Tír Mallacht was precisely the kind of community whose stories survived through the oral tradition. There was an unschooled understanding of the written word, but none who Ben spoke to could decipher very much beyond their own name. Any appreciation of the past and their own identities therefore relied on speaking about them, and yet they were each so tight-lipped. They were either ignorant of their history or else they simply didn’t want to share it with someone whose blood wasn’t home-brewed in the village.

Every answer was so terse and guarded. Often they would mutter no more than a yes or a no, and those bold enough to elaborate did so with rehearsed caution, choosing their words carefully and ultimately telling Ben nothing. No one could clarify why the church had been deconsecrated. According to Sparling’s many maps it was the only building of note in the area. Surely somebody would have preserved the facts of the matter.

One woman – a few years Mary’s senior, with skin like cracked eggshell – was so hindering as to deny knowing that Tír Mallacht even had a church.

‘Are you being serious?’ Ben had said to her, giving up on the interview in that moment. ‘You’ve never, in all of your life, seen the church? It’s not far. I can take you, if you want?’

He didn’t get much out of her after that.

They gave him morsels and all these morsels were the same – unappetising, bland, and nothing like the knowledge that Sparling was so hungry for. It was possible that they had sat down together and practised how to speak without saying anything. Maybe this was why Mary had interfered. She hadn’t helped Ben in the slightest. Instead she had chosen the best thespians in the village and all of them were hardened method actors, never breaking character for a second.

The creeper proved to be a conversational kill switch. And so Ben learned to play that card close to his chest until it was all he had left. Some interviewees upped and walked away at the mention of it. Others stared him down in a way that was just odd. It was in the widening of the eyes or in the slightest quiver of the lips, like a facial tic they weren’t aware of and thus didn’t know to conceal.

In those moments – with the creeper’s name fresh in the air – it was as though another had stepped within those four walls; the mere shadow of a presence, but one dark enough to cut every conversation short.

As fittingly creepy as these reactions were for Ben’s report, his frustration had evolved into something far uglier – despair. For all he knew, Sparling had other big-money projects planned for the future. It was doubtful that Ben would qualify as one of his perfect candidates after this shitshow.