He nursed a can of beer that had grown warm in his hands. He didn’t want to feel anymore, but he didn’t want to be hungover in the morning either. He blamed his hangover on why he hadn’t been able to stop the assailant in Devils Kitchen. It was his fault that Davey’s murder would go unsolved.

He felt weird in his head – with everything that had gone on, he’d missed his meds for the day. No painkillers. No opiates. No antidepressants. The worst day of his life was not a good time to be missing his meds. Maybe that’s why he was out here alone, trying to get fresh air. He couldn’t stand being around so many people. Without his opiates, his mind went a little screwy. He should really try to detox, but the half-life of Suboxone made coming off it harder than coming off heroin.

He wasn’t really listening to the rumble of the voices inside the house, but now they rose. He heard his name. Ivy was speaking.

‘. . . an ice addict! He once thought there was a transmitter in his ear and a Mafia sniper on his trail,’ she said. ‘Drug psychosis. Another time he was hospitalised because he tried to dig an imaginary tracker out of his forearm. You wouldn’t believe the mess. Then, he turned on his brother.’

‘That’s ancient history. He’s family!’ Shelby was defending him. ‘Someone should’ve told me he was out of jail, that he was here in Shacktown!’

‘All he’s ever done for our family is cause problems. There’s a reason that runts don’t survive out in the wild.’

‘We’re not animals,’ said Shelby. ‘I can’t believe you’d talk about your own son like that! He’s the only one you’ve got left!’

‘Don’t remind me,’ snapped Ivy. ‘I’d happily exchange him for either!’

‘You don’t mean that,’ said Shelby after a long pause.

Mackerel stood up, stepping out into the rain.

Yes, she did.

He was too tired for tears. He didn’t care anymore. It was time to go home – maybe he would get absolutely maggot drunk. He sculled the rest of his beer and crunched the can, leaving it on Ivy’s lawn.

Runt of the litter. Black sheep. Weak as piss. Embarrassing little fat Mackerel. To survive in the underworld, you had to be hard. That’s what Ivy had taught him, back when he was first inducted to the true nature of the family. Everyone agreed that Mackerel was too soft. Too weak. Too stupid.

They all made it their mission to make him hard. For his own good. He couldn’t remember when exactly it had turned to cruelty.

He liked to think that Ivy had loved him, once. But somewhere along the way she’d played the part of delivering tough love so well that she just kept going.