Chapter One

ANNA MOORE IS ALONE ON A DARK STREET. It is the weekend, and not long after midnight, but the windows of the few houses in sight are as black as the driveways that stretch between them and the road. It is a sign of this suburb’s respectability that everyone who lives here is tucked up in bed already. There are no revellers wobbling their way home; no neighbours putting their bottles out; no one, thank goodness, to witness Anna’s ultimate walk of shame. The only sign of life is from the plane trees standing guard along the pavements; their parallel canopies are thick with the cackling and squabbling of bats.

As a child of genteel English suburbia, Anna has never grown used to the flying foxes of the Sydney night. Just to hear them is to remember their grotesque size. Still, she would rather be out here with the rustling trees than return to the house she has just left. Not that she did anything wrong in there. She is a modern, independent woman and how she chooses to let Saturday slip into Sunday is entirely up to her. And yet she has crept away from the scene, not wanting to wake the foul man she left sweating in his sleep, nor even to see her reflection in the glass of his front door.

Anna scrabbles in her handbag, finds her phone, and, with impatient thumbs, orders an Uber. She needs a shower, or maybe a bath: anything to rid herself of this rind of dried perspiration – not all of it her own. She needs to climb into her bed and pretend this evening never happened. The Uber app asks her to confirm it has pinpointed her location correctly and Anna peers up and down the street for a clue. There is little more than darkness in either direction; the nearest streetlamp is fifty metres away and its dirty yellow light is unable to penetrate the canopy of the trees. There are no house numbers in sight to compare to the one the app is suggesting and Anna does not even know if it has her in the right street. She is hesitating over what to do when a noise slams into the night.

It is a rolling thunderous boom: a blast of noise that coils Anna so tight that she loses her balance and stumbles off her high heels onto the ground. The noise shakes the bats from the trees, and the animals screech into the air in a mass panic that rains twigs and leaves and droppings in its wake. It tightens Anna’s skin and leaves a dull tone in her ears. Then it beats a rapid retreat, grasping at the night in greedy echoes until it is suddenly gone.

The pavement is harsh on Anna’s hands and knees. She snatches back her phone – the flagstones grating her expensive nails – and, grabbing at an Audi parked at a tilt on the kerb, pulls herself to her feet. She is a woman of soft and gentle curves and not used to feeling her muscles. Now each one is rigid with fear. Her neck and back are so tight she can raise herself no higher than an awkward crouch. Her breathing is fast and shallow, like that of a tiny creature aware of its lowly rank in the food chain.

Hunched down against the Audi, Anna swivels in each direction, half-expecting a snarling gunman to run at her from the shadows. For surely that was a gunshot? She has heard the noise before, on clay pigeon shoots and lonely walks in the English countryside. Only a gunshot has that dangerous, bone-shuddering robustness; that rock hard bottom that, right now, distinguishes it from more preferable explanations: a car backfiring or an unseasonal firework. There is a sudden movement to Anna’s left. She flinches, but it is merely a small square of herself in the wing mirror of the Audi. Her dark eyes are wide and uncertain, her thick hair fallen forward in a mess. She squeezes herself between the car and a low-slung Aston Martin and checks herself all over. Her heart is throbbing in her ears. Tiny stones are sharp in her hands and knees. But she is not hurt. She has not been shot.

Peering out from between the cars, Anna confirms there is nothing in the street to explain the noise: no gangster with a gun cocked over his arm; no silhouettes running or fighting. Just cars parked bumper to bumper, detached mansions elegantly asleep. The gunshot has woken only the house behind her: the one she has just left. Its bedroom window is now bright, the ceiling Anna remembers all too well shimmering with shadows. She stands up and hurries across the road, her treacherous heels tapping at the tarmac. Between the canopies of the plane trees, the sky is full of bats, black shadows jagged against the stars.

Anna sidesteps between two new cars and ducks into the darkness offered by a tree on the opposite pavement. Immediately, a thick veil of web wraps her face. She tears at the sticky threads, pulling them from her skin and hair with her nails. The best way out of an Australian spider’s web is backwards – they are far stronger than those back home – but who knows if the lit window in the house behind her is still empty? More likely the man is now peering out at the street, hands cupped around his eyes. Anna imagines him spotting her and coming out to shout her back inside.

