‘How?’ said Mackerel.

‘Dimwit! Forest is the heir to everything. He has a target on his back! I don’t want him sucked into the drug game at his age. Isn’t that much obvious?’

She caught and held Mackerel’s eyes.

‘Will you take over the Business? You’ll have to earn their trust, but I’ll vouch for you. We’ll have to move quickly, before Chips does irreparable damage.’

Worlds clashed and warred inside of Mackerel, even as he struggled to comprehend what was being asked of him.

Mum wants my help? he thought.

That showed how weak he was – he made it a rule never to call her Mum, not even in his own mind.

‘Joel was a bastard,’ she said, meaning Mackerel’s father. ‘My only regret is he never knew how much I hated him until the hour that he died.’

As always, she knew what to say to disorient him.

Mackerel knew that Ivy had never loved his dad. It wasn’t until he was sixteen that he found out an even worse truth – Joel wasn’t Davey’s father. Davey was the result of an affair Ivy had had with her true love, but she refused to give up the life Joel Dempsey’s power and influence afforded her. If Joel had ever discovered Davey’s true heritage, things would’ve been different for Mackerel. He might’ve been the favourite, and Davey would’ve been in the background. That’s what rankled Mackerel the most. Joel had teased and bullied and beat up Mackerel more than he ever had Davey, and far more than Jesse. Jesse, the soldier. Capable, ruthless – a leader. And Davey, the golden boy. Strong and smart and handsome. Davey, who wasn’t even a Dempsey by blood.

Maybe that’s what had made Mackerel want to take over the Business five years ago, drug-addled as he was. The Business was his birthright.

‘But even though you’re half Joel’s son, you’re also half mine,’ continued Ivy. ‘Maybe that half will be enough to get the job done.’ She eyed him with clear dislike. ‘I dare say you’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you, Mackerel? Finally get a taste of what you’ve been embarrassingly desperate for all this time?’

I’d have status again. People wouldn’t spit at me on the street. I’d have power. Money . . .

He imagined himself as he was, in the warm Queensland air, dressed in nothing but a towel and a thick gold chain around his neck, standing on the balcony of a penthouse suite watching the sun rise, a beautiful woman still asleep in his bed.

Then he remembered the banging of the prison-cell doors, the contempt of the guards, the hard seats of the courtroom.

‘Curfew,’ he choked. ‘I’ve gotta go!’

‘Of course. Run away. I should’ve known better.’