Wine, Whispers, and Broken Hill

"Comfort comes bottled, but escape takes a Portal—and I know which one lasts longer."

As soon as we opened the front door, Snowflake was there—her soft white form a perfect contradiction to the storm of the last few hours. She padded towards us with measured grace, tail held aloft, her amber eyes widening in that way cats have when they decide the room now belongs to them. For a heartbeat, she was the embodiment of home, of the quiet normality we’d once taken for granted.

Gladys’s composure crumbled instantly. With a dull thud, she dropped to her knees on the hallway tiles, arms scooping Snowflake into her chest. The cat accepted the embrace with dignified tolerance, purring like a small, steady motor. For a fleeting moment, the day’s chaos was reduced to the simple rhythm of breath, fur, and the unblinking gaze of a creature who neither knew nor cared about police chases or public humiliations.

But peace never lasted long in our world. Out of the corner of my eye, movement caught—something dark gliding towards the fringe of the front door. My head turned just enough to catch the slow, deliberate crawl of a patrol car edging down the street. The methodical pace alone set my pulse racing.

“Shit,” I hissed, the sound slipping out between clenched teeth. The word carried all the urgency I didn’t have time to explain. I nudged Gladys sharply with my elbow, the kind of jolt designed to break through her moment with Snowflake without shattering it completely.

The door clicked shut behind us with a firmness that felt final, the sound landing in my ears like the sealing of a vault.

“What is it?” Gladys asked, her voice a strange mix—confusion braided with the thin thread of fear. She looked up at me, eyes wide, still clutching Snowflake like the cat might shield her from whatever was out there.

“The police are here,” I said, the words sitting heavy between us, no need for embellishment.

My hand found her shoulder, fingers tightening just enough to steer without shoving. I turned her towards the hallway, my voice low but my grip unyielding. The spare bedroom at the back of the house was no fortress, but it was out of sight—and for now, that would have to be enough.

The hallway air had that peculiar winter chill that seemed to creep in from nowhere, prickling over my skin despite the shut doors and windows. It carried with it the scent of damp wood and something faintly metallic, like the house itself had tensed in anticipation. We moved quickly, our footsteps muffled against the worn carpet, every sound in the quiet house suddenly feeling magnified.

Once inside the room, Gladys closed the door with a quiet click while I crossed to the window, my movements quick and deliberate. The blinds gave a faint rattle as I pulled the cord, each tug lowering another slat of shadow between us and the outside world. The room dimmed into a muted half-light, the gloom pressing closer, as though the danger outside had seeped in with the dark. The house no longer felt like a sanctuary—more like a shell we’d retreated into, thin-walled and easily cracked.

We sat together on the floor, our backs braced against the bedframe. I could feel the rigidity in my own body, the way my shoulders refused to loosen, and Gladys sat the same—still, tense, ready to spring but with nowhere to go.

The knock when it came was sharp and heavy, making the thin wood of the front door shudder. My pulse jumped.

“Police!” The voice carried easily down the hallway, flattening the distance between us and them.

Snowflake flinched, her ears folding back before she tucked herself tighter under Gladys’s arm. Her purr had stopped; now she was silent, a small white knot of alertness, mirroring our own instinct to shrink from the intrusion.

The silence that followed was almost worse. I held my breath, counting the seconds, allowing the faintest hope to bloom that they might move on. The breath left me in a slow, quiet exhale—only to catch again at the sudden metallic squeal of the side gate.

My head turned sharply towards the sound, heart kicking against my ribs as the crunch of boots on gravel grew closer. A silhouette slid briefly across the window, the shape pausing just long enough to make my chest tighten with the instinctive urge to hide deeper.

“Intrusive pricks,” I muttered, keeping my voice low, the bitterness coating the words. My eyes stayed locked on the patch of glass where the shadow had passed, every nerve pulled taut with resentment. They called it serving and protecting. I called it barging in where they weren’t wanted.

Gladys only shrugged, the motion small but loaded with a kind of numb acceptance. In the low light, the hollows beneath her eyes were stark, their bluish shadows speaking for her more than words could. She looked worn down to the grain—like whatever reserves she’d been running on had been scraped bare, leaving only fatigue and a quiet surrender to whatever came next.

The flicker of a plan sparked in my mind, faint but bright enough to cut through the thick air in the room. It wasn’t fully formed—more instinct than strategy—but it carried that urgent shimmer of possibility.

“Gladys!” I hissed, the word sharper than I intended.

“What?” she whispered back, eyes locking onto mine.

