I said that I would. As I waited for the taxi to arrive, I tried to remember Peter’s “frightful rages” but couldn’t really. What temper Peter had, he kept in check around me. When I looked back it was always me throwing my weight around, losing my rag. But Peter? Peter had gone underground. He had been evading me for so long, it was hard to say exactly when it’d started.

The cab pulled up and I got in. As soon we pulled away, I realized I had neither my umbrella nor my shopping, but I didn’t think for a moment of turning back. I felt it, bone deep, the sudden conviction that Peter was not dead, that Peter was hiding, and I was going to find him, really find him, as I always had in our games of hide-and-seek—crouched behind the holly bush, or lurking in one of the Hacketts’ calf pens. I heard it faintly, a far-off cry echoing down the years, Coming Peter, ready or not!

His flat was in Vauxhall, not far from the station. The building was twenty stories high, new, its surface sheer and glassy. Most of the apartments were owned by foreign investors and left empty, nest eggs, to minimize tax liabilities and be turned into cash when the need arose. A few apartments were illuminated, but the majority were dark.

I presented myself to the doorman as Peter’s cousin, Peter’s worried, trembly voiced cousin, sweet and uncertain. The doorman buzzed Peter’s flat.

“Mr. White is not answering.” He was reading The Abuja Inquirer online and, as I leaned in over the desk, I saw he had his shoes off. A half-eaten ham roll was sitting in an open drawer. He looked at it guiltily and slowly rolled the drawer shut.

“Do you know if he is there? Have you seen him today? Recently then?”

A shake of the head. “But I do nights. Eleven till six. I haven’t seen your cousin in some time, but that doesn’t mean he’s not here.”

“His mother asked me to come. She doesn’t want to call the police yet, but we’re all so worried. He might be in there. He might be sick.” My voice suggested the edge of tears, it suggested that upstairs my cousin was dying, his phone just out of reach. The doorman’s name tag said Adewale. I could see the word “mother” affected him. I tried it again. “You have to let me in so I can see if he’s all right … for his mother.”