When They Are Near

Mr. Collins drummed his fingers nervously on the table. He sat on an uncomfortable metal chair, hunched over, almost folded into it. As if suddenly realizing this, he straightened up and placed his hands in front of him, trying to calm himself. But it wasn’t working.

His gaze darted around the gloomy interview room of the Ravenhall Police Station until it finally stopped on a tiny window near the ceiling. Heavy raindrops suddenly began to hammer against the glass – insistent, almost hypnotic. It seemed to Collins that the rhythm of the raindrops matched the throbbing in his temples: thud‑thud, thud‑thud… Yet, despite everything, the sound of the rain brought a small measure of comfort.

The man caught himself thinking that he would rather be anywhere outside this oppressive place. Even soaked to the skin under an icy downpour, shivering from wind and cold – anything was better than sitting here, waiting for questions from people in uniform.

A sharp clatter of heels in the corridor cut through his thoughts – precise, hurried, like the final seconds ticking down to an inevitable climax. A moment later the door swung open, and Inspector Alice Doyle stepped into the room with its dark‑grey walls. She held a thin folder pressed neatly to her chest. Behind her came a man with a gaunt face and deep shadows under his eyes.

“Mr Collins,” Doyle began, pressing the button on the recorder, “you are not under arrest and you may leave this room at any time. Do you agree to continue this interview?”

“I do,” the man replied hoarsely. He cleared his throat and added, “You can just call me Darren.”

“All right, Darren. Today is the sixth of November, 6:42 p.m. Present are Inspector Alice Doyle and Detective Constable Neil Ashford.”

She placed the folder on the table and let her gaze rest on Collins for a brief moment.

“Darren, I need you to answer honestly and in as much detail as you can. Tell me when you last saw your wife.”

“Last night. Around half past ten. She left the house… just to take a walk. She does that when she can’t sleep.”

“You didn’t go with her?”

“No. I was watching the football.”

“Who won?” Ashford asked immediately.

“I didn’t get to finish watching the match. About forty minutes later I got worried, went outside… but she was nowhere to be found.”

“Darren, I know this is difficult, but we need to clarify a few things. You were the last person to see your wife, correct?” Doyle clarified.

“Looks like it,” Collins replied after a brief hesitation.

“Did you call the police right away?”

“No. I looked for her myself first – walked around the neighbourhood, called some friends, checked the park. Then I called you. Two or three hours had passed… maybe more.”

Neil Ashford gave a barely noticeable nod and made a note in his notebook.

“Was there anything unusual that evening? Was she upset? Did she threaten to leave?”

“No,” Darren said quickly, straightening a little. “Nothing like that. We were perfectly happy. Everything was fine.”

“I see. But your neighbours claim they heard raised voices. About an hour before Jackie left,” Doyle said, clicking her pen.

Collins lowered his gaze.

“We were discussing something. But it wasn’t an argument.”

“Even so,” Doyle said, opening the folder, “one of your neighbours insists they heard a scream. A woman’s scream.”

Darren Collins jerked his head up.

“That’s a mistake. Jackie didn’t scream. It was just a conversation. I needed to fix the porch light – she reminded me before she went out. Maybe a bit louder than usual, that’s all…”

Ashford made another note in his notebook and asked:

“All right. Can you explain why you didn’t call the police immediately when she didn’t come back?”

“Well… I didn’t think… I assumed she’d gone to her sister’s. Or stayed by the river. She likes watching the water. I…” He exhaled. “I didn’t want to look like I was panicking.”

“But you only called in the morning,” Doyle noted.

Collins nodded.

“Right. After I found her scarf on the road. It was wet. And… torn. I don’t understand how that happened.”

The inspector leaned back in her chair and fixed Darren with a steady look.

“Let’s be honest. Do you understand how this looks? Your wife disappears after an argument – or even without any obvious reason. The husband is home alone, watching football. No witnesses after she leaves the house. It’s a classic beginning to a very different kind of story.”

