The streets were still busy. The Rocks, which had once been one of the most densely populated slums in Sydney, was crowded again, with long terraces of old stone houses playing host to the latest wave of migrants adding to the city’s human alloy. It was common to find a dozen or more of them bedding down under one roof, hot bunking in many cases – one mattress shared between somebody working night shift and another who worked days. Sometimes even couples or whole families took turns like that. It was a curious ghetto, however, given the money the displaced had brought with them. Poor refugees could not afford to stay in the city. Most lived in the outer suburbs, where jobs could be found at the industrial parks, or on the work farms beyond the mountains. Closer to the harbour, life was still pressured, but more pleasant, as it had always been.

Small knots of drinkers stood about on the footpath in front of micro-bars like the Idler. Others weaved along the pavement, singing and laughing as they moved between venues. She could hear the distant, sibilant roar of the crowd down at nearby Circular Quay, but instead of heading towards them, Julianne set her course for the shadowed, less populated streets on the far side of the rocky headland. There were many paths down to the wharf district, but Ferry Lane, a paper cut through the massive sandstone ridge overlooking Walsh Bay, was the one she needed.

On her first night in Sydney, an old sea-dog propping up the bar at the Hero of Waterloo had told her that Ferry Lane was the site of a bubonic plague outbreak back in 1901. Said the first victim had been a drinker at the Hero, and was one of the few who contracted the disease and survived. ‘Thanks to his medicine,’ the old coot had added with a grin, hoisting up a pint of dark bitter. Not really caring whether the story was true or just a tale to entertain a pretty girl, Jules had wandered down there the following day and noted that the cottages lining the ancient passage were all empty, undergoing renovation by the Department of Housing. It was one of the few streets in the centre of Sydney that wasn’t seething with life. That made it perfect for her purposes now.

The revelry faded quickly as she hurried on. From the unseen docks up ahead, the sound of shipping containers impacting on steel decks boomed up through the winding, narrow streetscape. She was pretty sure she had a follower.