Perilous Adventures
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Pandora

 
 

The Knock Knock {an extract}

by Rachel Claire
 

Chapter SixThe Knock Knock

“Jesus, it’s smoky in here,” said Oliver and frowned at me.

“Come in quickly,” I hissed at him.

“What’s  going on?”

“Ssssshhhh. A crazy woman— an absolute nut job— moved into flat two. She’s terrorising me.”

“Why the hell are you whispering?”

“Just wait. Just wait until you hear her.”

Oliver gave me an unsympathetic scowl and went into the kitchen.

“Hello John,” I murmured affectionately to my cousin’s friend. “Sorry about this. I like the moustache. Did you have fun in the park?” I heard the lock click in the kitchen. “Don’t open the door!” I squealed and ran across the room, wringing my hands.

“Bridge, I am fucking choking here.”

My cousin, I have to say, was a fine specimen. He was twenty-three, broad-shouldered and tall, muscular, narrow hipped. He was a handsome, surly man. Taciturn; suspicious of strangers.

He had two drinking moods and it was impossible to say which would come out in the night. Sometimes he smashed bottles on the road and started fights. Sometimes he draped his big arm over my shoulder and sang songs in a bleary, happy, deep voice.

He mocked me for being thin. “Hey, Pencil Arms,” he said. He had a laugh like a demon down a well.

He pushed the door wide.

“Oliver, please...”

My cousin released a vaporous sigh. “Brigitte, what is it you think she’s going to do, exactly? Give her a beer, for Christ’s sake,” he said to John.

John, who was a pathologically shy redhead with silver eyelashes and a notional new moustache, was lingering awkwardly with the carton in his arms.

“We’ll put it in the fridge,” I said and patted his shoulder apologetically. His cheeks went instantly pink and I pulled my hand away.

“Give it here,” said Oliver. He tore the top off the carton. He took out a beer, pointed it at me.

“I want vodka,” I said sadly. “I couldn’t go to the shop because Crazy Lady was outside.”

“God.” Oliver rolled his eyes and put the beer down. “Bridge? We are going to sit out here in the nice breeze,” he took me by the shoulders and manoeuvred me outside. “And we are going to have a drink, okay?” He pushed me downwards so I was sitting on the step. “Grab a seat from inside,” he commanded John, then stepped by me with his beer and dragged a communal garden chair through the leaves. “Besides, she has anything to say to you she’ll get an earful from me.” He dropped into the chair, twisted the top off his beer.

“You can’t,” I said.

He snorted.

“Seriously. You can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll see,” I said bleakly.

My cousin glugged beer, his eyes on me. “You read the paper this morning?”

“No.” I turned sharply at a flicker of human motion in my periphery but it was only a man and his little boy.

“There was another one, down at Park Road. Fucking pervert.” Oliver sucked beer fiercely over his teeth, narrowed his eyes at me.  “You better not be wandering around by yourself, girl.”

I scoffed on cue. It was a frequent lecture from my cousin and it irritated me.

Oliver widened his glare. “You think it’s funny? It’s not safe for girls round here.” He raised a hand as I began my usual objection to his dismissal of girls, “Uh, uh, uh. That’s the reality. Especially,” he motioned with a grimace to my skirt, “the way you dress.”

I straightened, affronted as always. “I sincerely doubt that one man is responsible for...”

But I froze suddenly, for there was noise from the front of the house, noise growing nearer—I’m sure the sky darkened and the leaves lifted— there was a shouted, unspecific threat of “Pleece!”

“Oh no,” I said, crumpling. I put my face in my hand.

“Is that her?” said Oliver.

I nodded into my palm. Here she came, crashing through the trees, hurling her arms about, hair apparently arranged by a high wind. Even Oliver was taken aback by the sight of her and for this I was grimly satisfied.

She stopped in front of us and put her hands on her hips. She was panting. “Moy boyfriend’s comin round and he needsa park. This is moy place now. That’s moy spot that car is in an it better get moved.”

I turned and looked behind me. She could only be talking about one vehicle: a smooth little gem-green machine parked adjacent to the front fence.

“That’s not my car,” I said.

“Whose is it then?” she demanded.

“I don’t know,” I said. I was lying through my teeth. I knew it belonged to one of the twins from downstairs but I certainly wasn’t going to divulge that information to her.

