Amanda looked drained, talking on the phone. She hung up soon after I entered and, almost immediately, the phone rang again. She stared at it. I decided to speak first.

‘Amanda, I’ve come to see Jack…?’

‘I know what you want.’ Her fatigue was washed away by unmistakable malice. ‘There’s something I want to say to you.’

‘Yes?’

‘Jack deserves better.’

I could come back later. I could visit Jack at home. I could call him on the phone.

‘Are you listening to me?’ Amanda demanded.

‘Why would I listen to this?’

‘If you care for him, you’ll leave him alone. You have to know what he’s going through with his mother.’

‘I have some idea.’

Amanda continued as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘She nearly burned his house down last year. Put oil on the stove, forgot it. He doesn’t need you in his life. You and the boy who did burn his house.’ She barked a sudden, unexpected laugh. ‘I want you to promise me.’

‘I won’t do that, Amanda.’

Amanda was too incensed to listen. ‘He’s lucky the two of you never went further…’

Jack stepped through the door behind her. His lips were white. It was obvious he’d heard at least some of our exchange. ‘Amanda.’

‘Jack—’ she began.

He raised a hand. ‘Phoebe.’

Her phone rang again. Amanda glared like it was a funnel web.

‘I’ve come to ask you over for dinner,’ I said to Jack.

He looked embarrassed. ‘Come through to my office.’

Jack stood back while I passed through the door. Did he want to tell me off for being rude to Amanda?

But his expression was only sympathetic. ‘I’d like to have dinner,’ he said. ‘But don’t cook. I know how busy you are. Come to my place instead.’

Jack was living in a minimally-converted garage that, ironically, had survived when his fire-proofed house had not. He’d been there for long enough now to install some cooking facilities but still showered either outdoors or at work. He pushed the window open, then fumbled through his pocket for a crumpled packet of cigarettes. ‘I really have to stop.’

I sat on the couch. Jack sat beside me. Very close. Not annoyed with me at all. ‘You’re scared?’ he asked.

‘You’re a witness. I need you to support Caleb.’

‘I’ll do everything I can,’ he promised.

One art history article I’d published analysed a mosaic of Pandora’s box, created to punish humans for possessing fire, stolen from the gods. Like Marco, I’d wanted to find things and understand them. But life was full of things I didn’t understand.