‘The wind blew the leaves about, and I grabbed at them, trying to catch them in my hands. Some of them landed on me; they were on my arms and in my face, touching my skin. They felt cold and clammy, not what I expected at all. They smelled of damp and rottenness. I tried to brush them off my face. There were leaves in my hair as well, sticking there like bats. Then I didn’t think it was funny any more. I brushed at the leaves harder. I had my head down, to get them off.’

The sound of Maggie’s voice had changed. It had a childish intonation that Fry had not heard before. It was slightly shocking coming from the mouth of this woman. It was as if she were recalling a childhood incident, not a trauma from a few weeks ago.

This time the pause was even longer. Fry squeezed her fingers together to stop herself breaking the silence and interrupting. She looked at the tapes to make sure they were both still running. But the silence went on too long.

‘Is there anyone else around?’ asked Fry as gently as she could, though her urge was to push Maggie harder as they reached a critical stage.

‘Anyone else? No, she’s not there.’

Fry shook her head, thinking she had misheard. ‘Who?’

Now Maggie looked confused too, as if two different memories were mingling together.

‘I had my head down, looking at the ground,’ she repeated. ‘I was looking at the ground, where the leaves were. That’s why I didn’t see him.’

Maggie’s voice had become bleak. Her pitch had risen slightly as people’s voices did when they were close to that crack in the facade that let through the tears.

‘If I hadn’t kicked at the leaves, I would have heard him coming. I could have got away.’

‘When did you first become aware of another person, Maggie?’

‘He was already close then.’

‘How did you know? Did you hear him?’

‘The leaves were rustling. They were too loud. I wasn’t paying attention.’

‘All right. You didn’t hear him. Did you smell him, Maggie?’

‘Smell him?’ Maggie frowned. Her nostrils flared as if she was drawing in remembered odours.

Fry knew that smells were powerful aids to memory. If Maggie could recall a single whiff of something – a distinctive deodorant, body odour, cigarette smoke – it would be something to add to the picture.

‘I can’t smell him,’ said Maggie. ‘Only the leaves.’

‘Can you hear him now?’ asked Fry, switching to the present tense that Maggie herself had started using.

Maggie’s eyes were distant. Was she listening? Fry was sure that Maggie could hear something. Some sound was replaying in her mind, but Fry was powerless to know what it was until she felt able to share it.

‘A rustling noise,’ said Maggie hesitantly, at last.