Ben had worn his denim jacket over a white Oxford, noticeably grubby around the collar but the cleanest shirt he could find at such notice. He had, at least, shaved his head and tidied his light beard the night before, so he was mildly presentable. He considered doing up the shirt’s top button. But that would only advertise his unease. It was no better than putting on a tie mid-interview. He pictured the blazer hanging in his wardrobe and couldn’t recall the last time he had worn it, like a suit of armour gathering dust since his surrender to full-time retail.

‘She should be here by now,’ Sparling said impatiently, pulling back his cuff to check the time. His watch’s face and strap were also black. The man clearly had an aversion to colour.

Ms Coogan might have been some hotshot history lecturer. Perhaps this drab Sparling character was a kind of lackey? The Igor to her Frankenstein; hired more for his aesthetic than any actual aptitude for the job.

Ben’s thesis was on the lectern. It looked thinner than he remembered, like an old lover that had fallen on hard times. The crimson binding had seemed so plush when he first held it. He recalled its softness and the weight of its words, and those months of work once so consequential, now seemingly so pointless. The graduation scroll was still tucked in its envelope – Benjamin French, Master of History. It was about as useful as an expired coupon. For now, all he had to show for five years of work was that book in front of him.

A conclusive tap came from Sparling’s keyboard. The man looked to Ben and smiled his little lips like worms. It was a mechanical action, so devoid of any thought or feeling that it made the skin on Ben’s neck crawl.

The projection now displayed the man’s laptop screen. Its desktop was chaotic. The cursor flittered like a fly above its many documents, never landing long enough to open one. There were moments when it seemed to shiver. Ben couldn’t tell if it was excitement or nerves, and the doctor’s stolid expression didn’t offer any hints. It reminded him of a rubber Halloween mask. The eyes alone could move.

‘Do you know Ms Coogan?’ he asked. ‘I thought that maybe you two had crossed paths. History and archaeology are bedfellows after all, aren’t they?’

‘No,’ Ben replied, clearing his throat, ‘I don’t believe that I have, Doctor Sparling.’

‘Please, call me Alec. No need for all this Doctor Sparling carry-on.’