I ran for the extinguisher. It was attached to the kitchen wall and as I wrenched it off its bracket, I wondered fleetingly why I hadn’t thought of it before. Then fear swamped my speculation. Rushing back to the living room, I heard Warren mutter something, but I couldn’t stop. By this time the stink of petrol was so strong I had to hold my breath.

I peeked between the straps of the nearest vertical blind. Scott was standing on the front steps, the rifle slung over his shoulder, a cigarette in his mouth. He must have tossed the fuel tank away. He was fiddling with a plastic lighter. Of course he bloody smokes.

I yanked out the extinguisher’s pin and thrust it into my pocket. Then my hand crept towards the deadlatch. If I could burst through the door and cover Scott with foam, I might be able to hit him before he could shoot me. He was lighting the cigarette now. I pulled away from the window and turned the latch just as a strange whump reached my ears.

I opened the door.

Scott was screeching. Burning. His legs were on fire and so was the veranda. I reeled back, then grabbed my nozzle and aimed it, squeezing the handles and releasing a white jet of foam that cascaded onto the flames. There was a loud hiss and a billowing cloud. I moved the nozzle back and forth, back and forth, as if I was watering a flower bed. Then, coughing and teary-eyed, I pointed it at Scott.

He stumbled backwards, screaming, and fell to the ground under a layer of white foam. I sprayed the veranda again while behind me Warren called, ‘Robyn?’

I ignored him; I was too busy smothering the fire. When the boards were covered with foam, I released my grip on the two handles and hurried forward, wading through the lather until I reached Scott.

He was making horrible noises, but the fire was out. I wondered if I should hose him down. The rifle strap was still looped over his arm; as I reached for it a voice cried, ‘Don’t move! Don’t touch that!’

I raised my head. There was a policeman coming up the road.

It was the cop from the parade: Bill Khatri. With him were Jodie Morris and Shaun Steiger. From where I was standing I couldn’t see Jodie’s police launch. I assumed it was moored at the jetty.

Shaun took one look at me and stopped in his tracks. ‘Robyn?’ he said. ‘What the hell…?’

I dropped the extinguisher and raised my hands. ‘He tried to shoot us. He set fire to the house.’

‘It’s true.’ Warren spoke from the doorway, his voice cracked and feeble. ‘That fucker nearly brained me.’

Bill and Jodie had already reached Scott, who was gasping and twitching on the grass. A horrible scorched smell filled the air.