Chapter 8

Auckland Park, a suburb of Johannesburg, Gauteng Province.

Georgie Harper was stretched out on the four-seater couch in the cozy lounge of her small garden apartment, nestled at the back of a modern suburban property along Wargrave Avenue. The gentle hum of suburban life drifted in through the open window, mingling with the faint scent of jasmine from the garden. She had propped a scatter pillow beneath her head, resting comfortably against the armrest. In her knock-about-the-house attire of worn-in shorts, an old t-shirt, and bare feet, she looked perfectly at ease. Life felt simple and unrushed at this moment.

Next to her, Sir Purrcival Whiskerflame, her ginger and white cat, had formed a perfect loaf as he snoozed the afternoon away. His deep purrs vibrated softly against the cushion, content with Georgie’s company. The attention she lavished on him was his due, after all. He was quite the pampered king, ruling his small kingdom from his place on the couch. His name on his vet record card stated; Sir Purrcival Whiskerflame, but she just called him “Rusty” for short.

In the kitchen, the slow simmering of supper filled the apartment with the comforting aroma of herbs and spices. Georgie had a knack for creating meals that required minimal fuss, and this evening was no exception, something hearty but easy, perfect after a long day, was simmering away on the Defy electric stove.

Her little apartment had been a stroke of luck, a gem hidden in the bustling heart of Johannesburg’s Auckland Park. The location was ideal, just a stone’s throw from her work at TV House, the headquarters of the South African Broadcasting Corporation. From her front gate, it was a short stroll down Wargrave Avenue, past the Toddler Day Care Centre on the corner, and across Henley Road. Just a block away, the towering thirty-story SABC building loomed large against the sky, dominating the Auckland Park skyline. Behind her apartment, the imposing Brixton Communications Tower rose like a sentinel, keeping watch over the city. One of two iconic towers in Johannesburg, it was a landmark for anyone navigating this part of town.

Auckland Park had a unique charm, a blend of old and new that had somehow resisted the tide of migration sweeping Johannesburg’s residents toward the northern suburbs. Here, life moved at a different pace. The suburb’s gentle slope was lined with leafy streets, a mixture of cultures and nationalities coexisting in a neighbourhood that had remained a tight-knit community. It wasn’t uncommon to hear children playing in the yards, their laughter mingling with the sounds of the city in the distance.

The area itself had an interesting history. Auckland Park was laid out by John Landau back in 1896. Landau, a New Zealander, had found a familiarity between this region and his native Auckland, hence the name. He’d purchased the land from Petrus Lindeque, part of the old Witwatersrand farm called “Braamfontein,” and set about turning it into a little piece of home. The Auckland Park Hotel was one of the first establishments in the area, drawing in Johannesburg’s early residents who saw this part of town as a country retreat. They built weekend homes here, far enough from the bustle of the city but close enough to make the journey back and forth.

Today, echoes of that old-world charm still lingered in the streets named after places along the River Thames: Richmond, Twickenham, Ditton, Kingston. Walking through Auckland Park, you could almost imagine Victorian gentry strolling along the lanes, tipping their hats to one another as they made their way to the old boating lake, now the site of the Country Club Johannesburg. In fact, the lake had once been a highlight of the area, fed by the Braamfontein Spruit, where locals would enjoy leisurely afternoons on the water. The horse racing track, long gone, had given way to the modern sprawl of the University of Johannesburg.

Georgie often found herself musing on this history during her walks, imagining what life must have been like here over a century ago. Yet, despite the changes, there was something timeless about Auckland Park. It held onto its soul, even as the world around it evolved.

Georgie flipped absent-mindedly through the glossy pages of a coffee table book, her thoughts far removed from the vibrant images of high fashion and trendy interiors in front of her. Instead, her mind wandered back to the people she’d met over the last few days, people who had made more of an impression than she’d expected. There was Leon Little for instance, and his daughter Ally. Georgie had crossed paths with Leon a few times in the past, exchanging polite greetings in passing, but she’d never had the chance to sit down and really talk to him. That changed with their recent conversations over coffee, and she found herself pleasantly surprised by how easygoing and genuine he was.

Then there was Ally, vibrant, full of energy, and brimming with enthusiasm for life. Meeting the young girl had been an unexpected highlight. Ally reminded Georgie so much of her own fourteen-year-old self, filled with dreams and ambitions, eyes set on a future brimming with possibilities. She couldn’t help but smile at the memory, though it also stirred a tinge of nostalgia. Life had taken her down roads she hadn’t imagined back then — roads that led her to places she never planned for. How different things had turned out for her, compared to those youthful daydreams.

