I sprinted hard on the coarse sand of Dudley beach, ignoring the camber, jumping over the rocks. I’d be sorry the next day when my ankles and knee joints would remind me of my age, but for now I had no choice-Glen Withers was beating me. Sure, I’d given her a start but that wasn’t the point. I could see the line we’d drawn in the sand looming up and she still had a lead. She was flagging, though; I was pulling her in. I threw myself forward, tripped, dived for the line and got my hand on it at the same time as her bare foot.

‘Draw,’ I gasped. I’d sprayed sand into my mouth and had to spit it out.

Glen collapsed two metres past the line. Her chest was heaving. ‘That’s not fair. You were falling flat on your face.’

I wriggled through the sand towards her. ‘Win at all costs. That’s the motto of the Hardys.’

It was a bit past 8.00 p.m. on a summer night. The day had been hot and we’d had several swims, several drinks, made love and had an afternoon sleep. Glen’s house was a ten-minute walk away on the rise overlooking the ocean. There was a prawn salad in the fridge as well as several bottles of Jacob’s Creek chablis. We were on holidays- me from my private inquiry agency in Sydney, her from teaching at the Police Academy. Our second summer together and still laughing at each other’s jokes. Pretty close to paradise.

We splashed about for a while as the last few people left the beach. Glen wasn’t the swimmer she had been. A bullet had left her arm a bit stiff. She got the wound at the time when we first met, back when a case had brought me to Newcastle and Senior Sergeant Glen Withers’ father, who was a high-ranking policeman, had been killed. We enjoyed more than the usual number of bonds-an acquaintance with violence, a distrust of authority and, oddly, the suspicion that relationships couldn’t last. We also showed each other our wounds, competed fiercely on occasions, and liked old black and white movies.