She pulls out her phone again, careful to keep the trunk of the tree between her and the house, and confirms the pick-up address suggested by the Uber app. She can only pray it is correct. The app considers her delayed response like a receptionist reconfirming the balance of power, then tells her she will have to wait eight minutes for a car. Eight minutes! Anna would be better off calling the police. Except, it is all too easy to picture what will happen then: two upright officers of the law, studying her in her highest heels and lowest-cut dress, as she tries to find acceptable words to explain what she did tonight. Why, exactly, she met that hideous man in a bar, went back to his house and had sex with him. ‘Oh yes, and then I realised he so disgusted me I didn’t want to spend another second in his company. No, sorry officer, I don’t actually remember his name.’

Anna’s friend Penny would flaunt the story like a diamond, daring one not to admire it. If only Anna was half as brave. If only she was Hard Hearted Anna. Then she could greet the police unashamedly, swinging her handbag and flaunting her cleavage, one finger held up to the neighbours for good measure. And maybe if tonight had been an impromptu one-night stand … Anna feels a strange urge to spit, as if that would dislodge more than just the taste of red wine lingering in her mouth. She gives up on the idea of the police and dials Penny’s number instead.

The ring tone purrs slowly, teasing Anna’s fevered impatience. Come on, Penny, pick up. And please, please be home. The darkness under this tree offers only fragile protection. If anyone were to shine a light Anna’s way …

‘Annie! Hello, darl! What are you doing calling so late?’

Penny is loud and excited, overcompensating for the music and laughter behind her. Anna’s heart sinks.

‘Penny, you’re not home, are you?’

‘No. We’re still out. Aw, Annie, dumpling, you should have come. The show was great; just lovely. And Lizzy’s dragged us all to this great champagne bar. It’s open till two – why don’t you come?’

Overhead a family of bats returns to its roost, the huge animals cackling close.

‘I’m in Woollahra, Penny. I just thought—’

‘There’s a really dishy guy here. I showed him your photo and said you were single, and he’s desperate to meet you. Why don’t you come and join us?’

‘Penny, I’m in Woollahra. I’m alone, and I swear I just heard—’

‘Woollahra? What are you doing there? Get out of my hood, girl!’

Penny bursts into peals of laughter, amused at her own sad, white slurring of an African American accent. For a brief moment, Anna can only hear the bar, the music, the crowd. Fun on a distant planet. Then there is another noise, not on the phone but much closer: here, in real life. Anna drops her hand to her side and stands alert to listen. Footsteps? Definitely footsteps. Running now and louder, so they must be coming towards her.

Penny’s voice shouts up from her hand. ‘Annie, darl? Are you there? Are you coming out? Hang on – excuse me. Excuse me, Mr Barman! What’s this place called? WHERE AM I?’

Penny is the loudest thing in the street. The footsteps could still be approaching, their owner on tiptoes with Anna unable to hear. Still, she hesitates to kill the call, to cut the fragile thread connecting her to the world she knows. Her thumb makes its own decision, hitting the red circle and darkening the screen. There are no footsteps now. No voices. Nothing but the bats in the branches overhead.

Anna presses her back against the tree, the rough bark scratching at the flesh between her shoulder blades. Beyond the tree’s shadows, without the light pollution from her phone screen, a garden wall delineates itself. Other than that, there is an infinity of black in every direction, even the distant streetlamp is out of view. She turns quietly, the bark scratching the skin of her right shoulder now, and hunches over the phone. As she taps it to life and pulls up the Uber app, the night explodes in a new bone-deep boom.

Anna’s muscles contract of their own accord, every limb and joint pulled in close against the tree. Brown droppings smatter the ground around her feet as the bats take flight again, but she is shrivelled so tight that only one catches the hem of her dress. Anna struggles in a breath and tries to regiment her thoughts into a logic that will tell her what the hell to do. She jabs desperately at her phone and – thank you, God, who looks over me even though I only believe in you when I’m scared – by some small miracle her Uber is now only two minutes away and moving steadily in her direction.

She is going to stay right where she is until the very last moment. Only when she hears the car throbbing impatiently will she leave the shadow of this tree. And if there is someone still out there, walking around with a gu— No. Don’t think about that. Even if respectable neighbours come out onto the street to stare at her, even if that vile man – Andrew, his name was Andrew! – opens his bedroom window and calls down to her, Anna will be in the car and gone before anyone can stop her.

She huddles closer over her phone as if it were the only source of warmth on a freezing night. In fact, the opposite is true: a viscid humidity has been sitting on the city all week, barely weaker at night than during the day, and the phone offers only cold comfort. The car is still two minutes away. It’s just two minutes, you’ll be fine. Still two minutes. Still two minutes again, but no new noises in the night and no one out of their houses yet. Then one minute. Thank you, God. Still one minute. Still one more minute as the Uber crawls towards her on the map.

