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big space. You could fit the old dining table in there easily, with the six chairs and all. Why did they need so much room?
    Perhaps there’d be a lot of police.
    â€˜All rise.’
    A panel in the back wall of the court opened and the magistrate appeared, a tall thin man with grey hair. He seated himself behind the highest bench. ‘Please sit down.’
    He didn’t seem unsympathetic, but didn’t smile either, and he was looking straight at Marian. Her heart began to race. It took her a second to realise that she was the only person still standing. Everyone was waiting for her. She sat down with a bump.
    The buzz in the room grew in volume again. People shuffled papers. An official in a shirt marked Security read from a clipboard. ‘Two five six. Johnson.’
    A man in the front row stood up, smoothing careful strands of hair across his bald patch. The clipboard man pointed him forward.
    â€˜Let’s hear the charge,’ said the magistrate.
    A gangly policeman stood with his back to the court, held up a bunch of papers and reeled off a string of words that were inaudible to Marian. Was it something to do with Charlie? Had this man been there? But he wasn’t in the dock.
    She fumbled again for her glasses, then realised how useless that was. Glasses wouldn’t help her hearing. And anyway they weren’t there.
    The magistrate spoke to the accused. ‘You understand the charge, Mr Johnson?’
    â€˜Yes your honour.’
    â€˜And you choose to have the matter dealt with today in this court?’
    Mr Johnson nodded.
    The magistrate sat back and smiled encouragingly. ‘What have you got to say about it?’
    Mr Johnson cleared his throat and shifted from one foot to the other. He was powerfully built, probably accustomed to roaring. The unfamiliar effort to sound polite contorted his whole body. Even from behind the effect was disturbing.
    â€˜It was wrong, your honour. Only he insulted my girlfriend. In the pub.’
    Pub? What did that have to do with the supermarket?
    â€˜I shouldn’t have pushed him,’ the big man was saying. ‘I know that.’
    The magistrate sat back and looked over the top of his glasses. ‘Fell backwards and hit his head, eh? Sometimes when people hit their heads they don’t get up again. You know that? You were lucky, weren’t you? Because otherwise you’d be here on a manslaughter charge.’
    â€˜Yes your honour.’
    This wasn’t connected with Charlie. It was some fight in a pub.
    The magistrate turned back to the policeman. ‘Any previous convictions?’
    The policeman mumbled.
    Marian looked around. The paedophile’s mother was leaning forward with one hand behind her ear.
    The policeman had apparently finished what he was reading.
    â€˜Well Mr Johnson,’ said the magistrate, in his headmaster voice, ‘I’m only going to fine you this time. But you’ve got to cut down on that drinking. If you can’t control your temper, then you shouldn’t drink.’
    â€˜Yes your honour. Thank you, your honour.’
    â€˜Wait over there while they sort out the paperwork.’
    The security man with the clipboard was on his feet again. ‘Two five seven. Wardle.’
    A door in the side wall of the dock opened and a guard ushered an Aboriginal man to the front.
    Why was this one in the dock when the last one wasn’t? Perhaps this was more serious. This might be part of Charlie’s business now. Was that it? Had Charlie got mixed up in some Abo thing? Drinking?
    The gangly policeman stood up. ‘ Mumble mumble  … drunk … mumble resisting mumble  …’
    â€˜Do you understand the charge, Mr Wardle?’
    The man in the dock nodded, staring at his feet.
    There was a rustle along the official benches and a piece of paper was passed up to the magistrate.
    â€˜Yes, I see. I understand you couldn’t raise the bail?’
    Mr