Her thoughts drifted further to the Red Dragons technical team, a lively bunch of ground support staff who seemed to carry the weight of the team’s success on their capable shoulders while keeping the atmosphere light-hearted. There was something comforting in their camaraderie, their ability to joke and laugh despite the pressure. They were the kind of people who made long days feel a little shorter.

Also, the mood after the crash lingered heavily over the Red Dragon team. The loss of Brian Selby had cast a shadow that was impossible to ignore. It was there in the quiet moments, in the way conversations tapered off into silence, and in the shared glances that spoke of grief and resilience in equal measure. Yet, amid the sorrow, something remarkable had happened — this tragedy had drawn them closer, forging a bond that only those who had weathered a storm together could understand.

Georgie knew there was a story here, a powerful one, but she also understood that she needed to tread carefully. This wasn’t just another headline; these were real people, still reeling from the shock of losing one of their own. If she was going to tell this story, it had to be with the utmost respect and sensitivity. She couldn’t afford to be intrusive or harsh; there was a fine line between uncovering the truth and being insensitive to the pain the team was still processing.

Georgie resolved to listen more than she spoke, to let their words guide her instead of pushing for answers they weren’t ready to give. The story would reveal itself in time. All she needed to do was be present, observe, and allow them to share what they were comfortable with when they were ready.

And then there was Alex Meyer. Just thinking about him made her feel a little foolish. She didn’t quite understand why she felt that way around him: flustered, off-balance, silly even. Was it his laid-back charm? That easygoing manner of his? Or was there something else beneath the surface that tugged at her in ways she didn’t fully understand? She couldn’t help but be intrigued by him.

And there was something about his relationship with Ally that kept gnawing at her mind. They both claimed to be just friends, and yet, there was an undeniable closeness between them that she found puzzling. Was it really that simple? Was it normal for a fourteen-year-old girl to have such a tight bond with a grown man?

But why did it bother her so much? On the surface, nothing seemed out of place. Ally appeared happy, confident even, and Alex seemed genuinely protective of her. There was nothing in their interactions that suggested anything was amiss. And Leon, well, he seemed perfectly okay with the whole arrangement, which meant it had to be legit. Right? Georgie sighed, trying to shake off the unease that lingered in the back of her mind. She trusted her instincts, but maybe, just this once, she was reading too much into something innocent.

Shaking off the thoughts, Georgie rose from the couch and stretched, feeling the slight stiffness in her limbs from lounging too long. She remembered the pot simmering away on the stove and made her way to the kitchen to give it a stir. Rusty, her ever-attentive feline companion, lifted his head at her movement, his sleepy eyes half-open and a touch irritated at being disturbed. But his annoyance was short-lived. Realizing that Georgie was heading to the kitchen, he perked up. The kitchen meant food, and that was something he was always on board for.

With a long, luxurious stretch and after a graceful arching bow-forming stretch of his back, Rusty leapt off the couch and padded after Georgie, his fluffy tail held high in the air like a proud banner, saying: “I’m happy, and I’m ready to have some fun!” Man, life was good.

Georgie thought of something else. She needs to make arrangements with Susan to come and feed Rusty. She has a two-day absence scheduled from tomorrow until Sunday.

Suburb of Bergsig (Mountain View), Kock Street, Rustenburg.

Living in Bergsig is like settling into a peaceful retreat, where the streets are lined with old acacia trees that throw cool, dappled shadows over wide pavements. The homes here, a mix of double-story houses and sprawling single-story dwellings, sit comfortably back from the street on generous plots, giving the whole area a spacious, relaxed feel.

Nestled close to the Magaliesberg mountains, Bergsig offers residents breathtaking views that never get old. It’s the kind of place where the beauty of the natural surroundings becomes part of everyday life, making it a perfect spot for those who crave a bit of serenity.

The suburb is mostly residential, with a variety of housing options that suit different tastes and needs. Whether you’re looking for a cozy single-family home, a convenient town house, or something more upscale, Bergsig has it all. The well-kept gardens and tree-lined streets add to the charm, giving the area a warm, welcoming vibe.