Then Anna hears the car, its tiny hum barely louder than the bats. She forces a deep breath. The normally forgiving material of her sexiest dress is clinging to her back and her breasts but, for once, she does not care. She will ask the driver to turn the air conditioning on and the radio off, and soon she will be home. She will be absolutely fine. Except the little Uber on her screen is no longer approaching. And, when Anna cocks an ear to listen, the car engine she heard a moment earlier is no longer growing louder. The map on the phone says the car is only one corner away but, thirty seconds later, it is still there.

Anna takes a deep breath and steps out tentatively from beneath her tree. She crouches between the nearest cars, then leans out to peek up the street. The headlights of the car are just visible on the nearest corner, about fifty metres away. The juddering of the car’s engine is clearer from this angle, but now it is accompanied by the hollow thudding of car doors.

Everyone has a tipping point. A point of unfairness beyond which they become the person they are not normally brave enough to be. One second Anna is crouching, still and silent. The next, she is nothing but legs and lungs. She is mass transformed into energy as she sprints towards her Uber. She is Hard Hearted Anna, this is her ride home and no one is about to steal it from her. She pushes herself faster still, racing the noise of her heels on the tarmac – tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap – and reaches the corner just as the headlights start to move slowly forward. She runs into their path and holds her phone aloft as if it alone can save her.

The car breaks to an awkward halt, its dark-skinned driver and white passenger jerking forward in their seats. At the same time, as if she too were wearing a seatbelt, Anna’s stomach clenches tight. What if this is not her Uber after all? What if she has just thrown herself in front of a random car? A car that is now spotlighting her, as every inch of her skin sucks on her diaphanous dress so that she might as well be on stage in her underwear. Anna turns away, awkwardly covering her breasts with one arm as she checks her phone again. But the vehicle registration on her phone screen is indeed the same as the one on the dirty yellow number plate two metres from her shins. Anna straightens, turns back, and holds up the phone with a severe smile.

‘You’re my Uber!’ She steps out of the glare of the cruel headlights and uses her free hand to unpick her dress from her skin. ‘I’m Anna Moore. Going to Hope Street, Coogee. You’re Toyota Kluger, BS2 1KD.’

The driver turns to the man in the front passenger seat and, when Anna arrives beside his open window, the two men are muttering over one another.

‘Give it you back …’

‘… not yet …’

‘… can’t do anything about it …’

‘… trust me …’

‘This is her ride …’

Anna interrupts them. ‘Look it doesn’t matter what’s happened. The point is, this is my Uber, it’s late, and I want to go home.’

The driver looks up shamefully; he knows he is at the mercy of her star rating. The man in the front passenger seat – the man who tried to steal her ride home – is less contrite. His bright eyes sparkle in what little light is on offer from the dashboard; his voice is smooth and confident.

‘Sorry. I think we’ve confused our cars.’

‘No, we haven’t. You don’t have a car, and you’re sitting in mine. Come on, out.’

The man tries a frowny little pout, a single raised eyebrow. People born good-looking, however, get as little sympathy from Anna as those born rich. She walks around the car and opens his door. The man in the passenger seat tries a generous smile, expensive teeth taking their turn to catch the scant light. Then, at the look on Anna’s face, he sighs, and steps one leg out of the car. To bring out the other he must use both hands, lifting the leg carefully but roughly, the way a farmer handles a sick animal. He uses the door frame to pull himself to his feet, frowning at the effort it affords him. If this is an act, it is a good one. Anna is tempted to lean in and ask the Uber driver if this Uber thief demonstrated any such effort on his way into the car. Instead, she lets the man, now taller than her and noticeably broad-shouldered, apologise again.

‘It was a genuine mistake.’ He glances up the street as if at a noise and then his green eyes are back with Anna. The whole action is so quick she wonders if it is a twitch. ‘I apologise. Madam, your car.’

‘Did you hear that noise a few moments ago? Gunshots or something?’

The man hesitates before answering, as if weighing up whether he still has a chance. ‘I thought it was a car backfiring. Thought maybe it was my Uber; that’s why I came out.’

‘I thought it sounded like a gun.’

‘Really? I wouldn’t know about that.’

Back in England, Anna was told there is no class system in Australia, that money is the only distinction. She discovered the fallacy of this shortly after arriving in Sydney and nurtures her accent as carefully here as she ever did back home. It is at times like this it proves a wise decision. She can smell the private schooling on the handsome Uber thief as clearly as the sandalwood scent that has accompanied him out of the car. He sounds as English as her own father, the vowels softly mellifluous. When some Australians say ‘car’, they sound like a cockatoo; in this man’s mouth, the word ebbs away and leaves one hungry for more.

