No. Shut up. Just be happy with what you have.

There was no one to see him, but he forced a smile onto his face.

Bright. Firm. Real.

Endearing. He was Mackerel Dempsey, and he was reformed.

He limped towards Big Mane’s house, head held high, even though no one ever looked his way.

Big Mane’s house was squat and flat, made of dirty red brick, enclosed by conifer trees. Sleek A-frame beach homes ran alongside it, fresh and clean by comparison, but here in Shacktown a medley of different styles was commonplace. Rich and poor and everything in between, all were welcome in Shacktown.

Save for the mansions up in the hills, the neighbourhoods didn’t fall into easy categories. As the name suggested, it had begun as a town of shacks, and those shack owners were still fiercely protective of their real estate, even as the town grew around them and land prices rose.

The rising hills of the peninsula meant that seaside views were plenty, yet in certain locations around town there were sweet spots – postcard views of land, sand and sea all together. Rather than huddling in one area, the wealthy sea changers who came to Shacktown spread throughout the town, hunting these sweet spots.

These days, most of the old holidays shacks that had given the town its name had been renovated into year-round dwellings, some of which were so artsy and inviting they drew their own Instagram followers and Airbnb pilgrims.

Mackerel entered through the back door. He could hear Big Mane playing Xbox deeper in the house.

‘I’m home,’ shouted Mack.

‘You heard about the weather?’ shouted Big Mane.

‘Yeah,’ Mack called back. ‘Doesn’t matter, though.’

‘Oi, I know that’s bullshit,’ Big Mane called back. ‘But I’ll have another day’s work for you soon, I promise.’

‘Thanks, bro,’ he called, stepping into his own room, tidy and small.

‘Thanks, bro,’ he repeated, softer.

He would be forever grateful to Big Mane, his best friend since primary school. For putting him up, for posting his bail, for giving him his own room . . . Sure, it was cramped and falling apart. The bunk bed he slept on was there to be used by Big Mane’s nephews when they visited, and it creaked as he tossed and turned every night. But it was safe and clean and quiet.

He kept his areas of the house as spotless as he could, and tried to make it up to Big Mane by doing the laundry, cooking, cleaning, the lawns – far more than his fair share around the house. Sure, the bathroom could do with a better scrub, and the vacuum had been broken for a while. And Mack wasn’t great at cooking anything other than steak, veggies and fish, and Big Mane ordered pizza four nights out of seven . . .

Be positive. You have to be positive.

He lay on his bed, looked up at the underside of the bunk above.