‘Great,’ she said. While she was on the phone they’d travelled onto the Bridge. To the west the broken roofs of the wharfs and the flats on Ballast Point protruded from the water, gleaming in the glare.
Findlay followed her gaze. ‘Do you ever wonder what it was like before it all went to shit?’
When Sadiya didn’t reply Findlay continued, his voice distant. ‘My mum was born in Sydney. She used to talk about going to the beach in summer. About how beautiful it was back then.’
‘Do I want to go to Tasmania?’ He looked at her for a second or two. ‘I don’t know. I’d like …’ – he gestured around himself – ‘I’d like to think things here will get better.’
‘But?’
‘But I’m not sure it’s likely to be all that much different down there in the end.’
‘Do you ever wonder what it might be like to live in a world that wasn’t so irretrievably fucked?’ said Sadiya.
Findlay stared out at the city lights. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘There’s still beer.’
Sadiya laughed, surprising herself. She lifted her bottle. ‘To silver linings.’
‘To silver linings,’ repeated Findlay, smiling.
James Bradley’s Landfall is a terrific piece of grown-up climate fiction—an action thriller that is unapologetically Hitchcockian, with multiple narrative threads tightening in a steady crescendo until a phenomenal finale. Since we seem determined to drive our world toward the dump, we might as well have some serious entertainment on the road to hell. This novel practically begs for a big-budget film adaptation, the kind best experienced in an IMAX theatre.
Bradley’s prose itself is not the book’s great strength. The writing is competent, serviceable, efficient—it gets the job done (this is not the realm of writers like Jack Vance, Lucius Shepard, or Javier Marías, whose sentences mesmerize even before meaning fully registers). Everything else works magnificently. The plot construction, the pacing, the sharply drawn characters, the protagonist—her background, her humanity, her work ethic—the suffocating bureaucracy, the capitalist nonsense, the unfolding climate catastrophe and its brutally practical consequences, the end-of-the-world stakes, the quest itself: all of it clicks into place with relentless momentum, the result being a novel that is unputdownable.
Almost without thinking she called up the temperature in her lenses and saw it was still more than 35 degrees. Beneath the temperature she saw the forecast for the next few days, the unbroken line of temperatures in the mid to high forties. She closed her eyes, trying not to think about what that meant if Casey was alive somewhere without air conditioning. In her first year as a constable she had attended a welfare check in one of the tent cities out west. It was December, the heat already extreme. After asking for directions they found their way to a container, its front locked tight. They had pounded on the front without response, then cut the lock. Even as the door swung open the smell told her what they were going to find, but it turned out to be even worse than she had imagined. Inside it was impossibly hot, and by the door lay three bodies, the largest a girl, perhaps eight or nine, hair cropped close to her skull, the next a boy, half that. And between them the naked form of a baby.
Eventually he reached a highway, which he crossed and then followed for a while before turning down the side street where the van had been parked. The street sloped down, away from the highway; at its end the water gleamed malignantly in the sun. On both sides were an assortment of abandoned industrial buildings, many still bearing signs advertising businesses long since closed or relocated: a car repair shop, a courier depot adorned with a cartoon figure of a man in a uniform, an empty gym, its windows smashed in and cabling hanging from its ceiling. He stared in the windows as he passed, searching for something that might lead him to the girl, until at last he reached the point where the street disappeared into the water.
Lowering her screen she leaned back. The night before, the forecast for today had been 47 degrees, with humidity in the territory that could kill. Yet they still didn’t have a clue where Casey was, or even whether she was still alive. What they did know was that whoever killed Nina took Casey.
Once, this would have been semi-rural, farmland; ravaged by the heat and fire, it was now a wasteland.
‘So, you’re not only not going to help us, you’re going to stop us from helping ourselves,’ he said.
So many waystations to a present he no longer understood.