All The Devils Are Here

The Other Patient Peter Rowe had brought his own extension lead. Jo noticed it because the cable lay in a loop beside a folding table and the plug had been repaired with a square of black insulating tape. She had spent most of her working week arguing about unsafe electrics in council properties. It was difficult to enter a room without beginning an inspection, even when she had come along as a favour. ‘You can put your bag anywhere,’ said the man who had let them in. ‘Just mind the little table.’ His name was Adrian Stokes. He wore a blue shirt with the sleeves pushed back and had the distracted courtesy of somebody who expected visitors but had still been surprised to find them at his door. The room belonged to a former accountancy office on the first floor of a narrow building outside York's centre. There were traces of its earlier life: a capped computer socket on the wall, a sagging blind, a notice by the door asking people to keep the shared landing clear. Someone had brought in three upholstered chairs that didn't match. Peter was already helping Adrian move one of them. ‘Leave it,’ Daniel said. ‘You're the one paying to be here.’ ‘I'm paying to feel useful for an hour. Let me have my money's worth.’ Peter managed half a laugh. He had lost weight since Jo had last seen him, though it was hard to know how much of that was the unfamiliar jacket hanging off his shoulders. Daniel said he hadn't been sleeping. Peter himself had said almost nothing about it during the drive, concentrating instead on a complaint about a supplier at the garage where he and Daniel had known each other for years. Jo had not wanted to come. She had a leak inspection to finish before nine the following morning and a kitchen full of laundry she kept transferring between the chair and the ironing board. Daniel had asked her to drive because Peter had been having what he called his turns and Adrian had advised against going home alone afterwards. Daniel could have driven; he had driven Peter to hospital twice already. Only when Jo pressed him had he admitted he wanted her there in case he needed another opinion. Her brother did not usually ask for one. ‘Tea?’ Adrian said. ‘No, thanks,’ Jo told him. ‘Water, then?’ ‘I've got some in the car.’ Daniel gave her a look that meant she could make an effort. Adrian had spent twenty minutes with Peter on the phone without charging him, and there were worse things a frightened man might try than visiting somebody who offered to help him rest. ‘A glass would be lovely,’ she said. Adrian went to fetch it. Peter waited until he'd closed the door before looking at Jo. ‘You think this is bollocks.’ ‘I think you've been ill.’ ‘That's not quite a denial.’ ‘You want me to lie?’ ‘No. I suppose not.’ He bent for the extension lead, then thought better of it. ‘The doctors said anxiety. Or sleep deprivation. Depending which doctor. One of them asked if I was drinking. I haven't had a pint since Christmas.’ ‘I know.’ ‘Do you?’ Daniel moved between them to straighten the nearest chair. ‘Jo came because I asked her. There's no tribunal, Pete.’ Jo would have argued with him on principle, except that Peter's hands were shaking. He folded them together as if he were about to start a meeting. She had seen people do that in housing interviews, when they were trying to make themselves sound reasonable while explaining why they couldn't bear to go home. Adrian returned with a water jug, four glasses and a small tin of biscuits. He did not press any of them to eat. As he set things out, he talked Peter through what would happen, asking again about his headaches, the episodes of dread and the voices he sometimes heard on the edge of sleep. Peter answered carefully, one question at a time. He was the sort of man who remembered the mileage on other people's cars and which relatives didn't get on; being unable to supply Adrian with useful facts plainly irritated him. ‘You mentioned a feeling of somebody standing very near you,’ Adrian said. ‘Has that altered?’ ‘Not really. Sometimes I get it in daylight now.’ ‘And you can move when it happens?’ ‘Mostly.’ ‘Mostly is important.’ Adrian waited, his pen lifted. Peter looked at Daniel rather than answer. ‘I lost an hour on Tuesday. Probably slept. I woke up in the garden with the hose running. I've no idea why I'd gone out.’ Daniel had not told Jo that. He looked no less startled than she felt. Adrian put down his pen. ‘Thank you. If anything makes you uncomfortable tonight, you say so and we'll stop. I can't promise what you'll experience. I can promise I won't keep going against your wishes.’ The assurance seemed sincere. That was the awkward part of being here. Jo had arrived hoping to find a fraud or an obvious fool, somebody easy to dislike. Instead she had found a man who spoke kindly, offered water and appeared more interested in Peter's consent than several medical professionals Peter had described. The equipment occupied a table beside the window. Two flat reflective panels, each mounted on a plain metal stand, faced one another across a cleared section of floor. Their surfaces were dark, almost grey. Jo would have called them mirrors if they had been any good at reflecting the ceiling light. A narrow strip of fabric tape marked an oblong standing area between them. Near the first panel stood a brass lamp with a glass chimney and a sliding metal shield. Adrian checked the lamp, moved the second stand a fraction and made a pencil mark on a piece of paper held to the table by a mug. ‘What's all that for?’ Jo asked. ‘Concentration, mostly. An old arrangement, adapted. I use something similar in guided practice.’ He glanced at her. ‘No shocks, no drugs. You can watch every part of it.’ ‘Is that fire?’ ‘A very small one, behind glass. I have an extinguisher in the cupboard.’ Jo checked the cupboard and found the extinguisher where Adrian said it would be. There were two ways out of the room, although the filing cabinet half-obstructed one of them. She meant to bring it up when Peter had finished; there was no point turning his appointment into a fire inspection. Daniel stood with Peter while Adrian described where he wanted them. Peter would take the marked position. Daniel had asked to remain close because Peter disliked being on his own during an episode, and Adrian agreed, provided he kept clear of the space between the panels. Jo stayed by the door, near enough to hear, far enough away not to be knocked into a table if somebody fainted. Daniel touched Peter's elbow. ‘All right?’ Peter said, ‘Ask me in ten minutes.’ He stepped between the panels. Daniel remained to the right, just beyond the tape, with one hand hovering uselessly near Peter's shoulder. Adrian adjusted the panel closest to the window and then the shield on the little lamp. The flame inside was scarcely visible until he turned the lamp a little. A bright, narrow reflection crossed the opposite dark surface and settled low against Peter's coat. Adrian spoke to Peter about breathing. There was nothing ceremonial in his voice. He counted slowly, asked him to notice the floor under his shoes, to keep his eyes open if he preferred. Peter tried. His shoulders fell half an inch. Jo watched the flame, thinking that Adrian ought to have had another person check the stand before using it. If the lamp toppled, the nearest thing to catch would be Peter's sleeve. Peter cleared his throat. He coughed twice, then made a small sound that neither resembled a cough nor appeared to be a word. Daniel leaned closer. ‘Pete?’ Adrian raised his hand, palm turned towards Peter. ‘Would you like me to stop?’ Peter didn't answer. A crease developed between his eyes and he tried to step backwards. His heel seemed to find the tape and stop there. He made the sound again, this time longer. Jo couldn't tell whether it came from his throat or the back of his mouth; it had the wet, difficult quality of a person speaking around a dental appliance. Adrian moved away from the table towards him. ‘Peter, look at me.’ The little reflected bar shifted when Adrian brushed the lamp's handle. For a moment Peter's face seemed to change expression several times without settling on any of them. There was a noise like a shoe scraping across linoleum, although his feet hadn't moved. Daniel reached for him. Peter jerked away, suddenly awake and furious, and knocked Daniel's hand aside. ‘Don't touch me.’ ‘All right,’ Daniel said. ‘Nobody's touching you.’ Peter's hand dropped. He stared at Daniel's wrist as though he couldn't remember striking it, then tried to speak and seemed to lose the means of doing so. Jo came away from the doorway, wondering whether she should fetch a chair before his legs gave way. Something moved between Peter and her brother. She would never have been able to describe it without sounding absurd. The nearest thing was the dark ripple that crosses a window when a cloud covers the sun, except the room hadn't darkened, and the movement had a direction. Daniel was closest to Peter; Adrian had come around the other side of the table, and Jo was still several paces away. Daniel made a soft involuntary noise. His fingers closed around the back of the chair beside him. He looked towards the open door with the expression of somebody who had just heard his own name called from a crowd. ‘Dan?’ He did not respond. Peter took a breath so deep it lifted his whole chest, held it and let it go. Adrian caught him when his knees loosened. The panel nearest the lamp rocked and rang against its stand. ‘Switch that off,’ Jo said. Adrian turned off the lamp at once. The bar of reflected light vanished, and Jo realised she'd been watching it instead of Peter. He sat down heavily, wiping at his lips with the heel of his hand. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘God, I'm sorry. Did I hurt anyone?’ ‘No,’ Adrian told him, looking honestly shaken. ‘Are you with us?’ Peter looked at his hands. ‘I can think.’ ‘You've been able to think all evening, mate,’ Daniel said, but the joke didn't sound like him. ‘I know. I mean—’ Peter stopped. His eyes filled unexpectedly. ‘It's gone.’ Adrian crouched beside him and asked him to describe what had gone. Peter said there had been a pressure at the back of his head for months, a dread that arrived before ordinary things like the kettle boiling or a letter through the door. Now he could hear Adrian asking a question without struggling to keep track of it. He said his own thoughts sounded nearer. He began to cry, embarrassed by the fact, and Daniel went to find tissues. Jo went after him into the corridor. ‘Is he all right?’ she asked. Daniel had stopped beside the old filing cabinet. He held a packet of tissues he'd brought from the room, but seemed to have forgotten what they were for. ‘Dan?’ He looked at her. The overhead light was unkind to his face; the fine lines Jo usually only noticed when he laughed seemed pressed into it. ‘Can you get Peter home?’ he asked. ‘Of course I can. What's happened?’ ‘Nothing.’ He made an effort to move, but his left hand stayed clamped on the cabinet's metal edge. Jo could see the tendons in his wrist. ‘I feel a bit sick. Probably that room. Too warm.’ ‘Sit down.’ ‘I don't want to sit down.’ ‘Well, don't be sick on the stairs. They're shared.’ He almost smiled. The expression fell away when someone moved on the landing below. A man from one of the ground-floor businesses had come through the outer door, bringing a gust of ordinary street noise. Daniel recoiled so violently that his shoulder struck the wall. The man muttered an apology and went past them. He hadn't seen anything unusual. Jo took the tissues from her brother. ‘You're frightening me.’ ‘I know.’ ‘Did something happen in there?’ Daniel stared towards the stairs. ‘Let's get Pete out.’ Inside, Adrian was checking Peter's pulse and asking whether he'd like Jo to call for medical help. Peter said no. He wanted to sit a little longer and then go to bed. Adrian gave him a glass of water and wrote down his telephone number, telling him to seek medical care if his symptoms returned or anything new developed. He made no claim to have expelled a demon. If anything, his evident relief was accompanied by uncertainty about precisely what had happened. Jo insisted on carrying Peter's bag. Daniel went down ahead of them, moving too quickly, and waited beside her car without opening a door. He said nothing on the drive. Peter occupied the passenger seat, apologising whenever Jo asked if he felt unwell. By the time they reached his terrace, he was making a joke about Daniel's refusal to let anybody change a wheel without instruction. Daniel gave a reasonable imitation of a laugh. Peter leaned into the back seat before getting out. ‘I don't know what that man did. But thank you both. I think I can sleep tonight.’ Jo had known him too long to begrudge him the hope. She watched him walk to his front door, take out his keys and go inside without looking over his shoulder. Daniel had his forehead turned towards the side window. ‘Come back to mine,’ she said. ‘I've got an early start.’ ‘So have I.’ ‘It's not the same.’ ‘It is if you throw up on your own carpet and nobody finds you till Thursday.’ ‘Jo.’ She pulled away from the kerb. She had intended to take him to his flat whether he agreed or not. That was how she'd dealt with him since they were teenagers, by acting first and discussing it when the immediate problem was fixed. Usually Daniel was the one telling her she'd made a fuss about nothing. Tonight he said only, ‘You don't have to do that.’ At his place, he made her wait outside while he opened the door. The front room was unchanged: two clean mugs on the draining board, yesterday's local paper folded beside the sofa, a row of labelled storage boxes containing things from his late father's garage. Daniel kept a tidy house without ever appearing to put anything away. He turned on the kitchen light and stood in the doorway, leaving Jo to decide whether to follow him. ‘You didn't have a turn like Peter's, did you?’ she asked. ‘I don't know what Peter's turns were like.’ ‘All right. Were you dizzy?’ ‘No.’ ‘Your arm went funny. In the room.’ ‘I remember.’ He filled the kettle, stopped before switching it on, emptied some of the water and tried again. Jo took a chair. There was a small crescent of dust around the base of his kitchen clock, where he'd recently moved it and then put it back. ‘Tell me what happened,’ she said. Daniel set the kettle down. ‘When Peter made that noise, I was scared. I mean properly scared. I thought something was coming for me. I couldn't see anything. I just knew I had to get away.’ ‘Panic attack?’ ‘Maybe. Except it wasn't what I was frightened of.’ Daniel set his hands on the worktop, waiting for her to say something. Jo gave him the time to find the rest of it. ‘I was worried about Peter. Then suddenly I was frightened for my life. I haven't had anything like it. You know when somebody gives you a piece of bad news and your stomach goes before you've understood? It was like that, but it kept going. It was still happening in the car.’ ‘It's been a rotten evening.’ ‘Listen to me.’ His voice stayed level, which made the interruption more effective. ‘I can still feel it. I'm making tea, I'm standing in my kitchen, I know where I am. And there's something here that's terrified of being found.’ Jo began to answer, but he raised one hand. She had never seen him do it to her before. ‘Don't tell me I'm tired. I am tired. I know that. I also know something happened when I touched Pete, and it didn't finish when we left that room.’ The kettle clicked, having boiled while they were talking. Daniel flinched at the noise and then looked angry with himself. He stayed where he was until the sound died away. Jo had no satisfactory explanation to give him. She could arrange a doctor's appointment, ring Peter in the morning, go back to Adrian and ask what his equipment was for. Those were ordinary things she understood how to do. ‘Do you want me to stay?’ ‘No. I've got the spare key under the—’ He stopped. ‘Yes, actually. Just for tonight.’ She pulled out her phone and sent a message to the colleague who would have to handle the morning's first inspection if she was late. Daniel watched her put it away. ‘You believe me?’ ‘I believe something's wrong. That's enough to start with.’ He turned back to the mugs, poured water onto two teabags and left them both sitting on the worktop while he found the milk. His hands had steadied a little. ‘Jo, I need your help,’ he said. ‘I don't know what to do with this.’ She moved one mug out of his way before he knocked it with the milk carton. They drank the tea at his small kitchen table. Later she found a blanket in the airing cupboard and made herself a bed on the sofa. Daniel apologised for not having clean spare sheets; she told him his standards were ridiculous. At half past midnight she heard him go to the bathroom and run the tap. He returned to bed without calling for her. She remained awake for another half-hour, listening to the ordinary noises of the house and deciding which number she would ring first in the morning.