“We soon found ourselves becalmed, the Steadfast languishing on glassy seas. When a breath of wind at last appeared, our progress was slowed again, this time by a massing of strange organisms. For days we laboured through the milky soup of a jellyfish bloom – millions of alien blobs crowding the water like malignant cells, their tentacles strung with debris, dragging at the hull.”

Beach wandering, Moorina Bay, Bruny Island. June 2021.

The Trespassers by Meg Mundell

An entertaining little thriller set in a future in which climate change, an energy crisis, and a global pandemic throw the world askew. Mundell has used this conceit to explore notions of emigration, xenophobia, corporate greed, political cowardice and capitalism run rampant.

The narrative unwinds through three distinctive voices: a formidable (but bruised) Glaswegian nurse-turned nightclub singer; the reserved English schoolteacher from a family fallen from wealth; and a deaf nine-year-old Irish lad cut adrift with just his mother by his side.

I can't say that each character thoroughly convinced me, but the occasional jarring of inauthenticity did not hinder the story from moving along briskly. More jolting was a considerable shift from a claustrophobic murder mystery novel set at sea to a more nebulous political thriller.

As I said, I liked it well enough, and I am always keen to read a sharp critique of Australia's treatment of refugees. One hopes that in choosing a cohort - Scots, Irish and English - more likely to draw sympathy from white Australia, they might open their eyes to the cruelty of the present system that primarily impacts strange and alien 'others'.

While the narrative arc was entirely sensible, the abrupt ending seemed rushed and unsatisfying. Given the intensity of the build-up, I had hoped for something more.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ 1/2