‘I’m sorry,’ said Forest. ‘I should’ve told you why I wanted to come here . . . it’s just . . . it’s so hard to know who to trust. Everyone seems to want something from me, or want me to be something I’m not.’

‘I have to tell Shelby. She has to know,’ said Mackerel.

‘No,’ said Forest. ‘That is a terrible idea.’

‘I know,’ said Mackerel, ‘but it’s the right thing to do.’

Mackerel paced the shed. The constant chugging of the pump and the smell from all the cleaning chemicals was giving him a headache. He needed alcohol. He needed weed, but that would show up in his urine test. He needed ice – that’d give him the mental edge required to work out what to do.

Davey was alive and Blackbeard was here.

Forest sat on the ground, baseball cap pulled low, arms across his knees. He hadn’t spoken a word since Mackerel had called Shelby.

Finally there was a knock on the door that sent a clang through the whole shed. ‘Mack?’

Her voice snapped him back to reality. He didn’t need ice. Stupid thing to think.

‘Shelby!’ Mackerel ran to the door. ‘I think there’s just a deadbolt.’

‘Yes, thank you, Mack, I do have eyes.’

Shelby unbolted the door and opened it. Sunlight streamed in, haloing her like an angel. Mack covered his eyes.

‘Where is he? Where’s Forest?’ She stepped inside. Her eyes held unshed tears.

‘I’m here.’

Shelby studied Forest closely. ‘Are you okay, Forest?’ She said the words very calmly, but the implication set Mackerel’s anger to boiling. He fought to bring himself under control – now was not the time.

‘I’m fine,’ said Forest. He stepped closer to Mackerel. ‘Thanks to Uncle Mack.’

‘What the hell is going on? Enough is enough. Tell me everything!’

‘I will,’ said Mackerel. ‘But not here. I know a place.’

The three of them sat at the back of the Seaglass Café, in Mackerel’s favourite spot. He faced the rest of the café, to ensure no one came close enough to overhear. Three hot drinks sat on the low table in mismatched clay mugs – a flat white for him, a chai for Shelby, and a hot chocolate for Forest.

The smell of the café, with its salty sea air, cooking oil and coffee, was already calming him. He needed to be calm, for what he was about to do.

Mackerel had been thinking it through the whole drive over. How do you tell someone their husband was still alive?

‘I know that you’re going to find this hard to believe,’ he ventured. ‘I know you’re going to think I’m joking, or crazy, or . . .’

Shelby opened her mouth to interrupt, but he raised his hand.

‘Let me finish, Shelbs. Just let me . . .’ He swallowed. ‘The truth is . . . Davey is still alive.’

Her eyebrows rose, then snapped back into a sharp frown.