As they neared the sea cliffs, mist from Devils Kitchen caught the pink dawn like smoke. Devils Kitchen: a huge, deep trench in the cliffs of Pirates Bay, where the water and wind had eroded a chasm, forming a dangerous swirl of waves and fury, turning the swells of the Great Southern Ocean into a boiling cauldron. It was gigantic, magnificent, and dangerous as hell. But that wasn’t where it got its name – early European settlers in the area had seen this mist rising and claimed it was the Devil, boiling his meat pot.

Now the buildings of Shacktown came into view, spreading across the wooded hills to the stark cliffs, spilling right down to the beaches. Ahab surveyed it all from his boat, the beach mansions and the holiday shacks and all those in between, waiting in the she-oaks and banksias and sands.

As they rounded the point, heading towards the huge maze of wooden piers that made up the marina, they saw red-and-blue pinpricks of ambulance lights and police cars, far in the distance, down on the northern beach.

‘What’s gone on there?’ called Ned over the sound of the engine.

‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ said Ahab.

Shacktown residents were notorious gossips, and even this early the marina was stirring.

Ned eased them into their berth, and Ahab left him to moor the boat, jumping onto the slick timber pier, catch bag in hand.

He approached a huddle of fishermen who were talking among themselves, dressed in thick waterproof gear.

‘Ho!’ called Ahab. ‘A no-go today, boys! Black Wind’s on its way . . .’

‘Ahab!’ said one of the men, as the others broke apart. ‘Have you heard?’

‘What’s happened?’

‘They found Forest. Forest Dempsey!’

Ahab dropped the catch bag.

The fishermen edged away from the look in his eyes.

CHAPTER 2

MACKEREL

Sucking on his vape, Mackerel Dempsey stood far away from the entrance to Shacktown Police Station, as was polite. The grape flavour of the vapour filled his mouth and burned his throat, tasting like Nerds lollies. The cloud hovered in front of him before slowly dissipating in the faintly menacing breeze. The station had been renovated to seem friendly and inviting, etchings of seabirds swirling along the windows to make tourists feel safe.

An early-morning tour bus rumbled by, a red double-decker, the top open to the elements. It was full of wide-brimmed hats and cameras. A sunburned woman waved at Mack, cheerful. The side of the bus read: SEE TASMANIA? SEA TASMANIA.

He waved back and took another puff. He always put off entering the cop station as long as he could.