“Well...then...” she was floundering. She looked about her, the tick snatching at her eye. “Well, where’s your car then?” she demanded.

“I don’t have a car,” I said.

She gave me a look of disgust. “Why dontcha?”

“We live so close to the city here," I said, "I just tend to walk...”

But she had completely lost interest in the conversation. It seemed she had noticed Oliver for the first time and she was looking him over. “Is that ya boyfriend?”

“No,” I said, surprised. “That’s my cousin.”

“Ya cousin,” she repeated.

“Yes.”

“Is he ya boyfriend?” she nodded in John’s direction. I caught a soft snigger from Oliver.

“No.”

“Well, then, where is he?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I said.

She slapped the fence. “So ya haven’t gotta boyfriend or a car!” she said and crowed with laughter.

My cousin turned to hide his smile. I watched her with confusion. She was leaning backwards, looking up the street, tugging at the fence. She was still snorting. I was amazed that her mood had shifted so quickly and so completely. I decided to subtly seize this opportunity.

“So you, um, you have a boyfriend?” I said tentatively.

She sniffed. “I got a real good one,” she said.

“Really?”

“Yeah, he’s real good to me. An he’s got a Tor-arn-a,” she added loftily.

“A Torana?” I said. “Wow.” I must have been overly enthusiastic because she gave me a suspicious look.

“Yeah, well it’s in the shop. But he got annutha car too,” she said defensively.

I pulled back a little. “I guess he’s coming round to see the new place, is he? Your boyfriend?” I was struggling and it was obvious; the boys were coughing to conceal their laughter. Still, I pressed on.

In my eagerness I imagined she was softening, though the long look she was giving me remained distrustful. “He’s up with the greyhounds,” she said. “He trains em.”

“Really? He’s a dog trainer?” My voice sounded false even to my ears. I noticed my cousin’s shoulder shaking and sent him covert daggers. “How interesting.”

“I got a dog, too,” she said, as though I had accused her of being dog-less.

“Do you?”

“Lightnin Nell’s her name. She come third over at Ascot.”

“Oh wow!”

“We made two hundred bucks.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, an then Bobby took me out.”

“That’s so nice! Where to?”

“The casino.”

“Ahh...”

“Yeah, but we got kicked out.”

“Oh no.”

“By bouncers.”

“That’s terrible, how awful.”

“Yeah, just cos I haven’t got all long hair and noice clothes like you,” she said with blackest tone and thinnest eyes. The tendril of hope winced and withdrew.

Something cold touched my shoulder and I jumped, spun. It was John, a beer apologetically extended.
Sharon was laughing fit to burst. “Jeez, you jumped! It was just ya mate givin ya a beer!”

I laughed along weakly, and Oliver was laughing hard, probably because it was an opportunity to release the suppressed amusement from his system. I opened the beer and took a sip.

“Drinkin again, ay?” said Sharon Hocker.

I looked for help from my cousin but his chin was cupped and his gaze was down and he could not meet my eye.

“Actually, we should probably make a move, Bridge.”

I swivelled and looked up at John with surprise and gratitude.

“You’re right,” I said keenly, though it was untrue. “Yes. We should get going.” I stood up, brushed my skirt. Oliver got up, too.

“Where ya goin?” said Sharon Hocker.

“Just to see a friend’s band,” I said. She had given no indication she was about to leave. Oliver and I lingered uncomfortably on the step.

“So, um, I’ll see you around, then,” I said, and I shut the door with her standing there, staring at me.

Once Oliver and John and I were all in the stifling kitchen, Oliver turned to me and grinned most toothishly. “What are you talking about, Bridgey? She is delightful.”

“Very funny,” I said, and he cracked up again.

“You can’t live with that, Bridge,” said John quietly and blushed for talking.

“What can I do?” I said miserably. “I can’t complain about her.”

“Why not?” said Oliver.

“Because!” I clicked my tongue and gave him an irritated look. “You know why.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s special.”

Oliver cupped my shoulder, gave me a shake. “Quite the situation you’ve got yourself into,” he said. And he laughed again.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

I was familiar with the floor plan of the flat Sharon Hocker now inhabited, having inspected it before I took Number One (It was the cheapest and smallest in the house, though mine came a close second, and a certifiable fire-trap: no back door, only a line of louvers above the toilet). So when her noises carried into the hall I had a fair idea of the movements that had made them.

