‘I want to kiss you,’ Penelope whispered. ‘To say thanks, you know?’

PHOEBE

‘Ms Wharton?’

A large woman in a wide coat approached me near Douglas’s car. I recognised the pendant between her clavicles, a coin set with tiny amethysts and skulls. It showed the ancients, Venus and Vulcan, as lovers. Otherwise, she was almost unrecognisable. ‘Penelope?’

I’d spoken to her on the phone, after many attempts, to ask how she planned on testifying, to remind her that Caleb was her friend. He once drew her as Pliny’s phoenix – gold and purple and pink. And Penelope had risen again, finding new life after the fire. She still had a young voice but she’d grown up. Her hair, once the grapefruit colours of pale yellow tinged with pink, swaying when she walked, was cut into an ash-blonde bob. She wore a smudge of eye-shadow instead of thick black kohl. And she wasn’t fat, she was pregnant.

‘Are you all right?’ Penelope asked. She had a wide mouth and a bright smile. ‘Ms Wharton? I couldn’t come into the court, because I’m a witness. I have to testify. But I’m here. I wanted you to know. I know you were there to support me. I saw you. You and Caleb. At the funeral.’

Douglas opened the passenger door and took my elbow, directing me inside. I shook his hand away. Penelope was still talking. ‘It was the first funeral I ever saw. I thought women wore black veils. Like black wedding gowns at Creepy Chic.’

‘I’m sorry, Penelope, we shouldn’t speak,’ Douglas said.

Help Caleb, I tried to ask her, with my eyes. Help him.

‘Some witnesses I can’t help but speak to,’ I said, when Penelope walked away. ‘Jack Laskin, for instance.’

‘I know. But be careful.’

I was careful of what I said. But not careful in the way Douglas meant. How would Caleb react to seeing Penelope in court? I wondered if I should warn him about her pregnancy.

At home, I moved a frozen meal from the freezer to the microwave and waited while it spun. Then I collapsed before the television with my plastic dinner and turned on the news to watch tonight’s nightmare. There stood the church-like exterior of Caledonia Magistrates Court, its façade apparently slumping between two squat towers. The protesters and their banners.

Rot in hell.

Burn at the stake.

Out, murderer!

My eyes were closed when my phone rang.

‘Hello? Is this Phoebe Wharton? My name’s Arthur Simmons.’

It seemed surreal, my television reaching out to me. Everyone knew Arthur Simmons.

‘We want to speak to the families of accused arsonists, get a bit of background, try to work out why things happened,’ he said.

Why things happened? Could anyone know that? ‘I’ve got no comment.’

‘You need to tell Australia your side of the story. Could this have been an accident?’