Unable to bear the pressure, Collins shot up from his chair, his voice cracking as he almost shouted:

“Are you accusing me?! I loved her! I couldn’t have… I would never…”

“Sit down, Mr Collins,” the detective constable said calmly. “We’re not accusing anyone. Not yet. But these are the facts: her phone was found by the river. Your car was seen in that area the same night. And…” – he gave Collins a meaningful look – “you didn’t report her missing right away.”

“I was in shock! I thought she’d come back. Wait… do I need a lawyer?”

“You tell us, Darren. What do you think?” Neil asked, his tone sharpening.

“Listen! I didn’t want to believe that… that something had happened. It’s a quiet neighbourhood. But now you’re interrogating me instead of looking for the real culprit! Or maybe she had an attack and needs help! She has a heart condition, you know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, we’re aware,” Ashford replied.

“And what about her hobbies? Did she have any… unusual interests? Friends?” Doyle continued, her tone softening slightly.

“I don’t think so,” Collins said slowly after taking a sip of water from the plastic cup.

“You also mentioned… a strange sound near your house. What kind of sound was it?”

Darren didn’t answer for a long moment.

“I don’t know how to describe it. It felt like a vibration, as if something flew over the house. Very low. And I think I even saw a flash of light from a spotlight…” He swallowed loudly. “The light was too bright.”

Silence settled over the room. The only sound was the faint hum of the lamp above the table.

“Could it have been a small plane or a drone?” the detective constable asked.

“Maybe, though… I don’t know.”

Doyle leaned forward.

“Darren, are you sure you want this included in the interview record?”

Collins looked up, his eyes showing something close to desperation.

“Yes. Because that’s what happened.”

“Well… all right, Mr Collins. That’s all for now.”

“Oh, one more thing!” Ashford spoke up. “Why did you say, ‘I loved her’?”

“Because it’s true,” Darren replied, confused.

“No – why did you use the past tense? Do you know something about what really happened to Jackie?”

“What? I don’t understand… I didn’t even notice I said that. I haven’t slept all night…”

“But it’s strange, to say the least,” Alice Doyle added.

“God…” Collins breathed out in anguish, covering his face with his hand. “I only meant that I truly loved my wife up until the moment she walked out of the house. I didn’t mean anything else by it. Can I go now?”

“Yes, you may leave, Darren. But don’t leave town. And if you remember anything else – even the smallest detail – call us immediately,” Ashford warned.

Darren Collins rose slowly from the chair, as if every movement cost him effort. He hesitated for a moment, as though he wanted to add something, but only gave a small nod and headed for the door. Ashford and Doyle exchanged brief glances – there was caution in their eyes.

When the door closed behind Collins, Neil leaned back in his chair and rubbed his tired eyes.

“Well? Any thoughts?” Doyle asked, exhaling slowly.

“He’s definitely holding something back,” the detective constable said, staring at the empty chair.

“I think he’s lying on purpose.”

“Or maybe he’s confused?” Neil suggested.

“Or scared?” Alice added. “That sound… the spotlight… If he made it up, then why?”

“Well, as they say, so many questions…” Ashford began.

“And so many answers – you don’t even know which one to pick,” Doyle finished with a smirk.

***

Darren Collins stepped out of the police station as if he’d fallen out of a cramped, airless box into the cold open air. He drew in a deep breath, but it brought no relief. The rain had almost stopped, only a few stray drops still fell from the roof, splashing into the puddles below.

He hurried toward his parked car to avoid getting wet. Already near the vehicle, Collins noticed something white on the windscreen. He carefully peeled off the soaked sheet of paper, the printed text blurred in places from the rain. But the final paragraph was still perfectly readable: “It’s already happened. Stop pretending. You know why she’s gone.”

Darren glanced around nervously, but there wasn’t a soul in sight – only the empty car park and a few street lamps whose dim light trembled on the wet tarmac. He clenched the soaked piece of paper in his fist and hurriedly got into the car.

After starting the engine, Collins sat there for a long time, staring straight ahead as if trying to make out something hidden in the twilight emptiness. Then he slowly covered his face with his hands. He never cried – instead, a low, muffled groan escaped him.