I came home that evening to a volley of metallic clatters, a series of wince-inducing tinks and dinks. This indicated to me she was standing some metres from the kitchenette, pelting cutlery at the sink. She was also rambling, bitterly, even though she was alone.

I was not very drunk at all, though I’d had plenty. I was drowsy and a bit miserable. It was raining a little outside and the hall smelt of bitumen from the steamy, pattering street. She heard me, of course, and the noises stopped, but I did not really care that I was about to collide with her again. I was not frightened; I was slow and full of yawns and sighs.

I was outside my own flat, swaying a little, squinting at my nest of keys, when out swung the door with a wooden smack and out stamped Sharon Hocker.

“You bedda keep it down. I got things ta do ta-morruh.” I saw she was filthy with fury, and had nowhere to direct it. I was able to analyse her quite clearly now I was calm. Beer had made me impervious.

The hostile slits were twitching on my hip-bone, my breast, my neck. I thought to myself: she really hates me.
“Ya hear what oi said? Keep. Ya. Noise. Down.”

I did not flinch. I looked at her soundlessly, returned to my keys. She was obviously unsatisfied with my silence, so she advanced. But I had identified the corrugated tongue of the key I wanted; I unlocked and entered. I closed the door.

Sharon Hocker was on the other side. “Ya bedda be careful.” The voice had dropped, there was hot breath in it. “Moy boyfriend,” she whispered against the wood, “moy boyfriend’s gonna cut ya face.”

What? A second passed before I began to coldly prickle.

The sound of cheek popped by finger. “Then you won’t be so pretty.”

I twisted the knob twice, made sure it was locked. Then I texted Dicky.

*

I was woken later that night by a persistent, heavy tapping at my window. I arranged the blanket around me and crossed the dark flat. I pulled the curtain aside, then unhooked the latch and pushed out the window. Dicky waited woozily, smelling strongly of red wine, lashes spangled by the soft rain.

“What are you doing?” I whispered. “It’s raining.”

“She has a new name,” he whispered wetly back.

“Really,” I said, and brushed a black leaf from his cheek.

He closed his eyes and nodded deeply. “I gave it to her. Her new name is The Shocker.”

There was an ambiguous, rain-muffled howl.

“What is going on?”

“I threwanegg,” said Dicky sloppily.

“You did what? Dicky!” I caught his elbow as he plunged suddenly backwards.

He raised his palms. “I’m orright. Said: I threw an egg.” He pronounced each word thickly and carefully. “At her house. An egg.”

“Oh, Dicky.”

He put a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell anyone,” he whispered.

“You didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t.”

He pointed his fingers like a pistol, crookedly fired in the direction of her flat. Then grabbed my blanket and widened his eyes urgently. “Come have a drink with me.”

“No, Dicky, I’m tired...”

He shook the blanket again. “Come, come.”

“Dicky, stop.” I unclasped his grip.

He gave me a devastated look as I released his hand. “Brigitte!” he said, “it’s Saturday night.”

“I’m sorry, Dicky. I had a big afternoon...”

He shook his head, very sadly. He parted the trees as though they were stage curtains and stepped into the dark with a grand, stoic, sweep. I watched him go, sighing.

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was morning, and my phone was buzzing like a batted wasp along the floor. When I picked it up it said: SUSAN. I pressed it and put it to my ear.

“Hello Brigitte, sorry to bother you on a Sunday.”

“Hello,” I said, and, “Not at all.”

“Richard from number eight called me this morning. He told me what was said to you last night. I would like you to know that I have issued Sharon with her second warning. We agreed when she moved in that there was to be a policy of three strikes and you’re out. If there is another complaint she will be asked to leave.”

“Okay,” I said uncertainly.

“I would like you to know I’m very sorry about all this.”

“It’s been,” I hesitated, I didn’t want to be difficult, “a little distressing.”

Susan’s tremulous voice grew slightly higher.  “I did think I was doing the right thing at the time. She had people who vouched for her. The whole thing is really very unfortunate. ”

“Yes,” I murmured sympathetically. “I understand.”

“You just never can tell.”

“No.”

