SYDNEY | 3  a . m .

Redundant
Sarah Britten

At three in the morning my corner of Sydney is very, very quiet.

Yachts sit placidly at anchor in the dark waters of the bay below.
A fruit bat clambers through the branches of the fig tree that looms
overhead. Over the peninsula beyond, the skyscrapers of the CBD glow
red and blue and green, announcing their names to a sleeping universe.
In this perfect stillness, noise is obscene.
I know this because a loud thump has jolted me out of my slumber.
Even before I am fully awake, my Palaeolithic self is in full panic, flight-
ready: adrenaline surging, heart thumping, muscles rigid, ears pricked
for the slightest clue as to the source of the sound. I wait.
Another thump. The pipes?
Then the faint sound of water running. It’s the woman who lives
below me, showering at this ungodly hour. Perhaps she has a plane
to catch. Or she’s returning after a night on the town. (Doesn’t seem the
type though.)
I lie back, turn over the pillow to the cool side, wait to be submerged
in sleep once more.
I haven’t been back in Sydney for long. Evidently, this is my Joburg
self reacting: naked feral fear, fear so habitual that you no longer notice
it’s there. It takes a while to learn to let go of the unceasing anxiety.
Even under the duvet in my rented flat above the bay, it’s instinctive,
ingrained.
Here, in the dark of the middle of the night, I must learn to be an

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