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near-whisper. ‘Azazel harboured a bit of a soft spot for the ladies – or come to think of it,’ I chuckle, ‘quite the reverse in fact. He spawned dozens of these semi-angelic children – massive creatures, hundreds of ells high – and they just went raging around the place like gigantic toddlers, uprooting things and destroyingeveryone’s stuff. You’ll have seen a reference to them in the Old Testament – the mighty men. No? The men of renown? Still no? Well it was a big deal at the time, and it basically left God with no choice – He had to reboot the whole thing.’
    I shake my head ruefully. A sad day for us all.
    â€˜That’s when He pressed the button on The Flood,’ I tell her. ‘Washed it all away. Back to zero. And as for Azazel – he got his too. Slung into a bottomless pit.’
    (That last part’s not exactly right, but it’s not like she’s going to know. Anyway, it captures the spirit of the thing.)
    I lean back, making it obvious that I’ve finished.
    She doesn’t move a muscle.
    â€˜All in all, a bit of a watershed moment,’ I quip.
    Apparently, though, it’s not as funny as I think it is.
    I gaze out of the window behind her desk. We’re on the same side of the building as Alex’s office, which means the tiny men are visible to me once more, this time from an even more impressive elevation.
    â€˜Why did you tell me all that, Will?’
    â€˜Mm?’
    My attention is no longer in the room. There really is something about those little guys. It’s mesmerising.
    â€˜What was the point of that story you just told me? Do you think we at Abelwood are “fallen angels” …’ she air quotes this with her fingers ‘… or do you …?’ She doesn’t know what might be a suitable end to this question. She looks to me for help.
    â€˜You asked me what I was thinking about,’ I mutter absently. ‘So I told you.’
    Again a little pause. I’m still looking out of the window, but it’s no longer the pleasurable experience it was downstairs. Something’s not the same. Is it the sky? I can’t quite put my finger on it. It might just be this new angle – it makes them look more ant-like, a little sinister even.
    â€˜Do you mind me asking,’ she begins, then carries on regardless of whether I mind or not, ‘if you have had the chance to see a healthcare professional, after what happened this morning?’
    â€˜A healthcare professional.’ I repeat the admirably circumspect phrase to myself. ‘Could that mean a psychiatrist?’ I wonder aloud.
    â€˜It could mean a psychiatrist…’ She floats this confirmation in a tone so gentle and trustworthy that for a second I feel a little disarmed, like I could confide in her some of my real problems, the things that are corroding the real me. I need to stop looking at that building.
    â€˜No, Karen, I didn’t.’ I put my attention fully back on her. ‘I was just tired, run ragged by work – I’ve been under a lot of stress and strain here.’
    She’s not crazy about that answer; she’d like to edge it back round to safer ground. She has a stab at it.
    â€˜Yes,’ she says, ‘work can certainly be demanding. And that’s why we would be keen for you to perhaps speak to a doctor and see if there is anything that can be done to help you achieve the right relationship with stress, for example.’
    â€˜Did you just say “relationship with stress”?’
    â€˜Yes.’ There is not the remotest trace of embarrassment. ‘We would like to see if we can help you manage that. We have worked through this kind of thing before, Will – and we did it together . We just need to know if you have been involving any other … parties … in the agency’s business …’
    But I can’t keep my attention on what