“Another thing, Brigitte, I’m asking each of the tenants to start keeping a diary.”

“A diary,” I said slowly.

“Yes, nothing much really. Just dates and the like. If there are more threats, I would like you to make a note of it.”

“Okay. Um, why is that?”

“Well, in case there are any difficulties in,” she cleared her throat, “removing her.”

I felt a bell-tink of alarm. “Do you foresee a problem?” I said.

“No, no. Not really. It’s just that if she refuses to leave for some reason it would be good to have some documentation.”

“Um. Okay.”

“Just dates. A few short notes.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Good. And my apologies again, Brigitte.”

“Thank you.”

 

CHAPTER NINE

MONDAY
Furniture, gleaned piecemeal from the tenant’s dusty storage space, has begun to appear outside, beneath her windows. I watch it accumulate with apprehension. Could this be the ‘patio area’ she has so ominously mentioned? It is an awkward place for a table and chairs, since it obstructs the front entrance and makes unwanted meetings inescapable.

I have met one of Sharon Hocker’s associates. He lurched out of her flat when I lingered too long at the mailbox. He introduced himself to me and then went on to insist, at length, that he is not romantically involved with Sharon. I immediately forgot his name but could not avoid a moist encounter with his hand. He is some glaucous old laggard, evidently indisposed to shirts, belly bristly with grey hog-hair. He staggered, the wine slapped in the bottle, but he was articulate enough.

“You must make allowances for her,” he said, and surveyed the foraged furniture with a proprietary lip-smack. "She is as she is.”

TUESDAY
She is a prolific note writer. She pushes them under my door. Here are some examples, with translations.

DO not thro ot cans Iam save them

Do not throw out cans. I am saving them.

(She collects them and puts them in at the depot).

DO not have loud miuse and speek LOUd or I call piloSe. I Have to get UP ERILY to morry

Do not play loud music or speak loudly or I will call the police. I have to get up early tomorrow.

(A lie, she never rises before eleven).

Pinned up beside the fire extinguisher:

NO! SMOCKING IN HAL!

No smoking in the hall.

(I don’t. Ever).

WEDNESDAY
I have now met the boyfriend; he caught me having a quick cigarette out the back (crouched on the step, hiding behind the half-closed door). I would guess him to be in his late forties. He is glassy-eyed, unshapely, the most amphibious-looking creature I have ever seen. His hair is dank and dirty. I think he must operate part-time from some slimy pool. He, too, swore romantic indifference to Sharon while I watched him most icily. I know his name is Bobby because I heard them through the walls last night.

I have a strong feeling he is related to that other man, that perhaps he is his son. I have also ascertained from the various loud comments, which carry into my flat, that these two pay, in part, for her accommodation, presumably so they have somewhere to get catastrophically drunk.

At least I know neither has any serious plan to cut my face. They grin at me madly as I come and go. They lean on the window ledge and stare at my pants.

THURSDAY
As I was coming home from work today I saw the boyfriend, this Bobby character, sitting in one of Margot’s chairs. Beside him, also comfortably established on illegal furniture, was a man from the flats across the road. He is shabby and small, with the hopeless eyes of a dislodged jockey, but he is always desperately cheerful with me and I acknowledge him with courtesy. I do not harshly judge him for being there with unctuous Bobby; I know that alcoholics long for drinking company whatever the cost. I offered the slightest of nods to the boyfriend, a warmer smile to his guest. There was a knock and rattle of bottles as I passed; they were well into their cups. I heard them continue to talk about me even after I closed the door to my flat.

Then it started. She hissed at him from the window, he attempted a smooth laugh.  Something glassy burst against concrete, and Sharon began to swear and squawk. (She is so keenly nasty, her fits of temper are so sudden. A flick and she flares like a match-head).

Bobby said, “Don’t be silly, girl. Ha ha. Come sit down with us.” This was condescension, false calm. She swore filthily from the window. “Oh Sharon!” I could almost hear him shaking his head, could picture the sad smile. There was self pity in the voice, too, as though he was holding out his palms and saying: Look. Look what I have to deal with. I imagined him bouncing on her and I thought, darkly: you disgusting frog.

She thundered about the apartment. There was a whump of telephone books. The radio was abruptly severed. A crockery-grind of plates violently re-arranged.

