Out on the ocean, that breeze would soon become a droning wind. The Black Wind. Mackerel had been caught out in the Black Wind once, and it still gave him chills to remember it. It twisted and pulled at the waves like a cyclone. The rage of it, the chaos, the feeling that death was just a bee’s dick away and there was nothing you could do but hold on and pray . . .

Mackerel flicked the vape off – five quick taps of the trigger – and slipped it into his pocket. As he stepped into the foyer of Shacktown Police Station, his mind turned and turned. Subconsciously he made slight adjustments to his stance and walk, trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible. He had a fresh face and big blue eyes, and he’d been told he had a nice smile. A bit goofy, a bit endearing. These days, he needed every shred of endearing he could manage.

Even in the station, he had to keep on his toes. It was common knowledge that Mackerel had been run out of town five years ago – for very good reason – and should never have returned. But only those with ties to the local underworld knew what this ‘very good reason’ was . . .

‘Morning, Constable Linda . . .’

‘Yeah, morning, Mack,’ said Linda. She pulled out the bail sign-in registry, jotted down his name, the time and date, and spun the book around for him to sign. There was a briskness to it, and his heart sank. That usually meant it’d be an interrogation day.

How’s your health and temper?

How’s the job hunt going? How’s the psychologist going? Who have you been seeing? What have you been doing? Anything illegal? C’mon, Mackerel, tell me the truth . . . What have you been doing?

Anything you want to tell me now before I find out later?

This daily sign-in was a constant reminder of everything he’d lost. His dignity, the respect of everyone he knew, the ability to ever be more than twelve hours away from Shacktown, even just being able to work his old job. All Tasmanian fishermen have to be of good character and be a fit and proper person, so when he went to prison he’d lost his FLAD – Fishing Licence (Abalone Dive). That meant he couldn’t even dive for a living, the one thing he was good at.

Linda glanced up from the work she was doing on her computer, confused to still see Mack there. ‘I’m sure you have places to be?’

She seemed distracted. He noticed now the absence of other officers. Where were they all?

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Mackerel turned and walked out as quickly as possible.

No interrogation today!

That was a good sign.

Yet instantly his mind was back to his upcoming court case. His rehabilitation. What he could do to fix things.

I could go to church . . . No, too transparent. Maybe a religious girlfriend? That’d look good.