He smiled, then limped towards the door. Lately the pain in his knee seemed to be getting worse, but the process for getting more painkillers was too much work for someone like him. As it was, he could only have his daily dose at the pharmacy – they had to be kept in a safe, under lock and key and restriction and regulation, and he wasn’t allowed to take them home.

‘Have a good day, Mackenzie,’ called the pharmacist.

‘Thank you, ma’am, you too. Let me know if you need me to get anything in for you . . .’

They both laughed. It was a bad joke. A drug dealer joke. That wouldn’t look good for him in court.

Once he was outside, he grimaced in pain. Being reformed hurt – the old Mack could’ve sourced better painkillers by other means.

Don’t think about that. Chin up.

He looked again at the sky. Rippled clouds were forming with speed. The faintest drone filled the air, something visceral and haunting that raised the hairs on Mack’s neck.

With his morning ritual complete, and nothing to do until his 8 pm curfew, he could head home and get out of the wind. He set out in that direction, ducking around a gaggle of tourists in big sun hats who were crowding the entrance to the surf shop.

If only he had a job that wasn’t dependant on Big Mane and his boat.

A burst of ideas and potential surfaced in his mind. All the jobs he could do if he had money, people working for him.

He slammed the thoughts down. Or tried to. His mind never stopped. Anxiety and post-traumatic stress. Pre-traumatic stress. He was sorry for what he’d done, he was trying to rehabilitate, he didn’t want to go back to prison, with all the noise and the politics and the . . .

Focus on the future.

All he wanted in life now was a house of his own, a wife he could love, maybe a pet dog. To be allowed to dive again, bringing in a good honest income. Not driving a third-hand hatchback that was almost as old as he was and struggled to make it up Shacktown’s hills. Not dependant on opioids just to get through the day, or painkillers he’d built up a tolerance to.

Who was he kidding? There was no use planning for the future. He couldn’t do anything until his court case. Until he, most likely, returned to jail. And then he would have to wait until he was released. Which might be six months, or it might be seven years. It all depended on the mood of the judge on the day, and it’s not like anyone in his family was going to put in a good word for him . . .

And the prosecution had already told him they were pushing for as much prison time as possible.