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A Hand in the Bush (expand)
"Far below her the ambulance and police cars were converging on the
western banks of the Maribyrnong River. Further upstream Decca could
just make out an approaching police launch.
Someone had jumped.
Engines were starting to rev as Decca returned to the Mustang. Like a procession of mourners at a coffin viewing, the traffic crawled past a dusty, white Toyota Starlet isolated in the breakdown lane by a curve of orange witches' hats. A motor-cycle cop was directing traffic around it while another uniform unrolled the blue and white tape from one part of the railing to the other. A few metres ahead, a brand new, yellow Hyundai sedan was also parked hard up against the railing.
Tyres crunched over broken glass but the Starlet seemed unmarked. A 'Baby on Board' sign hung in its back window.
What kind of person jumps at 8.45 am in full view of peak hour traffic ? And, was the baby still on board ?"
available through www.textpublishing.com.au
Someone had jumped.
Engines were starting to rev as Decca returned to the Mustang. Like a procession of mourners at a coffin viewing, the traffic crawled past a dusty, white Toyota Starlet isolated in the breakdown lane by a curve of orange witches' hats. A motor-cycle cop was directing traffic around it while another uniform unrolled the blue and white tape from one part of the railing to the other. A few metres ahead, a brand new, yellow Hyundai sedan was also parked hard up against the railing.
Tyres crunched over broken glass but the Starlet seemed unmarked. A 'Baby on Board' sign hung in its back window.
What kind of person jumps at 8.45 am in full view of peak hour traffic ? And, was the baby still on board ?"
available through www.textpublishing.com.au
Half Past Dead (expand)
It wasn't for the sex. She told herself that all along. She had a good sex life.
A perfectly satisfying, regular and often thrilling sex life, even after many years of monogamy. A sex life that was, she admitted, largely confined to the bedroom, rather than the lounge-room floor or the shower or the kitchen table or just inside the front door and, these days, pyjamas were involved.
A sex life with no urgency, not a lot of selflessness and far less creativity than those all-night marathons of the first couple of years.
The back of her neck and her thighs were no longer the preferred targets for kisses - what kisses there were - and her toes were positively neglected. In fact, she would have to say that if her body were a football field, the midfield would be brown, dry and sandy with overuse while the wings, back and forward areas would be waist-high lush and green.
But for all that... she couldn't complain. Sex for her was open all hours, safe and savagely efficient. God knows, some of her female friends hadn't had so much as a cuddle with a man in over a year or, worse still, had almost given up hope.
Intelligent and financially independent, even the good-looking ones made other arrangements, went out with women or the occasional gay 'handbag', took pottery courses, did intensive, bone-draining yoga classes and joked about their vibrators. And there she was, knocking it back some nights because she was too tired !
So, it wasn't for the sex, Ronnie reminded herself as she looked down at the corpse of Lawrence Konitz sprawled across the lino, right where the mail would have dropped through the slot.
available through www.textpublishing.com.au
A perfectly satisfying, regular and often thrilling sex life, even after many years of monogamy. A sex life that was, she admitted, largely confined to the bedroom, rather than the lounge-room floor or the shower or the kitchen table or just inside the front door and, these days, pyjamas were involved.
A sex life with no urgency, not a lot of selflessness and far less creativity than those all-night marathons of the first couple of years.
The back of her neck and her thighs were no longer the preferred targets for kisses - what kisses there were - and her toes were positively neglected. In fact, she would have to say that if her body were a football field, the midfield would be brown, dry and sandy with overuse while the wings, back and forward areas would be waist-high lush and green.
But for all that... she couldn't complain. Sex for her was open all hours, safe and savagely efficient. God knows, some of her female friends hadn't had so much as a cuddle with a man in over a year or, worse still, had almost given up hope.
Intelligent and financially independent, even the good-looking ones made other arrangements, went out with women or the occasional gay 'handbag', took pottery courses, did intensive, bone-draining yoga classes and joked about their vibrators. And there she was, knocking it back some nights because she was too tired !
So, it wasn't for the sex, Ronnie reminded herself as she looked down at the corpse of Lawrence Konitz sprawled across the lino, right where the mail would have dropped through the slot.
available through www.textpublishing.com.au
Flush (expand)
Flush is the third crime novel by Jane Clifton.
In her second novel A Hand in the Bush we were introduced to psychologist Decca Brand and an assortment of anxious clients. In Flush one of those clients is accused of murder.
Following an extreme weather event the body of Oleg Kransky's wife, Inga, washes up on the banks of the Maribyrnong River in flood.
Caught in the act of taking his own life several hours later, and surrounded by the bloodstained clothes of his wife, Oleg quickly becomes the number one suspect.
But he's not talking. To anyone.
When Decca is called upon to assist the homicide squad in their enquiries it soon becomes apparent that even when Oleg was talking he wasn't telling the truth - about himself or about Inga.
It's a complicated tale with more twists and turns than a box full of pretzels.
How much water does it take to flush out a murderer ?
In her second novel A Hand in the Bush we were introduced to psychologist Decca Brand and an assortment of anxious clients. In Flush one of those clients is accused of murder.
Following an extreme weather event the body of Oleg Kransky's wife, Inga, washes up on the banks of the Maribyrnong River in flood.
Caught in the act of taking his own life several hours later, and surrounded by the bloodstained clothes of his wife, Oleg quickly becomes the number one suspect.
But he's not talking. To anyone.
When Decca is called upon to assist the homicide squad in their enquiries it soon becomes apparent that even when Oleg was talking he wasn't telling the truth - about himself or about Inga.
It's a complicated tale with more twists and turns than a box full of pretzels.
How much water does it take to flush out a murderer ?
Awards (expand)
Awarded an Australia Council Fellowship of 6 weeks at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre, Ireland to be taken up between May and September 2008, to work on a non-fiction book with the working title " The Address Book."
Assorted (expand)
- Various reviews and fashion articles published from time to time in The Age, The (now defunct) Herald and the (almost legendary) Digger.
- Filled in for Les Tanner' s column on the back of the Saturday Age for nine weeks Feb to May ' 93. Also for Red Symons' This Life column in The Age 2003
- A piece on Man ' O Man commissioned by Debi Enker for the Sunday Ages View magazine.
- A piece in The Bulletin' s Commemorative " 1975" edition. (Nov. 2005)
- Speech writing to order.