Darren was still sitting motionless, his face buried in his palms, when a sudden loud knock on the side window made him jolt as if struck by electricity. He lifted his head sharply and saw a human silhouette standing outside.

Freezing for a split second, Collins tried to make out the indistinct features behind the rain‑streaked glass. But the water running down the window turned the face into a shifting mask of shadows and reflections. The stranger leaned in closer, and at that moment the light from the streetlamp slid across his jacket, catching on the metal pull of the zip. Darren noticed the odd, jagged edge – shaped like a stylised ‘F’.

He had seen the very same detail a couple of weeks earlier outside his house, when two unfamiliar men were standing by the gate late at night. The pair seemed to be waiting for something, murmuring to each other, and when one of them turned, the silver glint of an identical zip flashed for a split second. Back then, they had passed for nothing more than passers‑by – though something about them had felt off.

The mysterious man silently pointed at the glass, demanding that he lower it. Instead of obeying, Darren slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The car lurched forward, tyres screeching across the wet tarmac, and shot away, leaving behind the tall hooded figure.

Collins raced through the dark streets, barely managing to take the corners in time. He kept flicking glances at the rear‑view mirror – it seemed to him that the hooded silhouette might appear in it at any moment. The rain grew heavier, turning the town into a blurred mosaic of lights.

At last, Darren turned onto a familiar street and braked outside his house. He switched off the engine and sat still, listening. Nothing – only the muted patter of raindrops on the roof.

He stepped out of the car, pulled up the collar of his jacket and hurried towards the door. The lock clicked with an unusually sharp sound. Once inside, Darren paused in the hallway; the oppressive silence felt almost tangible. He walked down the narrow corridor and then, not knowing what to do with himself, began wandering aimlessly from room to room.

In the bedroom, his gaze caught on Jackie’s cosy cardigan, carelessly thrown over the edge of the bed. It lay there as if its owner might return at any moment and slip it over her shoulders.

He stepped closer, lifted it without thinking and sat down on the edge of the mattress. Pressing the soft fabric to his face, he drew in a deep breath – at once catching the faint scent of his wife’s perfume, mixed with the warmth of home.

Why?… Why did you do this?… he kept repeating to himself.

Darren’s heavy thoughts were cut short by the ringing of his phone. He lowered the cardigan from his face and fumbled for the device.

“Mr Collins… Darren.” Detective Ashford’s voice was strangely gentle – almost sympathetic, the kind of tone people use when they want to lull someone into lowering their guard. “I have a question. You’ve transferred several rather large sums abroad. Could you explain the purpose of those transactions?”

Darren hesitated, trying to gather his thoughts. Then, forcing his voice to stay calm, he replied:

“Yes… yes, of course. We were transferring money to a charity. Jackie’s friend suffers from a rare disease, and we wanted to support the research.”

“I see. We’ll be checking that. Thank you.”

“Any news?” Collins asked at once, though he already knew the answer.

“Not yet. But we’re working on it.”

“Right…”

The call ended. Darren stared at the dark screen for another second. Then he rose quickly, tossed the garment onto the bed and almost ran out of the house.

A minute later, his car was already speeding toward the nearest pub – the only place where he could drown his thoughts, even if just for a while.

The Old Fox was half‑empty – on weekdays it rarely drew much of a crowd. Darren had barely stepped through the doorway when a familiar voice called out:

“Daz! Hey, mate, over here!”

Tom Hayward was sitting at a table by the wall – one of those people who always seem a little too loud for any room they’re in. He raised a hand to catch Darren’s attention, and Darren, too drained to resist, headed toward him.

“You look…” Tom hesitated, searching for the right word, “rough.”

Darren didn’t answer, but forced a strained smile and slowly sank into the chair.

Hayward studied him closely, narrowing his eyes.

“I heard… about Jackie. Sorry I didn’t call sooner. How are you holding up?”

“You can see it yourself… Not great.”

“Have the police found anything?” Tom asked gently.

