Silhouette

LI

The rain tortures everything in its path. Trees and streetlights stand skewed and twisted by the roadside. Dave swerves past several branches lying on the road. The rain drums on the car roof and the rising spray of water from the wheels are high and deafening.

He takes a right turn on Ameda Avenue and down the street is a blinking board of red neon light—Sevhage. A small lorry rumbles past, trudges through the waterlogged street, exhaust blaring black smoke.

Dave stops the car right under the sign. The night club is a large, squat building rising up into the gloom with faux brick paneled walls. Up above, a single window frame blazes with light.

Dave splays his hands on the steering wheel. His right hand is a glistening, purple mass. Every slight movement sends a lance of pain down his arm.

He darts out of the car and makes for the awning of the club’s main entrance. When he knocks on the door, he is cold and soaking wet.

His knocks bounce dully on the door, sounds like metal underwater. There is no reply, nor any sound apart from the rain. Dave shields his eyes with his palm, darts to the side of his car and looks up. The window above still glows with light from the room. He wonders if he’d be able to find Justin. The night club is the only address in his records.

Dave returns to the door. Whoever was in the office upstairs was probably a worker—if not Justin himself—and had to know his whereabouts. Dave pounds on the door. He grabs the thick handle of the knob and it swings open. He stares at the dark interior of the club open mouthed.  He goes in, pulls the door close behind him. His shoes are brown with mud.

“Hello. Justin Ikem, this is the police.” His voice sound oddly dulled. There is no reply. “Is anyone here?”

The club is large and airy and smells faintly of something. A single strobe light flashes red at a corner, beyond it is a set of stairs. Dave goes past a liquor cabinet hidden in the gloom and up the stairs. The sounds of the battering rain don’t make it inside.

Dave rounds the top of the stairs. The source of the bright light he’d seen from outside is a miniature chandelier hanging from the ceiling of an office.

He takes in the wide open door, and beyond it: a glass on the thick brown rug, pieces of clothing lying in a heap at the corner, a dark, square space in the white ceiling where a panel is supposed to be. And beyond it all, like the backdrop of a scene, is the gentle dripping of water.

Dave takes his gun from the holster. Excitement and dread bob in his chest like a pair of cold medallions. Dave is accustomed to danger. And he feels it now.

He tiptoes to the side of the door. The sound of dripping water is louder now, like a tap running half closed.

He swings into the office, gun pointed. He sees boots on the rug, the flash of khaki. He takes another step and he is looking up into the cold, dark eyes of John Chizoba.