Shelby sat on the counter in the kitchen, drinking expensive red wine straight from the bottle. Her make-up was gone, her hair limp from the shower, where she’d spent the last half an hour. Between sips that left her lips ruby-red she looked into the distance, out of the picture window and to the sea beyond.

‘You’ve gotta run away,’ said Mackerel, pacing back and forth even as he limped, the side of his shirt stained with blood where he’d grazed it coming out of the bolthole. ‘You have to take Kane and run, leave Shacktown for good.’

Shelby took another swig, face unchanging.

Mackerel was worried at the sight of her. ‘Shelby . . .’

‘I hate Davey,’ she said.

‘You don’t mean that,’ said Mackerel.

‘I’ll kill him myself.’ She took another swig. ‘How dare he put his little drug hole above where I shower.’

‘Shelby . . .’

‘Don’t say my name like that,’ said Shelby, voice cold, still staring into the distance. ‘Don’t pretend like you care about me. My husband ran a criminal business and you did nothing to stop him.’

‘I’m sorry, Shelby.’

‘No, you’re not. Shut up, Mackerel. I want you to get out of my house.’ But she didn’t say it with much gusto, and she didn’t complain when Mackerel didn’t leave. Instead she kept drinking the wine, absently wiping at her tears.

‘He’s right, though,’ said Mackerel. He reached out to take the bottle from her but had to dodge away when she took a swing at his head.

‘Don’t touch my wine,’ she said dangerously. ‘And don’t ever say that Davey is right. Davey is not right. Davey gave up any permission to be right ever again.’

‘Okay! But you really should listen to him and leave Shacktown.’

‘Don’t talk to me like that!’ said Shelby. ‘Don’t talk down to me!’

‘It’s not safe.’

‘This is my home.’

Mackerel hesitated, trying to find another way to convince her. ‘Look, Shelbs, you can’t afford this place anymore. Abalone has been dying out for years, and . . . with Blackbeard around . . . the money won’t be enough.’

‘I’ll get a job myself. I’m more capable than you think, Mack. I’ve got a Master’s degree in chemistry, did you know?’

‘Of course I know,’ said Mackerel.

‘You know, but you never cared. You all couldn’t imagine that I was anything more than “dreamy Davey Dempsey’s” wife.’ She snorted. ‘Drug Dealing Davey Dempsey. The Dickhead. Davey the Despicable. Davey the Deadweight. The Deceiving . . .’

‘Alright!’ said Mackerel. ‘That’s not fair. He was trying to protect you.’

This time he had to leap aside as the bottle came hurtling towards him, smashing onto the kitchen tiles and spilling red wine. ‘I don’t need protecting.’ She still spoke calmly, at odds with her furious red face.