A narrow isthmus of land, Eaglehawk Neck was 50 kilometres east of Hobart and halfway down the Tasman Peninsula. Swamping that land, engulfing it like umbrellas on a crowded beach, was Shacktown. The area offered stunning views, unique geology, the tallest sea cliffs in Australia and some of the largest sea caves ever explored – and plenty that were unexplored. There were green parks and white beaches, shops and cafés, danger and folklore. Shacktown had something for everyone. Worth the drive.

The Shacktown locals were a large part of the appeal, their attitude towards tourists one of fondness. They opened their homes as Airbnbs without qualms, invited strangers on the beach back to the cafés for lunch, forced travellers to sign their guestbooks, or, if they didn’t have them handy, gave out their address and insisted on postcards from their next destination or a Facebook friend request.

But underneath it all, unseen by most, was the influence of the Dempsey criminal dynasty. And Mackenzie – known by most people as Mackerel – its outcast. Crooked nose, tattoos. Large enough to be intimidating yet for some reason always the butt of people’s jokes. His father had once said it just oozed out of him – like he was asking to be bullied.

The automatic door to the police station opened and an old man in a ripped puffer jacket and stained trackpants walked out. He nodded to Mackerel, wandering over for a chat, already lighting his cigarette. ‘Hey, Mack. How’s the day looking?’

They saw each other every day – every damn day. They had the same daily sign-in conditions and they both chose to get it over with first thing in the morning. The old man stank of body odour, was always drunk, and no one ever stopped to chat with him – which was why Mackerel always went out of his way to do so.

‘Looking good, I reckon!’ said Mack. ‘Just heading out on the boat. First day’s work I’ve been able to land in a while. How about you?’

‘Sorry to break it to you, mate, but I heard in there that the Black Wind is on its way.’

‘No . . .’

Mackerel couldn’t afford another day without the meagre income he made from the only fisherman in town – his best mate – who still gave him work.

‘Just go home and get high,’ advised the old man, stretching his back. ‘Weird feeling in the station today. I think some kinda shit’s gone down. Hope you weren’t involved, mate.’ He took another puff and walked off with a lazy wave, the smoke caught in the breeze.