Having returned to Pierre's garage and snuck unseen through the house to retrieve Jamie's car that I'd left parked outside the De Bruyn's, I found myself pulling up in Glenorchy, not far from Tolosa Park, a few doors down from the address scribbled on the piece of paper that sat in the console.
From where I stood at the front gate, I observed the simple, red-brick unit. It was modest, unassuming, yet it held an air of neglect that couldn't be ignored. The front yard had been left unkempt, unlike the well-manicured lawns of its neighbours. Tall weeds grew between the gaps of the bricks that formed the supposed driveway, where an old Holden Commodore sat, its paint faded and tires flat—a silent testament to the passage of time.
I sighed, a heavy, laden exhale that carried with it my reluctance and resignation. Looks like someone's home. But this was not a house I felt I could just walk up to the front door and knock on. The sense of foreboding was palpable, as if the very air around the property whispered warnings. I was certain Joel's mother would be much less understanding than Pierre had been. The thought of confronting her, of explaining Joel's absence, twisted my stomach into knots.
It's better if she simply thinks that Joel is missing. At least for now. The decision was a heavy one, laden with the moral ambiguity of my actions. I wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do, but it felt like the only option I had. The alternative—revealing the truth—could unravel everything, could make things worse for everyone involved.
I lingered at the gate for a moment longer, taking in the scene, the silence of the street punctuated by the distant sound of a dog barking. The world seemed oblivious to the turmoil inside me, to the critical juncture at which I stood.
I didn’t have the keys to the house since Joel's had been lost at some point when he was murdered and dumped into the Clivilius river, so I headed for the back gate. The air was thick with the scent of impending rain, and the clouds above me swirled in a tumultuous dance, mirroring the turmoil in my thoughts. Although was it really murder if he is still alive? I asked myself as I walked, my footsteps quiet against the damp earth. The question lingered in the air, a spectre of doubt that refused to be easily dismissed. Now's not really the time for such frivolous thoughts, I told myself with a shake of my head, trying to dispel the confusion and focus on the mission at hand.
Peering over the top of the old, wooden gate, I breathed a sigh of relief. The yard was overgrown, nature reclaiming what was once meticulously maintained. No sign of any dog. I reached over, the wood rough and weathered under my fingers, and unlatched the gate, letting myself into the backyard.
As I crept along the brick wall, each step measured and silent, I came across a small bathroom window that had been left ajar. The paint around the window frame was peeling, and the glass was smudged with the remnants of a rain long passed. How opportune, I thought, a flicker of something akin to amusement passing through me. Not even a fly screen to contend with. It was a small victory, but in the grand scheme of things, it felt significant.
I pulled the window open as far as it would allow, the afternoon air brushing against my face, a refreshing contrast to the stale air inside. Gripping the windowsill, with a single jump, I hoisted myself up. The window frame was unforgiving, the edges sharp and unyielding against my palms. It was a tight squeeze, the space narrower than I had anticipated, but committed as I now was to the cause, I managed to pull myself through, banging my knee along the way. A sharp pain shot up my leg, a stinging reminder of the reality of my intrusion. That was enough to seal the deal. I'm definitely leaving through the front door on my way out.
Inside, the bathroom was claustrophobic, the walls seeming to close in around me. Balancing myself on the rim of the toilet as I lowered myself inside, a wide grin spread from ear to ear. I'm in! An odd rush of exhilaration sent a pulse of adrenaline coursing through my veins, for which I was very grateful. It was a bizarre feeling, this mix of triumph and trepidation, as if I was teetering on the edge of something monumental.
The bathroom was dimly lit by the sunlight filtering through a grimy window, casting long shadows across the faded linoleum floor. The air was heavy with the scent of mildew, and a drip from a leaky faucet was the only sound in the oppressive silence. I took a moment to steady myself, to gather my wits and prepare for what lay beyond that door.
Pushing my ear against the bathroom door, I listened intently, straining to catch any hint of movement or life from the other side. But there was nothing, just the silence, thick and unbroken. Perhaps there's nobody home after all? The thought was both a relief and a disappointment, a complex tangle of emotions that left me momentarily disoriented.
Carefully listening for the slightest of creaks, I slowly opened the bathroom door, my senses heightened to every minute sound. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest, a relentless drumbeat echoing the tension that knotted my stomach. The door hinges whispered a faint protest as I nudged it open, revealing a small, dimly lit space that branched into three directions.
To the left, the soft hum of a white washing machine broke the silence. Laundry. Its mundane presence was oddly comforting amidst the uncertainty that cloaked the rest of the house. Straight ahead, the walls opened onto a living area, its details obscured by the shadows that danced along the edges of my vision. And to the right, two doors—one closed, forbidding and silent, the other slightly ajar, a sliver of light beckoning from within.
As I crept toward the two doors, a faint sniffle pricked my ear to attention. The sound was so soft, so human, it pierced through the veil of my focus, drawing me inexorably toward the source. Peering through the tiniest of gaps visible through the door left ajar, I caught sight of a petite woman sitting on the edge of a double bed.
The room was sparsely furnished, an unadorned space that seemed to echo the woman's solitude. She dabbed at her nose with a hanky, a small, almost delicate gesture that belied the depth of her distress. Her other hand clutched a single sheet of paper, the cause of her sorrow a mystery held tight in the creases of the crumpled page. I studied her intently, the observer unseen, trying to piece together the story that unfolded before me. The paper seemed to have upset her—a letter, perhaps? A missive bearing bad news or a reminder of a past best forgotten?
Angrily, the woman scrunched the paper and tossed it at the bedroom door, the suddenness of her action jolting me from my reverie. The paper hit the door with a soft thud, an incongruous sound in the quiet of the house. For a moment, I was prepared to move along quickly, to leave this private grief undisturbed. But then the creak of the bed moving brought my attention snapping back to the room.
