But underneath it all, unseen by most, was the influence of the Dempsey criminal dynasty. And Mackenzie – known by most people as Mackerel – its outcast. Crooked nose, tattoos. Large enough to be intimidating yet for some reason always the butt of people’s jokes. His father had once said it just oozed out of him – like he was asking to be bullied.

The automatic door to the police station opened and an old man in a ripped puffer jacket and stained trackpants walked out. He nodded to Mackerel, wandering over for a chat, already lighting his cigarette. ‘Hey, Mack. How’s the day looking?’

They saw each other every day – every damn day. They had the same daily sign-in conditions and they both chose to get it over with first thing in the morning. The old man stank of body odour, was always drunk, and no one ever stopped to chat with him – which was why Mackerel always went out of his way to do so.

‘Looking good, I reckon!’ said Mack. ‘Just heading out on the boat. First day’s work I’ve been able to land in a while. How about you?’

‘Sorry to break it to you, mate, but I heard in there that the Black Wind is on its way.’

‘No . . .’

Mackerel couldn’t afford another day without the meagre income he made from the only fisherman in town – his best mate – who still gave him work.

‘Just go home and get high,’ advised the old man, stretching his back. ‘Weird feeling in the station today. I think some kinda shit’s gone down. Hope you weren’t involved, mate.’ He took another puff and walked off with a lazy wave, the smoke caught in the breeze.

Out on the ocean, that breeze would soon become a droning wind. The Black Wind. Mackerel had been caught out in the Black Wind once, and it still gave him chills to remember it. It twisted and pulled at the waves like a cyclone. The rage of it, the chaos, the feeling that death was just a bee’s dick away and there was nothing you could do but hold on and pray . . .

Mackerel flicked the vape off – five quick taps of the trigger – and slipped it into his pocket. As he stepped into the foyer of Shacktown Police Station, his mind turned and turned. Subconsciously he made slight adjustments to his stance and walk, trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible. He had a fresh face and big blue eyes, and he’d been told he had a nice smile. A bit goofy, a bit endearing. These days, he needed every shred of endearing he could manage.

Even in the station, he had to keep on his toes. It was common knowledge that Mackerel had been run out of town five years ago – for very good reason – and should never have returned. But only those with ties to the local underworld knew what this ‘very good reason’ was . . .