Outside, something was unwisely said, followed by a double measure of theatrical laughter.

Now she cried out in retaliation, really riled: “Well wadda ya expeck? When ya go off down the coast drinkin an lickin other women’s vaginas?”

Oh my good God. Unless I physically left the apartment I had no escape. I would hear every word, each demented syllable.

I heard him come quickly up the stairs and growl warningly at her in the hall. She would not be moved. “Ya did it didn’t ya! Ya licked annutha woman’s vagina!”

“You know what, Sharon? You’re mad. You’re a fuckin mad bitch.”

A screech, a thump, a scuffle; one of them cracked the wall with an elbow. There was the loud smack of a slapped face, his inhalation of shock, his laboured heaving as he tried to restrain her.

“WADDA YA EXPECK!” She screamed. “WADDA YA EXPECK?”

“I’m going!” he bellowed. Thump, thump, thump, went his steps.

Now her tone changed, “I didn’t say go, Bobby! I DIDN’T SAY GO!”

“Look what she just did to me,” he panted, outside. There were uncomfortable murmurs and chair-scrapes as the other man tried to leave.

“Bobby? Come back in ere. I gotta tell ya something.” The voice was entreating, nightie-twisting.

“I’M GOING!”

“NO YA NOT!” Frantic footfalls. The car started on the street, coughed, then expired. The sound of a handle being wrenched, the metallic crunch of re-closure. The car door was kicked.

“Get away, you crazy bitch!” The engine jolted to life, there was a vicious scrape of gutter.

“WADDA YA EXPECK WHEN YA LICKED ANNUTHA WOMAN’S VAGINA? WHAT ARE YOUSE LOOKIN AT? WHY DON’T YA SHOW SOME RESPECK AN MOIND YA OWN BIZNISS?” (This last was directed, no doubt, at the street’s tribe of children. Probably still in their school socks, openly agog as they held up their innocent bicycles). The car finally pulled away.

There were more heels in the hall. Slammed door. Her voice on the telephone: “Oi wanna make a report. A man is droivin his car very drunk. He drunk two...three bottles. Yes. His car is a green Commodore.” Pause. “Goin inta the Valley.” Pause again, then the license plate number loudly disclosed. “He’s very drunk. He could kill somebody.”

FRIDAY
My friend Lou and her boyfriend, Jase, came to take me to a party. They are a gentle pair: Lou plays the flute and Jase has round little glasses. I did not want them subjected to the Shocker and I dashed about when I heard their beep, but I could not leave my locks, had to touch them ten times, stopped to re-inspect the oven and the toaster. My habits kept them waiting in the car; they were accosted.

I raced outside, with heels and handbag, but Sharon was already bent over the passenger seat. She did not even look up as I circled, so intent was she on her tale of mistreatment. I climbed into the back behind Jase; we exchanged a long look in the rear-view mirror.

Poor Lou in shotgun. I could not see her face, but I saw she was pinned by the diatribe, pressed back into her seat.

“Oim a good girl. All oi ask is a noice quoit loife. But she won’t let me. She’s makin trouble for me with the Lanlady.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Lou.

“Oim twenny-noin years of age an this is moy first place on moy own.  If oi get kicked outta here wadda oi do? I got nowhere. The old man’s a alky-holic. He threw a knive at me.”

“Oh no, that’s terrible.”

“He locked me outta the house. I hadta pee in the shed.”

An interval of silence. “Let’s go,” I suggested, and Jase optimistically revved the car’s engine.

But the Shocker’s arms were in Lou’s window. “She hates me. Just cos I got a disability.”

“Oh my God,” I muttered, and looked out the window.

“Waddidya say?” Keenly.

I didn’t answer her.

“Yeah, that’s roit, don’t talk to moy,” she said with a bogus sob. I closed my eyes. “All she wants ta do is party an get drunk. When oi ask for a liddle peace an quoiet she shouts at me an makes trouble for me an tries to get me kicked oudda here.”

I sat forward suddenly in my seat. “I did not shout at you, Sharon,” I said, astonished, and watched until her sly eyes slid away.

Lou was murmuring, nervously smoothing her skirt. Sharon Hocker took hold of her arm. “You talk to her. You’re a good Girl. Tell her I got nowhere. Tell her she’s gotta show some respeck.”

