She considered him sadly and shook her head again, deciding against saying whatever just crossed her mind; an idea crushed just as it was hatching. What wasn’t she telling him? If he could extend a bridge of friendship between them, then maybe she would let the truth pass over it.

‘I like your cloak,’ he said. ‘Did you make that yourself?’

Nu tilted her head down to examine what she was wearing, revealing to Ben her misshapen skull of frayed hair. The shawl’s umber wool was coarsely knitted, with gaping holes from its shoulders to her waist, where a tattered skirt hung down past the knee. Her bare legs were bruised, and no part of her was clean.

‘I like it too,’ she replied, now staring at him. ‘I don’t like wearing black.’

Ben couldn’t imagine Nu varying from the brown palette that coloured the villagers’ garments overall like a dirty rain. The whole place was funereal enough without introducing black into their wardrobes.

‘I’m not a fan myself,’ he replied, deciding it was time to mine a little deeper. ‘Maybe you can tell me what you know about the creeper? Is that a name you’ve heard spoken here before?’

Nu suddenly stood to her feet and mashed them into the bark. ‘It’s been nice talking to you.’

She didn’t seem upset. It was as though some inaudible whistle had concluded their conversation, drawing her elsewhere.

‘Wouldn’t you like to talk a little longer?’ he asked, unable to hide his disappointment at her sudden dismissal.

‘No.’

Nu was already walking away, leaving Ben to admit to his second successive defeat in record time. Whatever you thought you had, Benny Boy, you’ve lost it. Had she answered any of his questions? He had been so flustered by her appearance that he couldn’t string his memories together. Ben followed her to the door, where she secured her shawl back around her head and left without another word.

He leaned against the wall, watching his interviewees resume their defensive positions, eyeing him like an executioner standing beside a basket of fresh heads. Two to be precise, with a contract for more.

*

The hours that followed were some of the most frustrating and perplexing of Ben’s life. His thesis supervisor had once championed him for his interview techniques. But if the man could see him now, he certainly wouldn’t be so keen to recommend him for any more projects. Ben felt like a fading pop star clinging to an old hit.