The hardest part of writing Australian crime is deciding how "Australian" to make it.
Should it be the kind where a ute-driving sheila says "strewth" while chowing down on a kangaroo burger? Or the kind set in a fictitious town in an unnamed country, which avoids all slang and never mentions the date, for fear of revealing that the book is set in the southern hemisphere? Either way, you're likely to alienate readers both foreign and domestic, so it's easiest to just set your book in Texas (for example). But author Sarah Thornton apparently likes a challenge, and dances across the antipodean tightrope with ease.
Lawyer Clementine Jones moves to a small coastal town in Queensland, a nice long way away from her bad reputation. She's after the quiet life, and she gets it, for about a page and a half. Then a friend of hers is found impaled on a tree, having fallen off a cliff. The cops think the friend jumped, Clem reckons she was pushed. She takes it upon herself to find the truth, but her investigation is hampered by the arrival of an ex-con football player, who wants Clem to come home and coach his team. (Those who haven't read the previous book in the series, Lapse , may do a double-take at this point. Having scored a freebie of White Throat, I haven't read Lapse, but I'm now very tempted.)
When we categorise books into a genre, we often do them a disservice. The best novels are made from a blend of contrasting ingredients. In White Throat, Clem's sadness and anger at her friend's death is explored, but not wallowed in. It's balanced by moments of sharp humour, erotic romance and even horror. One moment I was feeling deeply sorry for Clem, the next I was admiring her cunning. The story has plenty of plot twists, but it was these emotional pivots that I enjoyed most.
Like many contemporary Australian thrillers, the story does squeeze in perhaps one too many reveals. Towards the end, Clem zip-zap-zooms from theory to theory and suspect to suspect, rather than moving steadily towards the truth. The point is to drop her into some dangerous situations, and fortunately, they don't disappoint. The action scenes, particularly those on water, are intense and real.
When the second word of the first page of White Throat was "ute," I was very suspicious. By the end, I'd forgotten that the book was Australian, but that was because I was having so much fun, rather than because it was hiding its Bight under a bushel. Highly recommended.
Jack Heath is the author of Hideout.
Lawyer Clementine Jones moves to a small coastal town in Queensland, a nice long way away from her bad reputation. She's after the quiet life, and she gets it, for about a page and a half. Then a friend of hers is found impaled on a tree, having fallen off a cliff. The cops think the friend jumped, Clem reckons she was pushed. She takes it upon herself to find the truth, but her investigation is hampered by the arrival of an ex-con football player, who wants Clem to come home and coach his team. (Those who haven't read the previous book in the series, Lapse , may do a double-take at this point. Having scored a freebie of White Throat, I haven't read Lapse, but I'm now very tempted.)
When we categorise books into a genre, we often do them a disservice. The best novels are made from a blend of contrasting ingredients. In White Throat, Clem's sadness and anger at her friend's death is explored, but not wallowed in. It's balanced by moments of sharp humour, erotic romance and even horror. One moment I was feeling deeply sorry for Clem, the next I was admiring her cunning. The story has plenty of plot twists, but it was these emotional pivots that I enjoyed most.
Like many contemporary Australian thrillers, the story does squeeze in perhaps one too many reveals. Towards the end, Clem zip-zap-zooms from theory to theory and suspect to suspect, rather than moving steadily towards the truth. The point is to drop her into some dangerous situations, and fortunately, they don't disappoint. The action scenes, particularly those on water, are intense and real.
When the second word of the first page of White Throat was "ute," I was very suspicious. By the end, I'd forgotten that the book was Australian, but that was because I was having so much fun, rather than because it was hiding its Bight under a bushel. Highly recommended.
Jack Heath is the author of Hideout.
No comments have been added yet.
