With a wry aside to the power
of fiction on susceptible minds, Kate first learns something may be amiss when
she discovers her husband was skipping work and “reading horror novels by this
mad American – Lovecroft? Something like that.” White examines the consequences
of hiding feelings and burying emotions, suggesting that suppressed memory will
never remain that way, even when counselled, “Put it someplace out of the way,
in a room behind a locked door. Then all you have to do is not go in that
room.” Kate remembers that John told their daughter they had to confront their
fears; after all, “If they didn’t talk about the monsters in this world, then
they wouldn’t be ready for them when they jumped out from under the bed.”
When Abby asks her husband why
he hadn’t previously spoken to her of his fears, and dreams, he replies, “Come
on Abby, I’m not one of your girlfriends. Men aren’t like that.” Later he
relates his reading matter, “I started reading Tolstoy but couldn’t get into
it. Vonnegut and Salinger were both pretty good. Didn’t mind Jane Austen either
– bet you’re surprised to hear that one?” It’s difficult to tell whether this
gender-reductive viewpoint is that of the character or the author, or both.
While appealing to the common
denominator – we all consult Dr Google, right? “Her left foot ached with what
the internet had diagnosed as either gout, a corn, or foot cancer.” – there are
some aspects of the novel which are unoriginal or overexplained. We all know
what TMI is and don’t need it spelled out. Similarly, the story of Orpheus and
Eurydice is used to indicate the consequences of broken trust and looking back.
This must be one of the most overworked myths in recent literature, and the
fact that it needs to be explained suggests a level of disrespect for the
reader.
On the other hand, the author
deals well with the subject of grief. “Since John’s disappearance, such simple
things had become near impossible. Preparing meals, for example, now seemed
like a bizarre foreign custom, needlessly complicated.” Kate cannot easily see
a way forward. “She baulked at people who said things like life’s too short
and time passes in a blur and Jee-zus, is it Christmas already? Life
was long, time moved too slow, and anyway fuck Christmas.” Her friend advises
her how to cope with the aftermath. “You keep moving. You eat, you take a bath,
you shave your legs and you keep looking forward. Guilt, fear, grief, they’re
all like moss. If you slow down long enough, it’ll start to grow and it won’t
stop until you’re covered.” Apart from the bit about shaving your legs –
another male writing about women trope – this is an interesting metaphor.
At other times, the similes
are so original as to almost be jarring. “She was quiet, like a duck slipping
through a pond.” A false person speaks “words like a backdrop in a Hollywood
studio, held together by balsawood and coated in cheap paint.” While waiting
for news, a character smokes with attitude. “He sucked on the cigarette hard
and fast, as if he was hoping to develop lung cancer before dinnertime.” The
colloquial is ever-present as the ferry doors opened and “spat the Lexus out
like a dislodged chunk of meat” or fact is sifted from fiction. “Around here,
rumours are like holey buckets. They don’t hold water.”
The characters and setting are
distinctly Australian. Abby practices taxidermy on roadkill her friends bring
her, and the tools of her trade, pelts and glassy eyes are all fabulously
macabre. It is set on a fictional Victorian (Australian) island out of season where,
“The island represented a cold exclamation mark at the end of a sentence.” The
atmosphere is frigid and grim, or as Abby puts it, “It’s colder than a fairy
penguin’s pocket.”
Overall, this is an intense and compelling thriller which is hugely readable and atmospheric. It is only White’s second novel and already he is being described by The Age as a master of the art of misdirection.
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