ALONE. AFRAID. ABUSED.
On a misty March Monday, I pull my car into a quiet car park near the edge of a cliff near North Head in Manly, an affluent suburb in Sydney’s north. It’s early days in what would soon become our COVID-19 quarantine norm, so moving around and interacting in small groups is still condoned, but it’s unusually empty as the world begins to grapple with the enormity of the changes that will affect our lives.
It’s here that I’m to meet a representative from the Northern Beaches Women’s Shelter, so she can drive me to the secret suburban property that houses 10 Sydney women who are there because they have nowhere else to go. “I can’t give you an address or meet you there,” my contact explained over the phone earlier in the week. “You’ll have to arrive with me. Security is paramount.” I later learn that there have been one or two catastrophic breaches over the years. Once, a perpetrator found out that his wife had escaped to the shelter and hanged himself in a tree outside to get back at her. So the focus on safety and anonymity is unsurprising.
We drive together to the shelter, a collection of nondescript brick houses that look identical to every other dwelling on the street. It’s only when we enter the small office building that I’m aware I’m anywhere except an ordinary suburban property. At the door