“I think you should come to Clivilius with me,” I said. The words felt heavy and daring all at once, bold enough to taste in the air between us. For a second, it seemed almost plausible—slipping away to somewhere the law couldn’t reach, somewhere the past couldn’t follow.

“I can’t,” she answered immediately, the rejection instinctive. Her hands went straight to Snowflake, fingers curling into the thick fur as if the cat could tether her to this room, to this reality. She stroked her in steady, repetitive motions, the way people grip the edge of a table in rough seas.

“The police will leave in a minute. They can’t enter,” she said, her voice low, carrying that stubborn thread of optimism I recognised as half denial. She was trying to reassure herself more than me, though the look in her eyes told me she didn’t quite believe it either.

I studied her quietly, taking in the minute betrayals of her composure—the slight tremor in her hand as it smoothed Snowflake’s back, the way her shoulders had folded inwards as if bracing for impact. The fight she’d clung to earlier was slipping, replaced by something rawer, more fragile.

When her tears began to fall, they came without sound, running clean tracks down her cheeks. They weren’t theatrical—no sobbing, no shaking—just quiet, unrelenting proof of the fear and exhaustion she’d been carrying all day. Each one felt like a small surrender, a crack in the armour she’d been stubbornly wearing since I’d pulled her off the roadside.

Despite the swell of sympathy tightening my chest at her unravelling, I knew sentiment wouldn’t shield us from what was closing in. Comfort was a balm, not armour.

“Gladys,” I said, my voice deliberately steady, the edge softened but not blunted. I waited until her watery gaze lifted to meet mine. “Luke and I can’t protect you if you stay here, you know that.”

Her reply came fractured through sobs. “I know,” she breathed, the admission almost lost in the catch of her tears. Then, as if clinging to the last loose thread of her life before it unravelled entirely, she added, “I just need a few more days. Give me time to settle Snowflake with Mum and Dad.” Her voice carried more than a request—it was a plea for a scrap of normality, for the comfort of putting something, someone, in its right place before stepping into the unknown.

I don’t think you have a few more days, dear sister. The thought landed in my mind like a dull weight, unwanted but inescapable. I let out a slow, silent sigh, heavy with resignation, my breath clouding faintly in the cool air of the dim room.

“And what are you going to tell them? You know you can’t tell them the truth—” My words trailed off, suspended in the space between us, laden with the unspoken truth we both understood: there was no way to make this sound reasonable, safe, or sane.

For a split second, a mad idea flared—bringing Mum and Dad to Clivilius. I could almost see it: Mum fussing about the lack of a proper kettle, Dad standing awkwardly as though someone might hand him a clipboard with tasks to do. The image was gone as quickly as it came, smothered by the pulse of pain in my arm. The scratches, faintly throbbing beneath my sleeve, were a sharp reminder of Clivilius’s dangers, its teeth bared even when you thought you’d found somewhere safe to stand.

No. They belonged here, in their serene, settled life—an existence that would crumble in the alien strangeness of the other world. They would be fish out of water, gasping, flailing… and I wasn’t about to watch that happen.

“Just a few more days. I’ll sort it, I promise,” Gladys said, her voice pulled taut between determination and despair. The words were an attempt at reassurance, but I could see the truth in her eyes—this was as much a plea to herself as it was to me. That unspoken vow sat there, fragile but fierce, to protect whatever scraps of normality she could still lay claim to.

I rolled my eyes, the movement automatic, a small release valve for the mix of frustration and reluctant acceptance brewing in me. She could be standing on the edge of a cliff with the wind at her back, and she’d still be thinking about how to keep Snowflake’s bowl topped up. That bond of hers wasn’t just unshakeable—it was stitched into her bones.

Speaking of fur babies, where is Chloe? The thought drifted in before I could stop it. In another moment—another life, even—I might have asked aloud. Gladys’s little shadow was rarely far from her side, and the absence was noticeable. But with the air in the room already weighted by the threat outside, I bit the question back. No sense stacking more stones on her shoulders when they were already bowing under the load.

I told myself Chloe was somewhere safe in the house, curled up in a spot Gladys had made for her, blissfully unaware of patrol cars and whispered escape plans. The lie was easy enough to believe for now—and believing it kept us both from tipping further into the worry that was already nipping at our heels.

The lengthening stillness outside was its own kind of menace, pressing into the walls and ceiling until it felt like the house itself was holding its breath. My fingers moved without conscious thought, easing two slats of the blinds apart just enough to carve a narrow line of sight. The cold from the glass met my skin as I scanned the backyard, searching for any trace of the officer who’d so brazenly prowled our space minutes earlier.

