“Just in case you don’t have some,” he says, motioning at the items as he starts the engine.
I hide my hair under my cap and fit the sunglasses as he exits the parking. The morning peak hour is over. Going via the Hartbeespoort Dam, it doesn’t take more than ninety minutes to arrive in Johannesburg.
“Damian lives at the Vaal River,” Russell says, glancing in his side mirror as he takes the offramp to Braamfontein. “You’ll stay in the city. It’s easier hiding you among the masses than in an exclusive riverbank estate.”
I don’t care where I go as long as I can find my way back to Ian. Sinking lower in my seat, I take in the train station below the bridge as we cross town.
“Damian owns the building,” he continues. “The apartment doesn’t look like much, but you’ll be safe there.”
In the heart of Braamfontein, he passes the office buildings and stops in front of an apartment block. I reach for my bag, but he snatches it from the back.
It’s close to noon. The street is busy. Many people are making their way to an early lunch. No one spares us a glance as we enter a big lobby with nothing but a desk in the far corner. The concierge looks up and gives Russell a thumbs-up sign. Russell returns the greeting with a sharp nod. He ushers me into an elevator that must date from the sixties and pushes the button for the tenth floor. The elevator jerks to life, making a shaky ascent.
When the door opens, he gets out ahead of me, scans the hallway, and makes his way to the end. The building is old but well maintained. The paint on the walls is fresh, and the floors are shiny.
At the last door, he stops. “This is you.”
Taking the keycard from my pocket, I unlock the electronic lock and enter a studio apartment. Russell follows me inside. The single living space contains a bed, desk, chair, kitchenette, and a television mounted on the wall. A door leading off to the side gives access to a bathroom.
He puts my backpack on the bed. “You can use your phone to reach Damian if you must. It’s secure. There’s food in the fridge. If it’s not to your liking, there’s a grocery store down the road, but I suggest you don’t wander around. If you need anything, dial Simon downstairs. He’ll run errands for you.” He shows me an intercom phone on the wall. “Press 9. It’ll connect you to reception.”
I walk to the window, which gives a view of the Braamfontein Hotel. “What is this place?”
“A refuge for prisoners getting out of jail. It’s an intermediate place to stay while acclimatizing. There’s a canteen on the first floor, but as I said, you shouldn’t hang around where people can get a look at you.”
“Right.” Bracing my palms on the windowsill, I stare down at the street. There’s no balcony. I already feel like suffocating. When I imagine Ian in a jail cell, my chest draws so tight it’s hard to breathe.
“If you need me—”
“I’ll call.”
“Yes,” he says to my back, still in the same, friendly tone.
Making an effort, I turn and offer him a smile. “Thank you.” It’s not his fault I feel like a piece of shit.
“You’re welcome. Damian is working on getting a chartered flight organized for you. What destination do you have in mind?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
A deep line forms between his eyebrows.
“I have my own contacts,” I say. “Damian has done more than enough already.”
It looks as if he may argue, but then he says, “As you wish.” He inclines his head and makes his way to the door.
“Wait,” I say as he grips the handle. “Any news from the lawyer yet?”
“No.”
I bite my lip.
Caution creeps into his eyes. “As I said, don’t get your hopes up. The State wants to make an example of Ian.”
How dare he condemn Ian before his trial has even started? When Ian tells the truth about Wolfe, the judge has to have at least a little mercy. Ian killed Ruben because he shot me. He killed Wolfe to protect me. It wasn’t self-defense, but surely the fact that Wolfe framed him and came after us will aid Ian’s case?
“Take care of yourself,” Russell says from the threshold. “If you change your mind about getting assistance to disappear, let Damian know. He’ll be happy to help.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He hovers. “Don’t go anywhere for the next day or two. Give the dust time to settle.”
I salute him. “Got it.”
Still he doesn’t budge. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Clever is my middle name.”
His lips tilt. “Right.” Rapping his knuckles on the frame, he leaves.
The door shuts with a click. A beep sounds as the electronic lock activates. The fridge whirrs in the corner.
Silence dawns.
I stand quietly on the spot. For the first time since the action went down, I’m not pacing, tossing in my bed, or fiddling. I’m simply absorbing. That’s when it hits me the hardest.
My legs cave. Catching a sob behind my fist, I sink to my knees. To have believed I could live a full, happy life without Ian was an idle idea. When vengeance drove me, I didn’t feel the hole of lonely despondence in my soul. Revenge occupied my actions and my thoughts, but it was nothing but a diversion, a smokescreen to hide my true feelings. Knowing Ian is alive and I can never see him again will kill me as surely as a bullet, just in a different way. It will kill my soul and leave my heart bleeding while my body won’t have a choice but to carry on.
Clutching my pendant, I rock myself as I face the most hurtful, devastating, destructive of truths. The enormity of the Nyaminyami legend, for two fated souls to be separated forever, sinks in. It’s nothing like in the story. In real life, tragedy cuts much deeper, especially when that tragedy was brought on by your own hand.
The worst is the realization that I don’t have any power in the choice. When Ian’s verdict has been dealt, there will be no going back. I’d happily live here forever, living for the moments I’d get to see him, even if it’s through bulletproof glass and hearing his words through a telephone line. But there will be no more moments. I have to pick up the pieces and honor his sacrifice by going on with my life, by enjoying the freedom he gifted me in return for his own.
I thought my worst fear was over. I thought grieving my baby was the worst kind of sadness. Yet life decided to teach me more lessons. It taught me there’s always worse. It taught me to be grateful even for the bad times, because in retrospect, those times weren’t as bad as what I’d believed.
I wish I could cry. The need to shed tears burns in my chest, but my eyes are dry. I only had a short time with Ian, the happiest of my life. Happiness like that is hard to beat. Nothing will ever compete, and that’s why it has to be enough.
Just go through the motions. Follow the routine.
Once you start, the rest follows. Like a wheel set in motion, the cogs will turn until existing becomes second nature again.
Pushing to my feet, I go to the fridge and take out one of the microwaves meals. I nuke the soya mince on noodles and eat at the desk. After rinsing the cutlery, I lie down on the bed and stare at the shadows on the ceiling. They grow long. The room turns dark. Light spills in from the surrounding buildings, chasing the shadows in which I’m trying to hide.