BLURB

      In the heady days of the seventies, and at the tender age of nineteen, Decca Brand experimented with what was on offer - sex, drugs and intrigue. Far too much intrigue, it turns out, and of a sort that spells murder. Fast forward nearly thirty years and Decca is confronted by dangerous figures from her past. Not only that, the stunning psychologist and divorcee has a blind date lined up with a married man. And then things start to get complicated.

      A Hand in the Bush is about skeletons in the closet, and simply being in the closet. It is also the marvellous new comic thriller, brimful with wit and meance, from the irrepressible Jane Clifton.

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      Jane Clifton is a seasoned actor, singer and radio personality with over thirty years in show business. Her debut novel, Half Past Dead, was shortlisted for the Ned Kelly Awards in 2002. She lives in Melbourne with her partner and two children.

      'Five to One' words and music by J. Morrison, J. Denismore, R. Kreiger, R. Manzarek © The Doors Music/Universal Music Publishing P/L. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved. International copyright secured.

      Every effort has been made to trace the original source material contained in this book. Where the attempt has been unsuccessful, the publishers would be pleased to rectify any omission.

       In memory of my parents, Frank and Mollie

      The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.

      L.P. Hartley, The Go-Between

      All this fuss about sleeping together. For physical pleasure I'd sooner go to my dentist any day.

      Evelyn Waugh, Vile Bodies

      PROLOGUE

      'I want a smile like Rita Hayworth's.'

      The woman in reception froze in her tracks, halfway to the front door. Desley must have forgotten to switch off the intercom when she left for the day.

      'Although what I've got to smile about I don't know,' the voice continued through the small wooden speaker box.

      He was with someone. Good. The woman put down her bag and slipped out of her high-heels.

      'And no-one smiles at me. Or nods at me. Or tips their hat. No-one's got the time have they? It's all rush, rush, rush these days, isn't it? No time for so much as a "How are you this morning Mrs Ray?" Ha! Mrs Ray. Mrs Who? Chance'd be a fine thing!'

      He was saying nothing, but the woman, poised in her stockinged feet, could hear him moving about the room. Hear the squeak of leather soles on lino, the clink of instruments on glass, the hiss of gas. Mrs Ray? Mauve perm, Osti frock, overflowing ankles, handbag full of nothing and a clean handkerchief drenched in 4711.

      'It's a bit cold in here, isn't it doctor?' the voice went on. 'Sorry. I know, I shouldn't call you "doctor". In any case I'm getting goose pimples. "Someone just walked over your grave." That's what my old Reg used to say, bless his heart. I know it's steamy out, but you want to turn that air conditioning down a bit. Oh yes, I can go through an entire week without a word to another living soul, did you know that, doctor? Without so much as a by your leave. After a certain age, we women become invisible.'

      Let's hope so, thought the woman in the aqua linen pants suit, as she lifted her bag once more and tiptoed a little further.

      At the front door she turned, flicked the curtain of hair from her eyes, and looked around the small reception area for what she hoped would be the last time. Her large hazel eyes rested briefly on the envelope leaning against the brass elephant-bell on the desk.

      'Poof! We all disappear. Just like that! Off we go, in a cloud of wrinkles. When I was a lass I used to be wolf-whistled at from one end of the street to the other. You probably find that hard to believe, doctor...but I was. And I loved it. All that attention. Young girls today, with their protests. They don't know when they're well off. I mean, what do they expect? They may call this the swinging seventies but there's no need to go gallivanting around half-naked with no girdle and no modesty...men are only human after all, aren't they? They can't help themselves, can they, doctor? In my day a wolf-whistle was a real compliment. You were something out of the box.

      'No. If they see me at all these days, I'm just that old woman at number twelve. No friends. No visitors. So, you can give me a smile like Chad Morgan for all the difference it's going to make to my life, doctor. It is very cold in here.'

      The doorknob turned easily, and as the first draught of air caressed the woman's cheeks, she fought hard not to bolt, slamming the door behind her. She would not take the risk. She had waited too long.

      'You know, I'm only bothering because my own are worse than useless,' Mrs Ray's voice went on. 'Too many lollies when I was a littlie, I suppose. None of your fluoride and whatnot then. Six of us shared the one toothbrush and scraped the powder out of the old Gibbs tin. When we could be bothered. No, this is for the best, and the cheapest. So, pull them all out and let's be done with it.

      'I notice you haven't cleaned those windows yet. I tell you the same thing every time! What's the point of a lovely view if you can barely see it? Don't look at me like that, doctor! If people don't tell you the truth what hope have you got? You're just starting out in life. You should be grateful for good advice. And smarten yourself up a bit, why don't you. That long hair of yours makes you look like a ratbag student. Ooh, they make me cross. I mean, what have they got to complain about? Stop this, stop that, "make love not war": they wouldn't know what day it was, any of them, and what would any of them know about war? Or love, for that matter. It's all sex, sex, sex these days. Makes my flesh crawl.

      'It is draughty in here and that's a fact. And you can smell those awful birds. They're not clean. Quite pretty, I grant you, but dirty just the same. What are those little ones called? Gordons or Goolies or something?'

      Gouldians, Mrs Ray, thought the woman by the door. Named in honour of Mrs John Gould. And there are scores of cockatiels, canaries and peach-faced lovebirds, Mrs Ray, trapped in an enormous cage.

      'Oh, all right, don't answer me. I'm used to it. Don't let me hold you up. Goodness knows this is taking long enough already.'

      Yes, take your time, thought the woman on the threshold. Take as long as you like, fire up the drill, make some noise. Please.

      'And, see where those sliding doors don't quite meet? That's where your smell's coming from. Your wife must have to disinfect this whole room from top to bottom every time you go in there. Ugh! Disgusting.'

      Beaks, not teeth, that was always his answer, the woman with her hand gripping the doorknob wanted to tell Mrs Ray. It takes their mind off teeth, he would say. And although they're in a cage, it's large enough for them to fly quite far, so they don't miss their freedom. They have everything they need, he would say: food, living greenery, nesting boxes, water and company. They have a better life than birds out in the wild.

      Useless to argue.

      'Righty-oh, over my mouth. I'll hold it! Yes, yes, I know. I'm not senile yet. This isn't my first time with the gas, you know, doctor. Last time they took everything out from the other end.'

      Her loud cackle was followed by a rasping cough.

      It's now or never, thought the listener, as she opened the door wide.

      'Oh, my lord!' gasped Mrs Ray, her voice still choked with laughter. 'Here we go! See you in the soup, doctor.'

      The door clicked softly, above the gentle chirp and squeak.

      CHAPTER ONE

---

Скачать книгу