Despite its peaceful atmosphere, Bergsig is conveniently close to major roads, so getting to Rustenburg’s city centre or even commuting to Pretoria or Johannesburg via the N4 highway is a breeze. And while the suburb itself is quiet, everything you require is just a short drive away: shopping centres, schools, medical facilities, and recreational spots are all within easy reach. The Waterfall Mall, one of the main shopping hubs in Rustenburg, isn’t far off either.

What really stands out in Bergsig is the sense of community. Many residents have lived here for years, fostering a friendly, neighbourly environment. It’s the kind of place where families feel at home, and retirees find the peace they’re looking for.

If you love the outdoors, Bergsig’s proximity to the Magaliesberg mountains and nearby nature reserves makes it an ideal base. Hiking, birdwatching, or just soaking in the natural beauty are popular pastimes among the locals, who appreciate the balance of tranquillity and adventure that living here offers.

As dusk fell over Rustenburg and the quiet suburb of Bergsig, the streets seemed to surrender to the encroaching darkness. The once-bustling neighbourhood had settled into an almost eerie calm, the kind that only deepened as the last remnants of daylight faded. Most residents had retreated indoors, their silhouettes occasionally flickering behind drawn curtains as they engaged in the evening rituals of television-watching, leisurely reading, or finishing off a late supper.

The air was heavy with the scent of cooling pavement and the distant hum of household appliances, a stark contrast to the stillness outside. Every so often, the low rumble of a car engine disturbed the silence, a lone vehicle passing by, its occupants perhaps seeking entertainment in the city centre or visiting a friend. But for the most part, the suburb was quiet — almost too quiet — as if holding its breath in anticipation of the night ahead.

It was against this backdrop of hushed expectancy that Sloan Thornton sat in his rented Japanese compact car, the dull sheen of its metallic surface barely visible under the sprawling branches of a massive acacia tree. The shadows cast by the tree’s broad canopy cloaked the vehicle, merging it with the growing darkness. Sloan was waiting ... patient, deliberate, eyes trained on the house across the street. The only sign of life he’d witnessed in the past hour was a man walking his dog, a fierce-looking German Shepherd, just fifteen minutes earlier. The man had passed by without a glance in Sloan’s direction, as if the car and its occupant were invisible.

Sloan, however, had studied the man. He appeared to be in his early forties, well-built, with the kind of solid frame that hinted at a life of physical labour or perhaps something more disciplined. The man’s attire, a tracksuit with an incongruous jacket, seemed odd, given the warm evening air. There was something about him that tugged at Sloan’s instincts, a quiet alertness in the man’s stride, a certain tension in the way he held the leash. But Sloan dismissed it with a shrug. People in these parts were peculiar, prone to odd behaviours that would raise eyebrows elsewhere. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to be cautious.

He turned his attention back to the house, the lights within casting a soft glow through the curtains. The old man inside, likely oblivious to the silent watcher outside, was probably winding down, preparing for sleep. And Zara, Sloan’s primary concern, should be emerging soon, if she hadn’t already slipped out unnoticed. She was known for her nocturnal wanderings, a habit Sloan had counted on. If she didn’t appear soon, he would have to move in himself. He had no intention of leaving empty-handed tonight.

Time passed with excruciating slowness, the minutes dragging into what felt like hours. Sloan’s patience was taut, like a wire stretched to its breaking point. His fingers absently tapped the steering wheel, a subtle rhythm to the anxious thoughts swirling in his mind. The longer he waited, the more his nerves tingled with anticipation.

His gaze shifted to the Wendy house in the backyard, partially obscured by the shadows. If Zara was hiding there, he would find her. And if she resisted, well ... Sloan’s hand slipped into his left trouser pocket, brushing against the cool glass of the small bottle nestled within. He could feel the faint chill of the chloroform seeping through the fabric, a twisted reassurance of the plan he was about to execute.

A slow, cruel smile curled his lips as he imagined the scene that would unfold. The old man would be fast asleep, oblivious to the intrusion. Zara, whether inside the house or the Wendy house, would be an easy target. He was prepared for every possibility. The thought of the chase, the struggle, and the inevitable outcome played out in his mind like a dark fantasy.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself, and allowed the tension to build. The night was still young, and soon — very soon — it would be time to act. Sloan leaned back in his seat, eyes never leaving the house, waiting for the right moment, the moment when Zara would step into the open, unknowingly sealing her fate.

Pilgrim’s Nest, North of Pretoria, Gauteng Province.

We spent a mad few hours at the Kolonnade Mall in Montana where two girls took over the shopping spree, led by the blonde typhoon Ally.