The woman shifted, her movement small yet significant in the stillness, a sign that this scene of sorrow was not yet complete. I hesitated, torn between the impulse to flee and the pull of the unfolding human drama before me. My presence here was an intrusion, yet I found myself rooted to the spot, caught up in the silent narrative of the woman's tears and the crumpled paper that lay discarded on the floor.
The sobbing, muffled by loud sniffles, intensified, each sound a reminder of the sorrow that filled the room. As the woman curled herself into a tight ball in the centre of the bed, the scene tugged at something deep within me. Despite the reasons that had brought me here, a surge of empathy washed over me, witnessing her raw, unguarded pain.
Moving with a deliberateness born of a newfound sense of intrusion, I slid my hand into the room, my actions slow, almost reverent. The paper lay crumpled on the floor, a discarded relic of a moment ago's outburst. I collected the paper, the texture rough against my fingertips, and smoothed it along the thin brown hallway carpet, each crease a testament to the emotion it had incited.
A soft gasp escaped my lips as the words came into focus. "Joel's birth certificate," I whispered, the weight of the revelation settling heavily upon me. So, she knows. The realisation sparked a cascade of questions. Does that mean Joel knows too? The implications of this discovery stretched out before me, a tangled web of truths and lies.
I felt a pang of sorrow for the woman, whom I now knew as Kate, a woman bound by her grief, shackled to a reality that I had unwittingly intruded upon. For a moment, I was lost in contemplation, considering the possibilities. She might have called the police to report his disappearance, an action born of desperation and hope. But the disdain with which she had treated the paper suggested a different narrative—she probably believed Joel had run off in search of his father. If only she knew how close to the truth that really was.
With a sense of solemnity, I folded the birth certificate carefully, a silent promise to handle this piece of her story with the respect it deserved. I tucked it into my pocket, a physical burden to match the emotional weight of my discovery. As I withdrew my hand from the room, the reality of my intrusion hit me. I was a spectator to her pain, an interloper in her story. The gravity of my role in this unfolding drama pressed down on me, a reminder of the delicate balance between harbouring secrets and respecting the sanctity of another's grief.
I have to keep moving, I commanded myself, the urgency of my mission reigniting within me as I tiptoed up to the closed door. My heart was a relentless drum in my chest, its rhythm accelerating with every silent step I took. The door, I assumed, shielded Joel's personal sanctuary from the world outside. With the sweat that slicked my palms betraying my nervousness, I wiped them down the front of my jeans, seeking some semblance of composure.
My fingers wrapped around the door handle, cold and unyielding. I eased the handle down slowly, painstakingly, until the soft click of its release from the doorframe filled the silent space between my breaths.
With a gentle push, I opened the door, my eyes scanning the room, hoping, praying it would be vacant. From the other room, the woman stirred, a subtle reminder of the precariousness of my intrusion. I have to move fast.
The room was a chaotic tableau, a revelation of Joel's life in disarray. Clothes, a testament to a life lived in haste, were strewn haphazardly across the room. I assumed these garments, discarded without a second thought, were dirty, yet paradoxically, they were likely his most worn, most familiar. With a surge of resolve, I began to collect the clothing, my movements brisk and focused. I shoved them into several bags, my actions driven by a blend of desperation and determination.
As the bags began to overflow, a testament to the life Joel had left behind, my gaze fell upon a pillow, adorned with a solar system pillowcase. It was a vivid splash of colour amidst the room's chaos, an intimate detail that spoke of dreams and curiosities beyond the confines of these walls. Seizing the pillow, a symbol of the personal amidst the impersonal task at hand, I rushed out of the room, the fabric clutched tightly in my grasp.
Returning to the small passage space, my bruised knee sent sharp reminders of my earlier mishap, pleading with me to avoid the route back to the bathroom. Heeding the insistent throbbing, I veered into the living space, only for my senses to be assaulted anew. A pungent odour, thick and unyielding, filled the air, gripping my nostrils with an invisible force. I clamped my hand over my nose, silently imploring the sensation to dissipate, but the impending sneeze was relentless, building with an intensity I could scarcely contain.
With every ounce of willpower, I attempted to stifle the sneeze, hoping against hope that Kate’s sobs would mask any sound I made. But it was a futile effort.
"Joel? Is that you?" The voice, tinged with a mix of hope and confusion, cut through the heavy air.
Panic surged within me, a cold, gripping tide that washed away all thought but escape. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled in alarm as I scrambled toward the front door, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm. My hands, slick with sweat and trembling with adrenaline, fumbled with the doorknob, twisting the lock in a desperate bid for freedom. Yet, the door remained steadfast, an unyielding barrier to my escape.
"Joel?" The call came again, closer this time, as the bedroom door creaked open with a sound that seemed to echo through the stifling air of the house.
"Shit," I hissed under my breath, my frustration boiling over as I gave the door another firm tug. "Who the hell deadlocks their house while they are inside!" The words were a whisper of fury, a vent for the rising panic that threatened to overwhelm me. I was so close. Less then twenty metres away, Jamie’s car was parked, waiting with Karen and Chris's suitcases for my return and escape.
Trapped, with the walls seeming to close in and the air growing thicker with each passing second, my mind raced for a solution. Desperation clawed at me, a visceral, gnawing beast that demanded action.
With a sense of finality, I aimed the Portal Key at the front door, the Portal my last vestige of hope in a situation that had spiralled beyond my control. And then, with the press of a button, I was gone, leaving behind the stifling confines of the house, the unresolved symphony of sorrow and confusion, and the lingering echo of a name called out in vain.
