Constructed during Gold Rush prosperity, the building’s grandeur emphasised the importance of what happened here and insisted court judgements were as infallible as God. Its supporting columns were like trees sprouting from stone, fertilised by fearful symmetry and malevolent proportions. Justice herself was the statue of a woman with a blindfold, as enigmatic as the Virgin. Classical Greeks had the animistic idea that statues were alive, attributing human characteristics to the elements. Perhaps Caleb wasn’t an arsonist, but a fire, and I was responsible for lighting him. In my dreams he walked to me, arms outstretched, incandescent.

Inside, the courtroom was even more reminiscent of a sacred place. Ominous dark furniture lurked beneath elevated ceilings. The windows were too high for any view except grey clouds. From the corner of my eye, timber panelling seemed to move, crawling halfway up the walls. The edges of everything – walls, windows, desks – were aggressively straight lines, a device Caleb used in his graphic art to indicate danger.

Other cases were being heard today too, but the audience was here to abuse Caleb. I sat isolated among my enemies, hands clenched in my lap. When Magistrate John Heaney appeared, high on his bench, he reminded me of Satan ascending on a cloud of smoke and fire in Paradise Lost.

He dismissed minor matters with bewildering speed, granting bail more often than not. I released my hands, crossing my fingers. Excitement grew when Caleb’s name was called. I looked around, expecting him to be brought in. Instead, a large television set flickered to life. A clerk explained they had a video-link from the Yarra Remand Centre.

At least I’d see him. I leaned forwards, fighting the urge to move closer to the screen. Caleb appeared pale, apart from bruises around his eyes. The snakebite rings were gone and the piercings now looked like oddly symmetrical, healing pimples.

‘How does your client answer this charge?’ the magistrate asked Douglas.

I sucked in my breath, willing words into Caleb’s mouth. Tell the truth, say you weren’t there. ‘He doesn’t wish to enter a plea at this stage,’ Douglas said.

The magistrate took note, as did the court reporter.

Douglas stood. ‘The defence has serious concerns about security. There’s high interest in this case. There have been reports of threats from fellow prisoners.’

My heart clenched. What sorts of threats? Why hadn’t anyone told me?

The magistrate nodded. ‘Can we be sure your client will be safe anywhere else?’

Let him come home with me. Let him come home with me and give me a gun. I pictured a hunting rifle. I pictured myself in a safari suit, hunting Caleb’s enemies like big game.

Prosecutor Charles Scott frowned. ‘Wharton faces multiple counts of arson causing death. The Crown believes community safety is best served by not granting bail.’