonde woman followed, and they weren't walking anymore.

They were running.

My heart lurched into my throat.

"Oh my god," I breathed, sitting forward so fast the seatbelt locked against my chest.

"What is it, Kate? What do you see?"

"The door—they're coming out!" My voice pitched higher, sharper. "They're running! They look absolutely terrified. They're—they're running away from the house!"

And they did. They looked terrified. The blonde woman stumbled on the porch steps, nearly went down, arms windmilling. The tall woman grabbed her, hauled her upright with visible force. Their faces—what I could see of them in the failing light—were white, stark with panic. The blonde woman's mouth was open like she was gasping or crying or both.

They bolted across the lawn, movements frantic and uncoordinated, like prey fleeing a predator.

"Which direction are they going?"

"Down the street, away from me." I twisted in my seat, craning to follow their path. "The blonde one nearly fell. They're... they're getting into a car now. It's parked on the other side of Berriedale Road."

"Can you see the vehicle registration?"

"No, it's too far away." Frustration clawed at me. "Too dark."

The engine roared to life. No headlights. The car lurched forward, tyres screeching slightly on the gravel, then tore away down the street. Within seconds, it was gone—just taillights disappearing into the distance, leaving nothing but the smell of burnt rubber.

"They're driving off. They just..." I trailed off, staring at the empty street where the car had been. My hands were shaking. "Oh god, what did they see in there?"

The question hung in the air, unanswered and terrifying. Because something had made them run. Something had sent them fleeing in absolute terror from that house. Something bad enough to make them abandon whatever plan had brought them there in the first place.

And the house remained—door still open, darkness still waiting. Watching.

"Kate, I need you to stay in your car. Do not approach the house. Do you understand?"

The operator's voice was firmer now, more urgent. But the words barely registered. My eyes were locked on that open doorway, my mind spinning with possibilities, each worse than the last.

Joel's in there. Something happened to Joel.

"But my son might be in there." The words came out strangled, thick with the panic rising in my chest. "Those women ran out like they'd seen something horrible. What if Joel's inside? What if he's hurt?"

"Kate, the officers are nearly there. They will check the house. I need you to stay where you are. It's not safe for you to go inside."

Not safe. The words should have mattered. Should have stopped me. But they were just sounds, meaningless against the roaring in my ears, the certainty building in my chest that my son was in that house and needed me.

"The door's still open." My voice sounded strange—hollow, distant, like it belonged to someone else. "I can see inside from here. If he's in there... if he needs help..."

"No, Kate. Stay in your vehicle. The officers will handle it. Kate, can you confirm you're staying in your car?"

My hand was already on the door handle. I didn't remember reaching for it. The metal was cold under my palm, solid and real and offering escape from this paralysis of waiting and not knowing.

"I..." The word caught in my throat. I swallowed hard. "I can't just sit here. My son might be in there."

"Kate, I understand, but you need to wait for the officers. They're almost there. Kate?"

But I wasn't listening anymore. Couldn't listen. The voice on the phone had become background noise, distant and unimportant compared to the screaming imperative in my head: Joel needs you. Move.

My fingers tightened on the handle. Pulled.

The door opened with a soft click and a cheerful chime that sounded absurd in the tension-thick air. Cold rushed in—the sharp bite of a Tasmanian winter evening, carrying with it the scent of eucalyptus and damp grass and something else.

Something faint but unmistakable, even from here across the road.

Rot.

"I'm going inside." I said it aloud, to the phone still clutched in my other hand, to the night, to myself. My voice was steady now. Resolved. The shaking had stopped. "I have to find my son."

"No, Kate, do not leave your vehicle! Kate, please stay in your car. Do not enter that house. Kate? Kate!"

The operator's voice rose, desperate and increasingly frantic, but it was already fading. Already becoming part of the background noise of the world I was leaving behind—the safe world where mothers stayed in cars and waited for police and didn't walk into dark houses that stank of rot and terror.

I stepped out onto the pavement.

The night air enveloped me, sharp and bracing. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked. The streetlamp above hummed quietly to itself. Normal sounds. An ordinary evening in Berriedale, except for the woman walking towards a crime scene with her phone pressed to her ear and her heart trying to hammer its way out of her chest.

"Kate, please stay in your car. Do not go inside. Kate? Kate!"

The voice was tinny now, small and desperate coming from the phone in my hand. I lifted it back to my ear one last time, some part of me needing to speak, needing to explain.

"I'm going inside," I repeated, more to myself than to her. "I have to find my son."

My footsteps echoed on the quiet street—too loud, too final. Each step carried me closer to that gaping doorway, to whatever waited inside. The operator was still calling my name, but I could barely hear her now over the rushing in my ears, the blood pounding in my temples.

I reached the front porch. The flax plants rustled beside me, their spiky leaves catching at my coat. The smell was stronger here—thick and sour, catching in the back of my throat and making my eyes water.

The phone continued its tinny protests, and I realised I was still clutching it like a lifeline. But it wasn't a lifeline anymore. It was a tether to a world where I waited and did nothing whilst my son might be dying.

I was done waiting.

With one last glance at the quiet street behind me—at my car with its door still open, at the ordinary houses with their lit windows and the promise of safety—I stepped forward into the unknown.