A dark figure now sprang from the shadows to block her way. A second figure came at her from behind and grabbed a handful of her hair, jerking her head back.

‘YOU. OWE. US.’

The light was such that Alice saw only the whites of a man’s eyes and the moonlight flash dully on a rusted razor blade held an inch before her eyes. But she felt their combined bulk, holding her in a grip from which she could not even struggle; she felt hot breath on the back of her neck, the arm fast around her middle, and now the blade of the razor softly nuzzling the delicate skin on her cheek, moving down and scraping against her throat. Fingers, too, closed around her neck and Alice stood perfectly still.

‘I do not owe you nothing!’ she said calmly and steadily, though fear clogged her throat and her bladder had emptied, sending a trickle of warm liquid down her leg. The razor pricked at her skin. The man standing behind her let out a snarl and pulled tighter at her hair, jerking her head back further, exposing the whiteness of her throat.

‘Your sister,’ whispered the first voice, ‘she borrowed money from us and now we have come to collect. If she is gone then you shall do just as well.’

‘I have nothing. Look—’ Alice held out her hands, though they shook, she lifted up her arms, showed the pockets of her coat.

‘Then we shall take this as down payment.’ They stripped the coat from her shoulders, laughing as she fought them, twisting this way and that to stop them from taking it, laughing when she slipped and fell.

‘Next time we will not be so gentle.’ And they ground her face down into the mud and left her.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: THE RESPECTABLE ESTABLISHMENT

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE RESPECTABLE ESTABLISHMENT

The journey from Charles Booker-Reid’s house at Woollahra to Elizabeth Bay was a long one if judged not in miles travelled but in words spoken and silences accumulated. For the latter part of the journey the flickering lights of ships on the harbour were distantly visible to the north, and across the night air could be heard the tinkling of rigging on the yachts moored at Rushcutters Bay. The fine weather held. The clouds that had rolled in earlier in the evening had moved offshore and the sky above was clear, if crisp. One needed gloves, one needed a muffler. But there was no danger of a frost. There was never any danger of a frost. This was Sydney, after all.

Alasdair Dunlevy turned his face away from the lights on the harbour, he blocked his ears to the tinkling of the rigging. It was intolerable, this cab journey. Why must he be forever in one cab or another, going from one desolate place to another?