A driver warned me I was being followed, then made sure I got home safely

The Sydney suburb of Darlinghurst in the 1980s was not a safe place. There was a jittery vibe when the next heroin batch was coming in, and people were overdosing with alarming frequency. But the area also fostered a creative scene — people making small films, pursuing art, and going to clubs in great clothes, dancing relentlessly. At 23, I was part of that world: quite pretty, an underground darling.

One night I walked home from Oxford Street after clubbing. I was always aware of my surroundings; you grew up fast living there. But it was a pleasant night for a stroll, so I went for it. I remember how dark it was — a slender moon offered little light.

Not long after I set off, I felt someone was following me. I stopped and turned, but saw no one. I continued walking, heard footsteps behind me, and turned again. “Is anyone there?” I yelled. No answer. I retrieved my keys and stuck them between my fingers, ready as a weapon. I walked faster, certain someone lurked nearby.

Then a taxi pulled up next to me, with an older businessman in the back seat. The driver told me to get in. I had dealt with entitled men who saw a single young woman as fair game; I was not about to enter a car with two strangers. “Leave me alone!”

Stubbornly, I replied I had no money, lived just around the corner, and would walk. The driver insisted again. “There’s somebody following you,” he said. He explained they had been watching him; when I stopped, he would run off. “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.”

A little stunned, I got in. They dropped me home and did not pull away until I was safely inside with my housemates.

If those two guardian angels had not intervened, something terrible could have happened. After that, I never walked home alone in the dark again. I never forgot those strangers, whose names I never learned but who I believe saved my life.

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