XXVII

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The world is asleep.

The rain drums through the night, pelts the roof of John’s apartment like a multitude of tiny stones.

John usually stays here when he closes late from the detergent factory and the roads are filled with exhaust smoke and honks.

John goes down the stairs to the bunker below. The stairs groan under his weight. His khaki trousers swish with each tread.

His body is wet, he has washed the factory smell off. The cold shower still makes him shiver. He has brushed his teeth.

He moves smoothly, slowly. He feels some heat in his sternum. He breathes deeply, carries his concentration like a ropewalker.

He closes the trap-door and the sound of the rain ceases. Here in his own space, a world untouched by the rot of sin, of the scurrying of humans in their endless cycle. Food, drink, money, sex. Here he feels lightheaded and powerful.

There is an ancient television set, a VCR player, a reclining chair. A single light bulb illuminates the space. Exaggerated shadows lurk the corners.

Barbells litter the floor, glinting and silent. He has pumped all of them to exhaustion. He is familiar with their weight against his muscles.

A black cloth covers a structure on the wall behind him. John studiously ignores it. Turns his back to it and reclines on the chair. He slides the tape on the floor into the VCR. He turns on the TV.

Evening, the sky is a scattering of bronze. A badly exposed shot across the pool to the lighted house.

Indoors. Ribbons and colours everywhere. A brown table with a large cake, there are candles on it. Kids milling around. Most of them just knocking the doors of puberty.

The woman calls the kids, they jostle around her. “Its time to sing,” she says.

“Happy birthday to you…”

The celebrant is at the middle. A lithe girl with a glinting birthday cap.

John smiles. He remembers Carrie. She was one of the few kids who talked to him and didn’t snicker at his back. Now, she is an advertising executive.

A close-up. By the door, barely concealed by the curtains, are three boys staring down at two others.

John freezes the frame. He rewinds it and plays. Again and again.

The boys.

Three at the top of the stairs, just inside the door, and two outside. The sinking sun exaggerates their shadows.

John feels his heart throbbing through his chest. He takes the cassette from the player. Holds it in his palm and covers it with his other hand. It pulses.

He remembers the fear in his mouth that evening. He tastes it now. It smells like acetone, tastes like bile.
And the silence. Inside the house was as rowdy as a stadium but it was deathly quiet outside. Like the earth was holding its breath.

He remembers the absolute dread he had felt when the boys had herded him and Jimmy to the pool.

Then Remi had said, “Its time for a swim, fatso.” Then the boys had laughed. Remi, Tomiwa, Justin.

John remembers the trail of urine that had spread down his trousers. His throat had locked up.

John slides the cassette between his fingers. He has no idea how it ended up in his bags. He is sure it isn’t just by some design of fate.

He knows there is something bigger than him at work. Sometimes he feels it stir in his blood, like some ancient creature mumbling in a deep slumber. In those moments, he knows there is no more John. Just something else.

There is a pulse in his chest. A searing heat, a roaring inferno. It is almost choking him. He takes a deep breath and stands up. He drops the cassette on the chair, goes to the wall and switches off the light.

He sees the bulging shape beneath the cloth on the wall. He knows there is no escaping its spell when it calls him. He takes a step towards it, whimpers, then squeezes his eyes shut. He turns around and opens the trap door.

The Priest does not call to him today.

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