“Looks like they’re gone,” I said at last, my voice balanced between relief and caution. I let the blinds fall back into place with a muted rattle, turning to Gladys with a small tilt of my head—a signal that the room had served its purpose and we could step back into the open.

We moved down the hall, the shift from the dim, tense refuge into the relative brightness of the kitchen feeling oddly jarring. “No doubt they’ll keep checking here for you,” I added, the words a deliberate reminder, though I already knew she didn’t need telling. The shadow of their presence would linger far longer than their footsteps on the pavement.

“I know,” she said, the resignation in her tone falling heavy between us. And then, with the fluid inevitability of someone reverting to muscle memory, she crossed to the bench and reached for a bottle of shiraz.

The corkscrew turned with an ease that spoke of long practice, the muted pop carrying far more meaning than the small sound should. It was the noise of retreat, of pulling the drawbridge up, of deciding—again—that the world could wait while the glass was poured.

“Gladys, don’t,” I said, the words slipping out low and unpolished, my concern plain. I wasn’t looking at the wine so much as what it stood for: the slow drowning of herself in something she could control, while everything else spun out beyond her reach.

She didn’t answer, at least not with words. The bottle tipped, the dark red liquid catching the kitchen light as it filled the glass in one generous rush. She lifted it, took a deep, almost defiant sip, and set it down again with a dull clink that seemed to settle in the silence like a verdict.

“I’m going to have a shower. Tell Luke that I’m alright, would you?” Gladys said, her tone almost breezy—like she was announcing she was off to water the plants, not to rinse off the wreckage of the day.

“Sure,” I replied, pressing my lips into a thin line that kept the rest of my thoughts in check. The word carried a faint note of resignation, though my mind was already elsewhere. Paul’s instructions resurfaced like a persistent echo, reminding me of the unfinished business waiting beyond these walls.

“I’ve left a car near Gawler. I need to finish driving to Broken Hill before nightfall,” I added, the firmness in my voice born from necessity rather than enthusiasm.

That caught her. She paused mid-step, her figure framed in the doorway, head tilted just slightly in that way she did when something had snagged her attention. “Broken Hill?” she repeated, the words carrying more curiosity than challenge. Her eyes narrowed just enough to suggest she was already turning over theories in her head. “What’s in Broken Hill?”

“Paul has sent me on a mission,” I said, and even as the words left my mouth, I felt that small spark ignite—a flicker of determination that cut through the fatigue pressing against my bones.

“A mission?” Gladys echoed again, but this time with a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, as though amused by the weight I’d tried to give the word. The faintest trace of playfulness threaded through her voice, brushing against the edges of the room’s heavier air.

Irritation flickered under my skin. “Are you really going to just stand there and repeat everything I say?” My frown deepened, though not entirely from annoyance—there was something in her deflection I recognised, a small rebellion against letting the moment sink too deep.

Her laugh came quick and light, dissipating almost as soon as it appeared, a passing ripple in the stagnant tension. “I’m going for a shower,” she said again, this time without looking back, disappearing into the hallway with Snowflake trailing at her heels as if the cat had chosen her side.

Alone now, I reached for Gladys’s abandoned wine glass, its dark liquid already leaving slow crimson trails along the curve of the bowl. The lingering scent of shiraz rose to meet me—ripe berries, a trace of oak, that faint warmth that hinted at comfort if you let it in. For a moment, I let myself breathe it in, the aroma curling around me like a soft, treacherous invitation.

Then I set the glass down with a quiet click against the counter. That’s enough. The reminder came sharp and unsentimental, a verbal hand on my shoulder steering me back to the business at hand.

There were things to be done—my own tasks, my own deadlines—and they wouldn’t wait while I lingered in the scent of someone else’s escape. I moved with purpose through the living room, retrieving the Portal Key from my pocket.

Within seconds, the air in front of me shimmered and warped, colours twisting into a fluid vortex. I anchored the new Portal point here, in her home—a tether in our ever-expanding web of entries and escape routes. The pull of it was both familiar and strange, a promise of movement in a world that had become heavy with waiting.

Stepping through, the sounds and smells of the house dropped away in an instant—the muffled plumbing, the faint steam of hot water, the residual perfume of wine—all left behind like a life paused mid-scene. Ahead lay Broken Hill, the mission, and whatever came next.

Another shit storm, most likely. But at least this one would be mine to walk into.