Even through the fog, I could see The Giant Prawn at the end of the street. Its stupid antennae swayed gently. As usual, I felt a surge of irritation towards the pricks at the local council who thought it would be a good idea to squander the community’s money on a giant crustacean to attract tourists.

The tape had been cut and the attraction had been open to the public for almost eight months. As far as I could tell, it hadn’t contributed a brass razoo to the local economy. The thing that really annoyed me is that Holbrooke wasn’t even known for its shrimp industry.  Might as well build a giant bloody werewolf. At least that had some basis in reality.

I adjusted my holster, tucked the notebook in my pocket, and pulled open the door to the patrol car.

A voice from the end of the drive stopped me.

“Sergeant?”

It was Ethel Winter.

She was tall and elegant, slightly stooped with age, but carrying herself with a dignity and cultivation you don’t often see in Holbrooke. Holbrooke is the sort of town that’s generally known for its prodigious rate of alcohol abuse and frequent brawls at the Coach and Horses which every Saturday, like clockwork, I had the pleasure of breaking up and throwing the dickheads responsible in the lockup until they were appropriately apologetic.

“Time for that cup of tea?” she asked.

My heart sank.

“Not now, Ethel,” I said. “Things to do.”

“Surely there can’t be that much crime in Holbrooke on a Monday morning.”

No crime, I thought, just really weird bullshit.

“If only you knew,” I said, turning back to the patrol car.

“How long have you been here, Sergeant?”

“Ten years,” I said, nodding politely to bow out of the conversation. “We can talk about that over that cup of tea.”

“Wouldn’t exactly say you fit in.”

“I’m the local copper, Ethel. It doesn’t pay to get too friendly. Will stop by the house later today.”

I closed the door and immediately felt bad.

Ethel’s husband Reg died last year

I’d joined the funeral procession, mainly because I knew how much it meant to her grandson Sharkey. Reg loved his cars and there was a procession down the main street. Sharkey rolled down the windows on his bright orange Holden HQ and We’ll Meet Again by Vera Lynn filtered from the cassette player. “There’s a song for every occasion,” she said simply, as Sharkey put the cassette in and the engine spluttered to life.

I waved sheepishly as I pulled out onto the street. There were things to do.

Friendly but not friends, I thought, pulling away with thoughts of the weird and disturbing bullshit waiting for me in the house on the hill near Eagle’s Point.

 

There was a burst of static from the radio as I pulled out on the highway. “Holbrook 303. Clear for a Code 14?”

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, grabbing the radio. “Holbrook 303. Go ahead.”

“This one’s bad, Steve. Robbery in Woorack. Perpetrator armed and headed in your direction.”

I slammed the brakes, spun the wheel and accelerated towards Woorak.

It never fucking rains in Holbrooke.

Weird and disturbing bullshit is like that.

The first hint of something odd and things get crazy.

Ask any copper what it’s like on a full moon and that will give you an indication of what happens when things get weird in Holbrooke. It’s the moment before a storm when the air is heavy and expectant with crazy. The tipping point. The moment before an angry crowd breaks into violence. Welcome to Holbrooke. The secret, of course, was making sure things didn’t get out of hand. 

I flicked on the lights and sirens and pressed my foot to the floor. The car surged forward.

“VKC, Holbrooke 303. How much time do I have? Over.”

“Approximately ten minutes, Holbrooke 303. He’s driving fast. We’re scrambling support right now.”

I cursed under my breath.

Five minutes to wake the cops in Woorak, another five to get on the road, I’d be on my own by the time the car reached Holbrooke, especially if he was driving like a bat out of hell.  Peppermint gums whipped past as I shot down the highway.

I needed a plan.

The petrol station on the outskirts of town approached. I slammed my foot on the brakes, leapt out of the car and dropped a coin into the pay phone.

Sharkey answered on the second ring.

“Mate,” I said, “I need to borrow your truck and a shirt.”