She opened her eyes, took a deep breath and turned on the ignition. It was dark. Sharmi knew she had to get rid of the car. She pulled away from the pavement and headed for Yeoville, an inner-city suburb of Johannesburg that sat on a ridge overlooking the city. Yeoville was almost as old as the city itself, established in the 1890s as a lofty refuge from the dirty, chaotic and sometimes violent gold-mining town that was growing out of the veld below. Like much of the area around it, Yeoville had been through a familiar cycle of nineteenth-century gentility, fifties edgy chic and late-twentieth-century urban decay. Now it was a melting pot of African sounds and customs, a home for traders and traffickers alike. There was always talk of a renaissance and a few brave souls, like the trekkers of old, were taking a bet on its gentrification and moving in, not least because they couldn’t afford to live anywhere else in the city. But for the most part it was what it was – a place where no one asked any questions because the answers were never that simple. Sharmi knew it was the kind of place she needed now.
It was a short drive from Hillbrow, across Joe Slovo Drive, then to Raleigh Street, the backbone of the area. Sharmi drove around for more than half an hour, down one back street and then another, before pulling up outside a mechanic’s shop, locked up for the night. She looked around the car’s interior, part sentimental, part caution. A pile of newspapers, a half-empty bottle of water, a Nando’s takeaway bag. She opened the door and shut it again. She reached for the Nando’s bag, pulled out the receipt and scoured it.
‘Shit!’ It had the address of the fast-food outlet on the N12 going east to Nelspruit, the provincial capital of Mpumalanga.
If you’ve left tracks get rid of them.
Sharmi screwed up the receipt and chucked it into her bag. She got out of the car, left the key in the ignition and the door slightly ajar, then walked away. No one noticed her, still less cared.