“Um,” said Lou, and tried with flautist finger-taps to disengage.

“We’re going now, Sharon,” said Jase, and resolutely reversed the car. We arced around her onto the road.

“You tell her!” she called as we pulled away.

“Good God,” said Jase to the mirror.

“You can’t imagine,” I sighed.

SATURDAY
It is her habit to halt— on the footpath, at various times during the day and evening— the street’s procession of neighbourhood pedestrians. She does this in her nightdress, which appears to be her constant uniform. It is a grey cotton article, and makes her look as though she has recently escaped from an institution. These passing people, (pairs of Asian students, lady joggers, robust retirees taking their strolls after tea), are detained beside the wheelie-bins and given, at length, the sad details of her plight, or simply made to endure loud, confusing stories of urination and greyhound racing.

I suppose she appears a tragic figure in that grim garment. Perhaps to occasional individuals her manic state could be explained by a certain neighbour’s systematic campaign of oppression and evil (there were one or two looks when I went to buy the paper). Mostly, though, they steer their little dogs away and try politely not to stop, or stay stunned and silent; simply staring. One woman gripped her small child and looked utterly terrified. I was very sorry for her.

These constant orations upon offences I have not committed upset me, obviously. Dicky and I, (always whispering now, even down by the clothesline), discussed this— the sense we have to justify our lifestyles somehow. Sharon Hocker goes to church. She doesn’t drink alkie-hole. When I empty bottles into the recycle bin, I drop them in one by one, clink, clink, with little winces.

SUNDAY
I ran into Christian at the shops. It seems he has had a serious change of heart regarding our new tenant. He said: “She just walks into my flat this morning and puts everyone’s mail on my table. I’m like, what’s this, man? What are you doing? And so then I have to go replace everyone’s mail. I’ve got to go through people’s mail and put it back in their boxes. I’m like, what is this? I am over it. This is too much.”

“I’m, um...I’m finding all this pretty difficult, too, actually.” I stopped and looked up, the blue sky was brimming.

“Oh, Brigitte,” said Christian, and clicked his tongue. He lifted a hand towards me but then let it drop.

“Sorry,” I said, and my lip trembled.

“Listen, I understand how you feel. It’s an ethical dilemma for all of us. It is. But, shit, I’ve just been through a hell of a time. You haven’t had it easy lately, either. We don’t have the resources to deal with this situation and, frankly, it’s not our responsibility. She should be somewhere she can get constant support. This is not the place for her.”

“I just feel bad,” I said. “I feel really bad because where is she supposed to go? I mean, are there even... facilities... available these days? I’ve tried to get along with her but she’s just so,” I stopped, sniffled, “hideous.” I finished apologetically.

“Hey, you know what, Brigitte? You’re right. And I’ll tell you something else; I’ve done a lot of work with people like her. I’ve seen the way they’re taught and counselled. They’re taught all about their own rights, about the respect they deserve. But you know what? No one ever sat her down and said, 'Hey man, you’ve got rights, yes, but other people have rights too.' You know? You hear what I’m saying?”

I did hear what he was saying. I felt he had just made a very cogent point, and I eyed him with blurred admiration.

***

BIO

Rachel Claire was the recipient of the Brisbane City Council Young Writer of the Year Award in 2005. In 2002 she won the State Library of QLD Young Writer of the Year Award. Her first novel, The Knock Knock was long-listed by the judges of the 2008 Vogel Award and made the shortlist for this year’s Qld Premier’s prize.

THE JUDGES SAID ...

The Knock Knock follows the comic and sometimes confronting events following the arrival of a new tenant in a block of city flats. Brigitte Very is a sweet and slightly neurotic young woman living in an old mansion in inner-city Brisbane, green and overgrown and converted into cheap apartments.  Brigitte and the other inhabitants rub against each other happily until Sharon Hocker moves in upstairs. Sharon is loud and insistent and objectionable, and at twenty-nine this is her first place out on her own – she has an intellectual disability and a screeching accent.  Sharon starts to terrorise the apartments and in particular Brigitte, who begins to unravel in the face of Sharon’s inexplicable hostility.  

The strengths of this fiction manuscript were its distinctive narrative voice, control of the vernacular and sharp characterisation.

 

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