It was crazy.
“So, like, historically,” I said, “has bad shit gone down with the islanders and the police? Because with historically marginalised and disadvantaged communities?—”
“We’re not disadvantaged,” Natty said. “We just don’t like coppers.”
“I’m very likeable!” I insisted.
He rolled his eyes. “Not in that uniform.”
I snorted. “What about if I took it off?”
Natty dropped his crab leg into his plate with a clatter, and then found something very fascinating about it to stare at. His hair curtained part of his face, but I could still see the flush rising on his cheeks, and I was caught between delight and regret. Because yes! Unless I was severely misreading that reaction, Natty thought I was cute. But he was also clearly embarrassed by that, and I didn’t want to make him feel that way.
“Yeah, my naked arse might not win me many friends,” I said. “And I’d have to arrest myself, which would be awkward. How would I even fill out the charge sheet?”
His mouth quirked, and he looked up. “You’re an idiot.”
“Oh, guilty on that charge as well,” I said. “No contest. Straight to fucking prison.”
He rolled his eyes again, his smile widening, and warmth spread through me.
So maybe the rest of the islanders would hate me for the whole time I was here, and maybe Natty wouldn’t talk to me in public, but as long as we could be friends behind closed doors, that seemed like enough for now. A gorgeous guy who thought I was cute and made me mudcrabs for lunch? There were worse ways to spend my days.
I wheeled the dirt bike out from behind the house after lunch and went for my first patrol of the island. The sound of the engine starting was deafening, and I realised in that moment just how weird it was that there were no sounds of traffic on the island. As I headed out of the village, leaving Natty working in the yard, I attracted more than one glare from someone in the street as I disturbed the peace.
There weren’t any proper roads on Dauntless, only dirt tracks that meandered in all different directions. Some were wider than others, with wheel ruts instead of just a single track, and I followed one of these to a cluster of farmhouses in what had to be the centre of the island. There were crops growing in the fields, and goats and chickens wandering in the unfenced areas between them. There were cows too, the ones with black or brown patches over white, and bells around their necks that clanged when they took a step.
I caught sight of Robbie Finch lugging a couple of buckets. I waved, but I wasn’t expecting him to put his buckets down and wave back, and I wasn’t surprised. He stared at me warily, then nodded, and I figured that was about as friendly a greeting as I was going to get, so there was no point pushing my luck by stopping and trying to start a conversation.
I headed west, bumping over a narrow track dotted with clumps of grass.
On the western side of the island, beside a thin strip of beach, I found a couple of tin sheds that looked new. A woman stepped out of one of them when she heard the dirt bike approaching, her red hair gleaming in the sunlight. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and yellow gumboots. She surprised me by smiling and waving.
“Hi,” she said, when I got off the bike and walked over to her. “I’m Amy. Amy Nesmith.”
“Red Joe’s sister and Baby Joe’s mum,” I said, pleased to be able to put the pieces together myself. I shook her hand, shocked that she’d offered it. “Dominic Miller. I’m the new police officer.”
“The uniform gives it away,” she said.
“Very good point.” I looked at the sheds. “What is it you do here?”
“Aquaculture,” she said. “Well, that’s the plan. I’m still starting up with the grant money I got, but hopefully we’ll go into production soon.” She pointed out past the beach to the ocean. “See those things sticking out of the water?”
“The nets?” I asked, squinting.
“They’re actually fences,” she said. “For our yellowtails. As soon as the ones inside are big enough, we’ll move them out there, and see how they go. We also want to move into crabs and prawns.”
She gave me a tour of the first shed, which was basically a series of shallow water tanks full of fish. A bearded guy who was almost definitely a serial killer glared at me from where he was doing something with a rake in one of the tanks.
“That’s Elias Dinsmore,” Amy said, and made no effort to introduce us.
Lucky, probably, because the guy looked like he wanted to wear my skin as a suit. I ignored him, and tried to learn some things about fish. Amy gave me the impression she could talk about the subject for hours, but most of the technical stuff went over my head.
“Catches have been down the last few seasons,” Amy said. “Climate change, overfishing and a bunch of other things have all combined. The fishing industry needs to become environmentally sustainable but, more than that, here on Dauntless we have to eat. I hope that eventually we’ll get our production levels high enough that we can sell to the mainland, but in the meantime, I’d be happy to be producing enough that if our boats have a bad day, people will still have enough food on their tables.”
I jolted at that. “Does that happen? People have to go without?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Not often, but sometimes the fisherman have to decide whether or not to sell their entire catch in Newcastle in the hope they can pay next month’s fuel bill for their boat, or bring some of it back here for the community.” Her narrow brows tugged together. “It’s a dangerous job out there, and they do it seven days a week.”
