Amongst the prizes that contribute to Australia's literary culture are those that are not for already published works, but have been established to identify emerging writers, and to offer the winners a contract for publication. Launched in 1980 the Vogel is, I think, the best-known of these, but there is also the TAG Hungerford Award launched in 1988 and more recently the Hachette's Richell prize, launched in 2015 in memory of Hachette Australia’s CEO, Matt Richell, who died suddenly in July 2014.

Sally Abbott was the inaugural winner of the Richell Prize in 2015, chosen, according to an interview at The Guardian, from among 969 other submissions, and Closing Down was published in 2017. The novel went on to be shortlisted for an Aurealis Award for Science Fiction, which surprised me because it never occurred to me that this book was SF. The Aurealis Award for Speculative Fiction has categories for SF, Fantasy and Horror, but doesn't differentiate between SF and Speculative Fiction so by their definition I've read lots of SF and by Wikipedia's definition, (see below) I've read very little.

Closing Down is set in a disturbing future world, but it's a very near future world, with recognisable elements exposed for what they are. The world has been corporatised and realigned, and this means that uneconomic small towns are being closed down and the people relocated to mega cities. Shelter, for the 'lucky' ones, is in tiny flats in soulless concrete canyons, but the waiting lists are years long. For the others that means refugee camps on a scale not so far from those horrific wastelands in the Middle East and Europe, and for others, it means joining the walkers. These people evade the travel permits and patrols, and—carrying everything they own—walk out into the arid interior and are never heard of again.

Clare, about to be homeless because her ratbag cottage has to be demolished because it isn't fireproof, calls the unemployment office to notify them of her change of address. She doesn't have a new one, but she won't be living at the old one any more. After she'd pressed every available option and waited for three hours, a voice did come on the line. She needn't have bothered.

'I've always had to tell you guys everything. Otherwise I can't get my benefit.'

'Used to. Not any more. now we know everything. All the time. No telling necessary.'

[...]

'How do you know?'

'Your phone, of course.'

'But I've always had my phone.'

'Well, that was your phone then, honey, and this is your phone now. No one does paper any more. Not here. I can't remember when I last touched the stuff. Now I'm looking at everything I need to know about you. Let me see... so, you were once a hairdresser. And you did cleaning work. Lovely. Ah, you're in D segment.'

What's D segment?'

'Doomed, dear. Doomed. ' The voice broke into a high-pitched giggle.' 'Disaster. Dead. Doomed.'

Clare said nothing. This seemed entirely plausible.

'Just our little joke, of course.' When Clare stayed silent, the voice became anxious. 'Really sweetie, just a joke. After all, we're all doomed, aren't we? Well, the humans anyway. Don't take it personally.' (pp. 97-8)

The voice goes on to explain that her phone is the naughty lover who tells us all your secrets.' They have a history of exactly where's she been, and they know she hasn't had a paid job for eight years, and that her husband last worked at a canning factory which doesn't exist any more. This voice knows how to warn off any complaints: they could put an alert on Clare since the fudging around her work history is suspicious. The voice knows it isn't possible for Clare and her husband Phil to survive on handouts. ( )

The Inaugural winner of the Richell Prize ( )