Stephen stood. ‘He’s still in hospital? You should have said.’

I ached with anger and exhaustion. ‘I thought you knew.’

I once loved the Brunton house because Claire was the mother I’d wished I’d had, that I wanted to be. We still lived with her sofa, her choice of kitchen appliances – in many respects, this was still Claire’s house. Being a mother like Claire was would be the best gift I could ever give Caleb. And yet, I realised as I watched Stephen drive off in his clichéd, middle-aged crisis sports car, having a mother like Claire hadn’t stopped Stephen from growing up to be a complete bastard.

Jack returned a couple of hours later. I was ready to go.

‘We’ll pop in on my mum on the way,’ he said. ‘And get some cigarettes.’

He saw the expression on my face. ‘Quitting’s not easy.’

I knew about addiction. ‘It’s just… all this smoke. Anyway, I’d like to meet Shirley Blakely.’

Jack pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘She’s forgotten a lot. Even her poetry. That’s why I keep a journal.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Not Dear Diary. On my laptop.’ He raised one shoulder to indicate the zipped case on his back seat. ‘I don’t want to forget things. Like Mum.’

Although her place was quite close, to get there by car we had to follow the creek down to find a bridge, then drive back up. The trip took us past Jack’s burned house. His fingers tightened on the gearstick, and he squinted, like it was too bright to see. Then he pulled up where his driveway had been and leaned out the door, holding a handful of ashes to his nose.

‘What are you doing?’

He poured the ashes into a snap-seal bag. ‘Sniffing for accelerant.’

‘The fire didn’t start here. I saw it coming from a distance.’ Caleb could have nothing to do with this, ‘There’s something I often think about. Do you ever wonder if we’re meant to be here?’

Jack frowned. ‘Someone has to investigate.’

I sucked in my breath, and coughed. ‘I mean civilisation in general… these houses? Do we belong?’

‘Well, I’m meant to be here. It’s in my blood.’ Jack had a way of carrying himself, straight through the shoulders, that made him appear confident and sure of himself. ‘Mum came from Queensland but my father’s family virtually built Brunton. They would have known the Whartons years ago.’

‘Perhaps they did.’

‘Anyway, Mum followed Dad here, then they got divorced. She took me back to Queensland. We didn’t come back permanently until Dad died and I inherited the house.’

Dissatisfied, I turned on the radio.

We neared another roadblock. Young police officers were trying to turn back a family in a four-wheel drive while a news crew with heavy cameras filmed them.