In the 1980s, the Sydney suburb of Darlinghurst was fraught with danger, particularly when a new batch of heroin arrived and overdoses were rampant. Yet, it was also a vibrant hub for creative souls making films, art, and dancing the night away in stylish clubs. At 23, I was one of them—attractive, confident, and a darling of the underground scene.
One evening, after a night of clubbing on Oxford Street, I decided to walk home. Despite being acutely aware of my surroundings—a survival skill honed in that neighborhood—the night was pleasant, and I embraced the stroll. The moon was slender, offering scant illumination.
Soon, I sensed I was being followed. I stopped and turned, but saw no one. I walked on, hearing footsteps behind me. 'Is anyone there?' I shouted. No reply. I fumbled for my keys, wedging them between my fingers as a makeshift weapon, and quickened my pace, certain someone was lurking.
Suddenly, a taxi pulled up beside me. In the back sat an older businessman. The driver urged me to get in. Having dealt with entitled men who saw a young woman as prey, I refused, insisting I had no money and lived nearby. The driver persisted.
'There's somebody following you,' he said. He explained they had been watching the stalker, who would retreat whenever I stopped. 'He has no good intentions. You need to get in this cab and we’re going to take you home, and don’t want to hear any more about it.'
Stunned, I complied. They dropped me at my door and waited until I was safely inside with my housemates. Without those two guardian angels, something terrible might have occurred. I never walked home alone in the dark again, and I never forgot the strangers whose names I never learned but who I believe saved my life.