“No,” Darren replied shortly. “They’re… working on it.”

Tom nodded, but his expression grew wary.

“Listen, I don’t want to pry, but… they questioned you, didn’t they?”

Collins ran a tired hand over his face.

“Yes. It’s standard procedure.”

“Standard?” Tom raised his eyebrows. “To be honest,” he glanced around for no real reason and lowered his voice, “people are saying all sorts of nonsense. I know you and Jackie had a few… family issues. I just wanted to hear it from you.”

Darren’s head snapped up.

“You think I…?” He broke off, as if the words stuck in his throat.

Tom lifted his palms in a defensive gesture.

“No, no. I’m just… trying to understand what’s going on. Everyone’s worried. So am I.”

At that moment, the heavy door of The Old Fox swung open, letting in a rush of fresh air. Darren turned automatically – a man in a dark hooded jacket stood in the doorway. The same one who had knocked on his car window.

The man walked in unhurriedly, shaking the last drops of rain from his sleeves. Reaching the bar, he pushed back his hood and brushed aside the wet hair clinging to his forehead.

Daz tensed visibly, his frown deepening. Tom noticed it instantly.

“You know him?” he asked quietly.

“No… I’m not sure,” Collins managed, his eyes fixed on the figure at the bar.

Hayward began studying the stranger as well.

“Alright,” he said at last, getting to his feet. “I’ll grab us a couple of shots, if you don’t mind. Something tells me it won’t hurt right now.”

Tom headed for the bar, leaving Darren alone. Darren sat with his hands locked together, feeling panic rising in his chest.

A few minutes later, Tom returned with two small shot glasses and a menu in hand.

“You won’t believe this,” he began with a faint grin, setting the drinks on the table. “That guy at the bar is telling the bartender he ran out of petrol and was looking for help. Says no one stopped, so he had to walk nearly three kilometres to the nearest station. People like that always amaze me! How do you even miss that your tank’s empty?”

Tom laughed, shaking his head.

Darren tried to smile back and glanced again at the man in the dark jacket – he was calmly drinking his beer. The tension eased a little, though not completely.

“Yeah… strange,” Collins muttered, pushing the two shot glasses further from the edge of the table.

“And the funniest part,” Tom went on, “he says he stood on the roadside for twenty minutes, waving his arms, and everyone just drove past. No one wants to help anyone these days, right?”

Daz nodded, though his thoughts were far away: Why did this guy end up in this bar of all places? Coincidence?

He lifted his eyes to the mysterious stranger – the man had just paid and was heading for the exit. Passing by their table, he looked intently at Darren. Collins felt there was something penetrating in that icy look.

“Well, come on, let’s drink,” he heard Hayward’s voice – it snapped him out of his daze. “You need to relax at least a little.”

Darren lifted his glass but didn’t bring it to his lips right away. For a few seconds they sat in silence, listening to the low hum of the pub. Somewhere deeper inside, the bartender clattered bottles, someone laughed quietly at the bar – to Darren it all sounded as if it were happening in another world. Then he took a sip, feeling the liquid burn his throat.

“Listen,” Tom resumed, “what if Jackie ran into those weird guys?” He whistled and twirled a finger in the air, mimicking a flying saucer.

“Ufologists?” Daz echoed.

“Yeah. And maybe they went somewhere together? She lost her phone and can’t tell anyone where she is.” Hayward slapped his palm on the table, as if confirming his own theory.

“In that case, she could’ve called from her friends’ phone,” Collins objected.

“True… But are the police at least considering that possibility?”

“I didn’t tell them Jackie had been on forums and was interested in that stuff.”

“But why, Daz? It might be important.”

“Because when I mentioned some kind of vibration and a bright light, they didn’t want to put that nonsense in the interview record.”

“Wait – what vibration and light?” Tom frowned.

“I don’t know, that’s just how it felt… I went out into the yard – but everything was quiet. After a while I got worried and went looking for my wife. You know the rest.”

“I think you should tell the police about it,” Hayward insisted.

