But even though Dad thought they were alike, he’d stopped caring for Caleb long ago. Caleb wasn’t as clever as he should have been. Dad called his own move to the city an escape, but when he got sick of Caleb, he sent him back to Brunton. Unescaped him. Caleb knew that wasn’t really a word, you couldn’t make up words, making things up was for art. Caleb dreamed of art school and had wondered if he’d ever get away. Now, he’d go away. Jail. Twenty-five years. Some arsonist’s sentences were even longer than that.

‘It’ll be good for you to arrive at the court with me,’ Dad said, when they arrived in Hawthorn. He used his remote control to open the security gate. ‘Mum’s made a lot of fuss. You’ll be less obvious this way.’

Less obvious! Caleb was the defendant! And his size made him conspicuous too. Dad could hardly look at him. Dad was still athletic. He virtually jumped out of the car. But there was a lot more Caleb than there used to be. Lumbering after Dad, Caleb impulsively sucked in his stomach. But it made little difference and he soon reconsidered – he didn’t care how he looked or what Dad thought. He breathed out.

‘Anyway, I’m glad to have you home,’ Dad added, opening the front door. ‘You’ll have to be quiet. The baby’s asleep.’

Home! After the disastrous lie detector test, when Caleb had desperately needed Dad (Mum wouldn’t understand – she got him into this trouble in the first place, paying to have that urine test lost and making sure police would forever-after be suspicious of him) Caleb hadn’t even been allowed in. Home wasn’t a place with Ivy in it.

Now, Dad’s hand clapped his shoulder. ‘You’ll be wanting to sleep soon, mate.’

Caleb shrugged. Dad’s hand fell away. ‘Happy to be here?’ Dad asked.

The entrance hall was full of photos of Dad and Ivy. Hawthorn, as much as Brunton, was full of reminders of how great Stephen Wharton was and Caleb Wharton would never be. They used to practise footy together, regular father/son stuff. (Go Hawks!) Caleb had been quite good, although not as good as Dad thought.

‘If only you’d practise more!’ Dad had said, with no idea how much time Caleb spent learning to be quite good for him, which really meant not good enough. ‘Do you want to talk?’

‘Nope.’

Dad used to ask Caleb about AFL like it mattered. Caleb had realised what a waste of time sport was. Why hadn’t Dad? Dad was a lawyer who must have seen terrible things. He should know life wasn’t about hand passes and drop-kicks and goals.