‘Who are you?’ said Mackenzie, stepping in front of Ivy protectively.

‘You can call me Tranquil.’ He smiled widely. He lifted his shirt to show he had a pistol tucked into his belt. ‘I hear that someone wants to do business with the Dread Pirate Blackbeard?’

‘We have a product for you,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Show them, Mum.’

Ivy pulled the golden ice out of her handbag.

‘The purest you’ll ever try,’ called Mackenzie. ‘We call it Golden Sunshine.’

‘You’d better come up, then,’ said Tranquil.

He threw a rope down and their driver set about pulling them up against the tyres of Margot’s Revenge.

‘You stay here, Mum,’ said Mackenzie out the corner of his mouth.

Ivy chuckled. ‘I’m not that old, yet.’ She moved ahead of him, scaling the ladder. He wondered if that was why she’d worn a pantsuit – did she know she’d be climbing?

He followed after her, the iron rungs cold against his palms, feeling the sway of the larger boat.

Tranquil met them sitting on an upturned crayfish pot. The other two men hovered nearby, but aside from them, the deck was deserted. Crayfishing gear, ropes and cables, and countless crayfish pots lay all about. Tranquil winked at Mackenzie as he held his hand out and Ivy passed him the little bag.

‘Why is it gold?’

‘Unique strain,’ said Mackenzie.

‘Why is this one doing all the talking for you?’ said Tranquil.

‘Because he’s dying to try some,’ said Ivy with a slow smile. ‘To prove to you it’s not dirty.’

Mackenzie stiffened. ‘No!’

‘Is that so?’ Tranquil pulled an ice pipe out of his pocket – an instrument that looked like a glass lollipop, but with a thick hollow stick instead of a stem, and a hole in the ball. Tranquil dropped a few shards of the ice into the hole and handed both the pipe and a lighter to Mackenzie. ‘In that case, smoke it.’

Mackenzie’s mouth was so dry he couldn’t swallow. ‘I don’t . . . I don’t want to.’

‘If you don’t, I’ll assume you’re trying to fuck me over and I’ll beat you bloody. Smoke it.’

Mackenzie took the pipe and the lighter. He turned to Ivy. She nodded encouragingly. ‘It’s okay. Go for it.’

Slowly he lit the lighter underneath the glass ball. Sweat broke out on his forehead. It was possible that taking another hit this soon could plunge him back into psychosis.

Remember, act like a sober person . . .

He breathed in the smoke that rolled down the pipe.

A moment or two later and the feeling hit him hard. It was as before. So sweet it was sickly: corrupt and coppery. A buzzing thrill like termites in his veins. Euphoria like sex. He fought to find his fake-sober thoughts.

‘Damn, it looks like good shit,’ said Tranquil. ‘Look how hard it’s hit the man.’