He was half-way home, the sun had almost fully set, when he had the faint inkling he was being followed.
His heart leapt into his throat. He tucked his hands into his pockets, trying to seem casual as he surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder.
A tall man with a similar build was on the other side of the busy main road, walking in the same direction at a sedate pace. He had on a face-cap, hiding his features, and was dressed in a simple t-shirt and ill-fitting jeans.
Saint casually turned back around, taking a deep breath. About five minutes ahead of him was a junction off the main road. To the right, it branched into a neighbourhood street, and a small dirt path on the right of that led to his home.
Instead of continuing to the junction, he took the immediate next turn into a small dirt path. A glance over his shoulder after a few moments showed him the man had crossed the main road and was now on the same dirt path, following behind him.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Oh God. Sweat built on his upper lip and forehead, the hands in his pockets clenched into tight fists.
He’d have told himself he was being paranoid, that it might just be a coincidence, but considering this wasn’t the first time this had happened, he knew better than to write it off.
The route he’d taken was going to add an extra twenty minutes to his walk. He was just coming up on a street that would connect to the path leading to his home when he glanced over his shoulder again.
The man was gone.
Oh Jesus. Saint nearly sank to his knees right there.
His hands shook when he finally approached the gate to his abode, giving up on being subtle as he glanced wildly around, not wanting to be taken by surprise. The compound he lived in had three other self-contains, all housing men like him, and they all had keys to the gate.
A local dog bounded happily up to him as he finally yanked the gate open, letting the dog through before he slammed it shut and locked it behind him. Technically, he wasn’t allowed to bring the dog into the compound, but then again, his “neighbours” weren’t allowed to have parties and bring in sex workers; as long as he didn’t snitch, they wouldn’t either.
The dog sniffed at his legs and hands in search of food, tail wagging. Nigerians called them local dogs because no one was sure what breed they were—the general consensus was that they seemed to be a mix of greyhound, dingo, or basenji, with golden brown fur—and they were almost always without owners, roaming the usually low-income neighbourhoods.
“Hey, big man,” Saint said softly, smiling despite himself. He fetched one stick of Gala from his haul, and the dog nearly went wild when it heard and recognised the familiar crinkle of the plastic packaging. “Yeah, yeah,” Saint said, laughing, removing the wrap.
He’d barely held a hand out when the dog was chomping half of the sausage roll in one bite, making Saint jump.
He laughed again. “Easy, boy. There’s more where that came from.” He fed the dog the other half, his chest warming when it finished that, too, and stared at him with big, wet eyes. “This is emotional manipulation,” Saint said, reaching for another pack, “do you know that?”
The dog was too busy happily chomping on his second sausage roll to answer.
He always showered after work, so he didn’t mind too much as he leaned down to scratch the dog behind the ears when it was done eating. It rolled over onto its back, exposing its belly, and how could Saint resist that? He squatted down to give the dog a proper scratch, smiling softly as it panted happily, its tail going wild.
It whined when he eventually grew tired and stopped. His heart clenched painfully.
“I’m sorry, big boy,” Saint whispered, straightening.
The dog whined again, but Saint ignored it, fishing for the keys to his front door. It started barking. Saint stepped through the gate that protected the small landing, wincing as the dog’s barking grew more intense and violent. What the fuck? Yeah, it always whined and pleaded when Saint was preparing to leave, but stopped the moment Saint stepped through his gate, knowing it was futile. The main gate to the compound was made of thin metal bars where the dog’s thinner-than-it-should-be frame could easily slip through and disappear to wherever it came from.
Saint was so focused on ignoring the dog’s unusual yapping that he didn’t notice it until he’d slipped his keys into the lock.
Then he jolted, his lips parted on a silent scream, all the breath stolen from his lungs.
Taped to his front door was the bloody, severed head of a chicken.
TWO
It had taken hours for Saint to stop panicking, and even now, he couldn’t sleep. His bed was in the inner right corner from the front door of his self-contain, and he had his back to the corner so he had a full, unencumbered view of all four walls.
His lights were on, and his phone was in radio mode. It was Thursday, thank goodness, so Hot 98.3 was going to be playing music all night long until five AM. It barely helped to cover up the silence he couldstillsomehow hear.
He couldn’t get the sight of the severed head out of his mind. It was there, imprinted like a tattoo behind his eyelids every time he blinked.
The man following him, now this. He’d avoided thinking about it while he’d tried to calm down, but now he had no choice but to address it.
They’dfound him.Again.
