“Come over here and I’ll give you ‘love,’” she yelled back at him, hands on her hips.
He scuttled away, and I couldn’t blame him.
“Alright, Anna?” the woman asked, her brusque tone tempered, as the young couple stepped off the gangway and onto the jetty.
The frail young woman in the cardigan murmured something, and the guy put an arm around her and ushered her down the jetty. Hangover guy shuffled after them, stopping to bum a cigarette from one of the blokes waiting to help unload the barge.
Before I’d come here, I’d spent a lot of time talking to Dave Chambers, who’d been the beat cop before the station was set up. He’d come over a few times a month. He’d described Dauntless as “picturesque”—but he’d said it with the sort of twist to his mouth that had made it clear there was a caveat attached, then followed up with: “They don’t like outsiders. They especially don’t like outsiders who wear uniforms. They’re mutineers, you know?”
And I’d laughed, like a dickhead, because I’d thought he was exaggerating.
“Excuse me,” I said to one of the blokes standing nearby. “Is there any chance that you could help me with?—”
He turned away.
Okay, fine. So Dave had been right. The main thing was, I needed to get all of my shit from the jetty to the police station. The hearts and minds stuff could wait. And I was good at that stuff. Not only had I volunteered for a youth outreach program in my own time in my last posting in Bankstown, I’d also started a Coffee with a Cop thing at the local aged care home every Wednesday morning. I had community policing accolades coming out of my arse, plus Mrs. Folau at the home said I had a lovely smile and if she was fifty years younger I’d have to watch myself around her. People liked me. I was a delight, for fuck’s sake.
“Excuse me,” I said again, and one of the men accidentally made eye contact. “Hi, I’m Dominic Miller.”
I stuck out my hand, and he took a step away like he thought I might be contagious.
“I’m the new police officer,” I said. “I was wondering if anyone could give me a hand to—” Suddenly the guys were a good five metres away from me. “Okay, then. I guess not.”
One of the crewmen from the barge leaned over the rail. “You want a hand, mate?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I thought there’d be, I don’t know...someone with a truck or a ute or something?”
“On Dauntless?” The guy laughed. “Nah.”
He was, astonishingly, right. The boxes of groceries that were being unloaded under the cranky old lady’s instruction weren’t being transferred onto vehicles of any sort, although the jetty was easily wide enough to accommodate them. Instead, they were being stacked onto pallets with wheels, then towed away by hand.
“Fifty bucks,” the crewman from the barge said, “and we’ll get your stuff up into town.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said, wondering if I could claim that back on expenses or not.
I didn’t have much with me, but it all added up. My bedframe and mattress were the worst of it—definitely a two-man job. And most of it was my own stuff—the furniture for the station was already here, and the computers would be arriving tomorrow by police boat, along with the IT guys who would make sure it all worked. It had been exciting at first to be the guy in charge of setting up a whole station, but it was feeling a lot more overwhelming now.
About twenty minutes later, I lugged a few bags up the long, creaking length of the jetty, two guys from the barge pushing a flat trolley with a squeaky wheel that was loaded with the rest of my stuff. The guy from the barge had said he’d help get everything into the town, but “town” was a misnomer. The cluster of sandstone cottages that clung to the curve of the harbour wall didn’t look like a town at all. The road was unpaved, and there were no street signs—not that you’d need them given there appeared to be no actual streets—no street lights, and, from what I could tell, no actual indications of any businesses at all. No cafes, no restaurants, no shops, no anything. I hadn’t expected Dauntless Island to be exactly buzzing, but I’d expected something. It wasn’t until we got closer to one of the houses that I noticed a small sign in the front window: Dauntless Island Museum. And, in a handwritten sign tacked underneath: And historical society! It even had a smiley face after the exclamation mark.
“Where’s your place?” one of the guys from the barge asked me.
Good fucking question, actually. I was saved from having to answer it when the door to the museum opened, and a guy burst outside in a flurry of limbs and plaid. He was cute, with glasses and mussed-up dark hair that could have been bedhead but could have been intentional. There was a baby carrier strapped to his chest, with a baby in it. The baby had tufty reddish hair and a gummy grin.
“Hi!” the guy exclaimed, hurrying down the path to the street with his hand extended. “You must be the new copper. I was going to come down to the barge to meet you, but...” He looked down at the baby with a grimace. “Poo explosion.”
I shook his hand, hoping he’d washed it thoroughly. “Dominic Miller.”
“Eddie Hawthorne,” he said, wrinkling his nose so his hipster glasses danced a little. “I run the museum and local historical society. We got an amazing grant a few months ago, and now it’s all shipshape.” He paused like he was waiting for a reaction, and then blinked at me. “That was a mutiny joke.”
“Oh.”
“So far I’m the only member of the local historical society,” Eddie said brightly. “But maybe you’d be interested in joining?”
“Maybe,” I hedged. I really wasn’t. “So, um, can you tell me where the police station is?”
“I can do one better,” he said, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket. “I can let you in!”
We set off down the street, the baby babbling happily.
