Kristen hardly remembered blurting out her description of the gap-toothed kid who’d chased her up the stairs of Manoj’s shop. That yellow jacket had probably been the one thing of style or worth the kid could call his own after he’d blown his money on booze and dagga and street giris. His only possession of value had been his death warrant, and not in the usual way of Cape Town’s streets. Indra would have been able to call on a hundred family members to deal with the tsotsis. It was the reason no one ever tried to rob the ciub.