I found myself rehearsing the witnesses’ names again and again, like I was calling them to account myself. Bernie. Bob. Bruce. When had I first met them? Who was a possible ally? Who might have a reason to hurt Caleb? Each piece of evidence was an historical source. I redoubled my research into arson. Soon, I knew as much about investigating fires as any member of Taskforce Phosphorus. I knew about means, motives, opportunities. I knew about burn patterns and ignition points and fuel loads. What could I do with this information?

The question followed me into my dreams where Caleb, riding like the dog-napping neighbour in The Wizard of Oz, was transformed into a witch (wizard, perhaps) as his bicycle flew. He said no one believed him. But I would believe, so he couldn’t be right. Those little flickers of doubt that occasionally fanned into life were dangerous. I’d stamp them out. I’d protect my son.

Words from a poem by Shirley Blakley, now Shirley Laskin, echoed through my mind.

Burn the witch. Caleb was the witch. He was different, weird, easy to blame. And people were desperate for someone to blame. If only I could find something, on someone. Something.

Caleb had been charged, and therefore gossip had done as much harm as it possibly could. Surely?

But I was wrong. Flames took hold and burned his reputation, licked into the corners of stories people had always known were true. I checked and rechecked my files, desperate to succeed at one thing I’d believed I could with no effort: understand my child. In one of Caleb’s oldest graphic novels, I found a list of overdue library books. I collapsed onto his bed, clutching the piece of paper and remainder of lists I had at work, computerised school library records that still existed though all the books had been lost, along with some of the children who’d borrowed them.

Rumours continued to grow and change online and in newspapers and on television. Classmates who once signed his yearbook (See you in law school! Remember me when you’re Prime Minister!) now said he’d always been strange.

A group of his former Hawthorn classmates, their faces blurred for anonymity, spoke to In Australia Tonight. ‘In the junior AFL, Caleb walked kilometres for a fundraising challenge, but it was a ruse to go on the end of season camp,’ one boy said. ‘He wanted to learn about bonfires.’

‘He was pushy,’ said another. ‘Always captain of every team. I know. I was his best friend in primary school.’

That couldn’t be true. I didn’t remember him at all.

The boy continued, ‘We had a school excursion to the CFA one time, and he was all over the fire engine. Desperate to find out how everything worked.’