The darkness inside the stairwell was absolute, a solid column of black that seemed to press in on all sides. It was a place stripped of all sensation except for the cold, damp smell of old concrete and the faint, chilling draft that whispered down from the upper floors. For Adekunle, it was the final leg of a journey into hell, and the silence was his primary enemy.
He crouched at the bottom of the stairs, the red toolbox a dead weight in one hand, the tyre iron a cold, grim talisman in the other. He listened, straining his ears, trying to parse the geography of the building through sound alone. He could hear the soft, steady drip of rainwater from a leak in the roof somewhere above, a sound that would have been comforting in the old world but was now a maddening, repetitive clock marking the passage of their stolen time. He could hear his aunt's breathing behind him, a shallow, painful whisper of air. And beneath it all, he could feel a low, almost sub-sonic vibration through the soles of his shoes—the thrum of voices and movement from the ground-floor flat. The monster was sleeping with one eye open.
"Auntie," he whispered, his voice a dry rasp. "We go now. One floor at a time. I will go first. When I signal, you follow. Crawl. Do not try to stand. Keep your head down."
Funke, leaning against the wall, gave a weak nod. Her face was a pale oval in the gloom, her eyes luminous with fever and fear. She understood the stakes.
Adekunle began the ascent. He did not walk. He moved like a spider, using his hands and feet, keeping his body low to the ground to minimize his silhouette against any stray light. He placed the heavy toolbox on a step above him, slid it up silently, then moved his body after it. It was a slow, painstaking process. Each step was a universe of risk. He would test the concrete with his hand, feeling for loose gravel or debris before shifting his weight. His ears were on fire, attuned to the slightest sound.
He reached the first-floor landing and froze. The vibrations were stronger here. He could smell them now—the sour, cloying scent of cheap gin and the acrid smell of stale cigarette smoke seeping from under the door of Flat 1A. He could hear the low murmur of voices, the occasional rough laugh. He flattened himself against the wall, making himself as small as possible, every muscle in his body screaming with tension.
He waited for a full minute, listening, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He heard a chair scrape against a floor, a bottle clink against a table. The sounds of life, so mundane in the old world, were now the harbingers of a brutal, merciless death. He risked a glance at the door. A thin line of flickering candlelight was visible in the crack at the bottom.
He gave a soft, scraping sound with his foot against the concrete—the signal. He heard his aunt begin her own ascent below, a slow, agonizing crawl. She was dragging her splinted leg, the sound of the fabric of her wrapper whispering against the steps terrifyingly loud to his own hypersensitive ears. He held his breath, his eyes locked on the sliver of light under the door, waiting for it to be blocked by a shadow, for the voices to stop, for the door to be thrown open. But nothing happened. The men in the room were lost in their own world of drink and dull conversation. They were arrogant. They believed they were the only living things in the building.
Funke reached the landing, her face slick with sweat, her teeth gritted against the pain. She collapsed silently beside him, her chest heaving. He put a hand on her shoulder, a gesture of reassurance, then pointed upward. One down. Two to go.
The climb to the second floor was quieter, but no less terrifying. The sounds and smells of the gang faded beneath them, replaced by a deep, listening silence. This was the floor where they had heard the woman weeping days ago. Now, there was nothing. As they reached the landing, Adekun-le saw that the door to Flat 2A was slightly ajar, a blacker rectangle in the darkness. A deep, instinctual dread washed over him. He crept toward it, his curiosity a morbid, irresistible pull.
He peered through the crack. The flat was a mess, its contents ransacked. But it was the smell that hit him first—the same cloying, sweet smell of rot he had encountered in the supermarket, but this was different. This was the smell of spoiled meat. Of death. He didn't need to see the body he knew was just out of sight in the darkness of the room. The new king had cleared the board. They had not just taken the ground floor; they had purged the building.
A cold, hard certainty settled in Adekunle's gut. Their flat, on the third floor, was the only place left. The only prize. It was not a matter of if the gang would come for it, but when. They had to get inside. They had to fortify. They had to be ready.
He pulled back from the door, a fresh wave of urgency propelling him upward. He led his aunt past the silent, death-filled flat, their movements now even more cautious, more deliberate. The final flight of stairs felt like the face of a mountain. His own exhaustion was a physical weight, his muscles trembling with the sustained effort. He could feel his aunt weakening behind him, her movements growing slower, more labored.
And then, they were there. The third-floor landing. Home.
He saw their front door, a solid, reassuring shape in the gloom. It was untouched, the three heavy-duty locks his uncle had so proudly installed still intact. He stumbled the last few feet and leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the door, a wave of relief so powerful it almost buckled his knees. He wanted to weep.
But they were not safe yet. The final challenge remained. Unlocking the door without making a sound that would carry down the echoing stairwell.
He helped his aunt into a sitting position against the wall, then turned his attention to the locks. He pulled the keys from his pocket, their faint jingle a terrifyingly loud sound in the stillness. He selected the first key, his hands trembling. He paused, his mind racing. His uncle had been a fanatic about maintenance. He oiled these locks every six months. But they hadn't been used in weeks. Would they squeak? Would the bolt scrape?
He had an idea. It was a long shot. He fumbled in his backpack and found the tin of corned beef he had grabbed from the shop. He prized the lid open with the edge of the tyre iron. Using his little finger, he scooped up a small amount of the greasy, gelatinous fat from the top of the meat. It was a crude lubricant, but it was better than nothing. With painstaking care, he wiped the grease onto the key and gently, slowly, inserted it into the first lock.
He held his breath and turned. The key moved with a soft, almost soundless whisper. The first bolt disengaged with a barely audible snick. Adekunle's heart soared. He repeated the process with the second lock, his movements practiced now, more confident. The second bolt slid back just as quietly.
Only the third lock remained, the big, heavy-duty deadbolt at the bottom. This was the one he feared. It was a monster of a lock, its bolt a thick slab of solid steel. He lubricated the key and inserted it. He began to turn it, his muscles tense, his ears straining. The mechanism turned, but then he felt it—a grinding resistance. The heavy bolt was scraping against its housing.
He froze. He could hear the sound, a low, grating noise that seemed to reverberate through the very structure of the door. He looked down the dark stairwell, his blood running cold, expecting to see a light, to hear a shout. But there was only silence.
He couldn't force it. He had to be smarter. He remembered his uncle showing him a trick once, when the lock had been stiff. "Never force it, Kunle. You have to finesse it. Lift the door handle slightly. It takes the pressure off the bolt."
He held the key steady with one hand and with the other, he gently, slowly, lifted the door handle, just a fraction of an inch. He tried the key again. It turned. The heavy bolt slid back with a soft, deep, satisfying thump.
He had done it.
He pulled the door open, revealing the perfect, familiar darkness of their own home. He half-carried, half-dragged his aunt over the threshold, her body nearly limp with exhaustion and relief. He slipped inside after her, pulling the toolbox in, and pushed the door closed.
He didn't bother to re-lock it yet. He just stood there, leaning against the door in the absolute, safe darkness of his home, listening to the sound of his own frantic, triumphant heartbeat. The journey was over. They had made it. They had crawled through the belly of the beast and had come out the other side. They were home. The air smelled of stale, locked-in stillness, but to Adekunle, it was the sweetest, most beautiful smell in the entire world. It was the smell of a sanctuary.