“I will, mate…” Darren ran a nervous hand over his face. “You know, she often said she could feel them nearby. I laughed at her, but she kept browsing those forums, watching videos, talking to some ufologists, even going to meet‑ups… Jackie would light up when she talked about new hypotheses, new sightings… And I just joked, teased her. Even asked her to stop wasting time on that nonsense. And it wasn’t just me – sometimes she’d get emails, and once two strange men even came to the house and…”

Daz fell silent, as if weighing whether he should go on.

“And?” Tom asked impatiently.

“They warned her not to cross the line…” Collins glanced, for some reason, at the spot by the bar where the hooded man had been standing only minutes earlier.

Hayward caught the look.

“You think that guy in the hood was CIA?” he said with a laugh. “Keeping tabs on you?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure of anything anymore. But you know what Jackie’s like – stubborn, fearless, she never stops. She wanted to know more about ‘extraterrestrial intelligence’…” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if trying to make sense of something absurd, and went on: “Little by little she stopped sharing things with me. Closed off. And now I don’t even know where she could have gone.”

Hayward placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Right now the main thing is finding her. Maybe this angle does make sense – and the police should look into it.”

***

At home, Darren couldn’t fall asleep for a long time. He lay in the dark, listening to water shifting somewhere in the pipes, while outside the occasional car swept past, its headlights drawing pale stripes across the ceiling. His thoughts kept returning to Jackie – to her research and that unsettling sense of someone’s presence, to the flash of light and the vibration he still couldn’t explain. At last, exhaustion took over, and he slipped into a heavy, broken half‑sleep.

Suddenly, a phone call tore through his anxious dream, jolting Darren upright in bed. His heart started pounding so hard it stole his breath for a moment. He grabbed his mobile, almost dropping it.

“Mr Collins? This is Inspector Alice Doyle. I’m sorry to call at this hour… but we’ve found your wife.”

Darren froze. For several seconds he couldn’t force out a single word. One thought flared in his mind: they’d found a body. Then came the images – a dark forest, cold ground, a shape under a sheet…

“She’s alive, but currently in a state of shock,” the woman continued.

“She…” Collins’s voice broke. “She’s alive?!”

“Yes,” Doyle replied, brightly. “Something frightened her badly. She’s with specialists now.”

Darren was already getting up, fumbling for the jeans hanging over the back of the chair. As he grabbed them, coins, a crumpled receipt and a plastic card spilled from the pockets with a dull clatter. Everything rolled off in different directions, but Daz didn’t even notice – he was too busy trying to get dressed as quickly as possible.

“I’m coming now,” he told Doyle hurriedly.

“No, no, Darren,” the inspector’s voice grew firmer. “That’s not possible at the moment. Physically she’s fine – no injuries. But believe me, it will be better if you come for her in the morning. She needs time to stabilise. And we still need to speak with you again about what happened.”

Collins stopped in the middle of the room, gripping the phone.

“But Jackie… she’s safe?” he asked.

“Of course. Try to rest, we’ll call you.”

“Wait, where did you find her?”

“Strangely enough, in the same area where she went missing,” Doyle replied calmly. “A man walking his dog spotted her. Jackie was just standing there, staring at one point and not responding to anything.”

“I see… Thank you,” Daz said quietly.

He ended the call and sat down on the edge of the bed. For a long time Darren stayed like that, until a crumpled piece of paper on the floor caught his eye, lying among the small items that had fallen from his pocket.

Collins picked it up, smoothing it out with his fingers. As the paper unfolded, he recognised the sheet that had been on his car’s windscreen the day before. It had dried now, and the text was easier to read: an ordinary page torn from a book, probably blown there by the wind during the rain. Darren gave a faint, sad smile.

He placed it carefully on the bedside table and looked out of the window. The rain had almost stopped, and the sky in the east was beginning to pale.

Author bio: Walter Sarett is a science journalist and author of three books, including Scientific Fairytales, co‑written with Evangelina Sarett. Evangelina is the winner of a young writers’ literary contest and the recipient of a diploma from children’s author Sofia Remez.

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