’Listen,’ he says. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going anywhere near Randwick, are you?’

‘Randwick?’

‘It’s just, if this is your car, I haven’t got a clue where mine is. Maybe you could give me a lift if you’re heading that way? I thought I heard you say you were heading to Coogee.’

He is smiling again, too friendly too soon. When he adds his little pout, Anna tuts and shakes her head. But then he limps further out of her way and says, ‘Oh well, no harm in asking.’ He should have tried the limp the first time. The pout is too unlikely, too ‘little boy lost’ above his strong neck and muscular torso. The limp is humbler, and he is obviously shy about it. Anna gives her haughtiest sigh.

‘Where in Randwick?’

‘The hospital.’

‘How much?’

‘What?’

‘How much will you pay me to give you a lift on my Uber account to your destination?’

The man raises his dark eyebrows. ‘Fifty bucks? Cash?’

Anna has a smile she uses when she does not want to appear too pleased. She tells the man to get in and, before he can move, she slams the front passenger door shut again. They will both be riding in the back.

Anna Moore is well aware of her looks. Women often interrupt her to tell her how gorgeous she is while their husbands look away sheepishly. Men in groups will nudge each other as she passes. Big men in particular fawn over her, and she has lost count of how often she has been told she should be a model. Of course, the compliments are absolute nonsense. Anna is a comfortable size 16.

‘I’m Daniel.’

The Uber thief turns to offer a handshake. It costs him another wince, his mouth creasing off-centre. His hand, when wrapped around Anna’s, is rough and cold but gentle.

‘Hello, Daniel, I’m Anna. So, you’re off to hospital?’

‘Yes, I’m a doctor.’

‘Oh really? I thought maybe you’d been shot.’

He grins. ‘You really do think you heard a gun? I’m pretty sure it was a car backfiring.’

‘I suppose it must have been.’ It is a relief to let herself believe it. ‘So, you’re off to work, then?’

‘Off to work late.’ Another grin, a conspiratorial glint in the green eyes. ‘I’m not a great timekeeper, though. I should have left half an hour ago.’

‘What kind of doctor?’

‘A surgeon. Which makes it all the more awkward being late all the time.’

He could, of course, be a monster. Anna swears silently at the idea and beats it into submission. She is sick and tired of her own cowardice. This evening was supposed to be proof of a newfound bravery; a display of Hard Hearted Anna like never before. And look how it ended up: with her quivering in fear beneath a tree. She is not going to squander this second chance.

Besides, even if Dr Daniel is a monster, it probably does not matter. The Uber driver might be as invisible as if they were on a bus, but he would presumably intervene if the doctor tried any funny business. And even if the driver did not help – even if he just watched on, awaiting instructions from his sat nav – Anna is surprisingly fast for her size. If she could smack Daniel’s hands away and get herself out of the car, she could almost certainly outrun him. If she wanted to.

The surgeon has closed his eyes and is resting his head against the window beside him. He has a strong jawline and a straight nose and certainly looks harmless enough. He is not wearing a wedding ring.

Anna picks at her dress again, more thoroughly this time. She lifts the gauzy cotton from her thighs and her sides and wafts it slowly in the dark.

‘It’s hot.’ The doctor’s eyes are still closed.

‘Mm. Supposed to stay above thirty all night, they say.’

The driver looks at them in his rear-view mirror. ‘Do you want the air con on? There’s a vent down there near your feet, between the two front seats.’

Dr Daniel opens his eyes, leans forward cautiously and, after an enquiring glance at Anna, fiddles with the plastic vent. Cool air tickles her ankles. Daniel sits straight again and gives a tiny gasp.

‘Are you alright?’

‘I’m fine.’ He snaps it as if they’ve been arguing, then pulls on his perfect smile again. ‘What about you? Off to a party?’

‘Oh no. I’m a streetwalker. Just heading home after a night pounding the pavements of Woollahra.’

He laughs. ‘Very upmarket.’

‘Oh, you’d be surprised. They’ll let anyone in these days: lawyers, surgeons, all sorts.’

Daniel adjusts himself, his knees closer to hers on the dark leather. ‘And did you have any interesting clients?’
‘Sadly not.’

‘Not a very profitable night.’

‘Not so far.’

‘Apart from the fifty dollars you’re earning from me.’

