The quirk of any story, the element of return. It was getting dark by the time Catherine made her way back towards Darlinghurst. In the twilight there were flocks of bats flying away from the botanical gardens; Catherine could see them silhouetted against the amethyst sky. What a primitive life form they were, especially here, in the city centre, flapping awkwardly into heaven. They implied tales of dark metamorphosis and entrapment in creaturely life, early childhood fears, storybook trepidation. There were also loud, insistent bird calls Catherine could not recognise, squawks and warbles and full-throated chimes; she hadn’t heard so many birds in a big city before. The sky was full of alien and animated life. As she climbed the steep steps at Woolloomooloo, Catherine huffed and puffed but felt pleased with herself for the effort, and for the muscular sensuality of her working legs. Pausing on a landing, she looked briefly behind her: the centre of Sydney hung like a vision in a silver panorama – the towers, all arrayed, the canyons between them, the Bridge in faint outline and the Opera House now obscured.
