“Oooh, that was quick.” said the woman, her eyes darting towards the duffel bag in my hands.
“Yeah. Pretty lucky.” I reply, quickly glancing back at my motorbike. This was the last stop before returning to The Garden, and the bike had been acting up on the last leg of the journey. Better to get it fixed before I did anything more taxing. “Anyway,” I say, beginning to open the duffel bag to hand over its contents. “I shou–”
“Why don’t you come in?” she interrupted, a smile on her face. It wasn’t a look I got from many people – not these days. But Abiola had an earnestness to her that was hard to ignore. “You can hand it over to Marcus yourself! It’s been a while since he’s had any visitors.” and, feeling unable to refuse her invitation, I allowed her to usher me inside of the house.
It always went like this after a job for the Olatunjis – always a comment on how quickly I return, I kind-of brush off the compliment, then I’m invited inside to hang out for a while.
It’s not bad, though. I don’t have much in terms of family or friends, and it’s nice to be in a familiar place with such warm people. But things had changed. People were … different. And the Olatunjis were one of those people. It’s not something you’d notice with a glance, but an inhale – the smell of death lingered around them. Of course, it wasn’t just them – it was a lot of people. Most people, in fact.
I follow after Abiola as she leads me through the narrow entrance that is the doorway and to the right, up the carpeted staircase. The stairs gently creak as we ascend – as it had done since they moved in, I’m told – and Abiola is once again humming quietly to herself. Before this all happened, she used to participate in the church choir, and sang every Sunday. She still sings these days, but she chooses to stay at her to look after her son, Marcus.
I try my best to remain stoic as we ascend the stairs, eventually arriving at the next floor of the house. She leads me past a series of doors – all are against the wall directly across from the stairs, which has a solid wooden handrail that also comes up to this part of the house. All the doors are some degree of ajar – I’ve never much been interested in the living conditions of anyone who wasn’t myself, thus it was simple not to peek in – but the door of interest was the one door that was shut. The front of the door was plastered with paper covered in drawings that, to some degree or another, read “get well soon”.
Abiola stopped in front of the door and, rather than knock on the door and announce my presence as usual, turned to look at me.
“You said you got better, right?” she asked me, her brow tinged with concern.
“Yep. Don’t I look better?” I lied, gesturing at my body with one hand. I was slightly past my physical peak – whatever that was – but I looked good wearing my biking jacket and gloves. I had left my helmet on the bike outside, confident that no-one would steal it. There wasn’t much of a reason to steal anything these days.
Good to myself, anyway.
She briefly looked me over before meeting my gaze once more, and I offered her a reassuring smile.
“The visions have started, and I’m pretty sure I’m only a few weeks off of hearing the angels.” I continue, regurgitating information I had once heard from a techie at The Garden, as I return my hand to hold up the base of the duffel bag. “I’m sure it won’t be very long until Marcus also hears them. As long as he has faith, of course.”
She looks me over for a moment longer but nodding, the concern fading from her face.
“That’s good to hear. Our youngest one has already gotten her halo, so hopefully we can all leave together.” she says, before leaning forward with a smile on her face. “God bless you.” she added.
“Thank you.” I say, as a wave of fear surges through my body. But with enough restraint – and her attentioned turned towards her son’s door – I’m able to hide it.
Just get in, say hi to the kid, and get out. We’re fucked if we meet that halo-having kid.
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