She waves a regal hand. ‘Cigarette money. I don’t normally talk to a man for less than ten thousand dollars.’

‘Wow, I’ll have to start saving. I’ll tell the hospital to book me in and scrub me up more often.’

‘You don’t scrub up so badly.’

He winces again. ‘You should see me on a good day.’

‘I’m not exactly at my best myself.’

‘Aw well, that is a shame. If you normally look better than this, there’s no way I’ll ever afford you.’

Anna laughs too loudly, and for a tiny moment too long. It’s the relief, she wants to tell the doctor: the knowledge she is safely on her way home. But that is only half the truth. The other half is that Anna has not yet given up on meeting Mr Right. One day she will, and that day must surely come soon. She can hardly wait, for the ability to relax if nothing else. Because, until then, every flirtation – every encounter, no matter how unlikely – might be the start of something wonderful. She turns away, keen to reclaim the higher ground. Outside, the ghostly palaces of Centennial Park are gliding past, silent in their disapproval. There is silence behind her too; the kind that descends when people have been arguing or laughing too hard about something that isn’t that funny. It is the kind of silence Anna has never been able to endure.

‘Have you ever wondered who lives in these huge houses? They always look empty to me.’

When the doctor does not respond, Anna turns to find he has lost his smile again. He is staring vaguely at his knees, as if he has fallen asleep with his eyes open. Then he is leaning suddenly close with that sandalwood scent of his. Anna pulls back with a gasp – surely Daniel cannot be expecting a kiss? No. He is simply wrestling a phone from his far trouser pocket, hissing at the effort. He sits straight and struggles with its tiny keyboard.

‘Too vain to wear glasses?’

Daniel looks up slowly. They are on Anzac Parade by now and, in the pulsing yellow light from the streetlamps, he looks different from a moment earlier. Drawn, worn, exhausted.

‘I need to send a message.’

‘Be my guest.’

‘No. I … Could you help me?’

‘What do you mean?’

His only answer is to push the phone across the leather between them.

‘What’s wrong. Are you alright?’

‘Please.’ Daniel leans his head back on the headrest with a sigh. ‘It really is an emergency. Could you text someone for me?’

Anna picks up the phone. Is there a confidence trick that involves one sending a text on someone else’s phone? Does Daniel want her fingerprints?

‘Please write “All out now”. Can you do that for me, Anna? Please?’

His voice is no longer smooth. It rasps at the air between them as if he were an elderly man. He looks towards her with the minimum possible movement, eyes sliding in her direction so his head does not have to turn.

‘“All out now.” Have you got that?’

The screen is wet. Maybe that explains why Daniel cannot text. Isn’t there a condition where your hands and fingers sweat? But how could a surgeon possibly have that? The air conditioning is still finding Anna’s ankles and, if anything, she would like to be a little warmer, but Daniel is obviously struggling with the heat. His face is glistening and reflective. Did he run to catch the car too? Anna rummages in her handbag, finds a tissue, and wipes the phone screen clean. The tissue in her hand is no longer pale. Daniel forces a smile that, even now, is loosely attractive.

‘My pen broke in my pocket – that’s why I can’t text. Watch your dress, sorry.’

‘I was joking before.’ Anna whispers so the driver cannot hear. ‘But now I’m wondering if maybe you really were shot. Is that why we’re going to the hospital?’

‘No, no, I’m just really tired. Please send the text. “All out now.” Send it to Charlie. It’s very … Just send it, will you?’
Anna scrolls through the phone’s contact list. ‘There’s a Charlie Hall, is that him?’

But Daniel has closed his eyes again. Anna sends the text and tosses the phone back into his lap. It falls to the leather seat between his legs, but the doctor barely responds. He merely opens his eyes and tries his smile again; it is weaker than before and, in the pulsing half-light, appears more like a sneer. Anna looks away.

A new silence descends, and they travel the length of Alison Road without a word between them. Then they approach the turning they must take for the hospital and the car stops at a red filter light. Well, if Anna isn’t going to be asked out on a date, she should at least get her fifty dollars. She turns to ask Daniel for the cash, but he’s fast asleep now, his head lolling on the headrest. Then the light changes and the Uber takes the corner, rolling the doctor’s face towards her. He is not sleeping at all; he is staring at her open-mouthed. Anna stares back. What she is looking at is not possible. She nudges Daniel to make sure of it. Then she recoils and screams, the panic exploding from her as loud and as sudden as the shots in the street. Still the doctor does not respond. His green eyes simply continue their lifeless stare as a slow thread of saliva descends from his mouth.

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