The tapping is there again, faint but insistent, as though it comes from a long way off. I lie on my back, eyes wide and pulse throbbing. A streetlamp outside casts a pale orange arc across the ceiling. I know if I look at the window there will be nothing there, so I try to relax, to melt back into the pillows. 
Andrew huffs in his sleep and makes me jump. I keep my body very still and turn my head to glance at him. He lets out a small moan and rolls away from me. The bed springs creak beneath him as he settles back to gentle snoring.
The tapping comes again. I chew my lip. It is like the old urban legend. You see a face at your window. You are horrified. Not because of the face but because you are four stories up.
That is where we are. Four flights, sheer walls. No ledges, no fire escape. I couldn’t look over at the glass even if I wanted to. My body is locked rigid. I can feel the tension start in my jaw and spread down my neck. The fiery ball of pain in my right shoulder lets loose a coil of flame that travels the length of my arm.
I wince and roll over, bury myself against Andrew’s body. His mouth is slack with sleep, his jaw grizzled with stubble. I nudge my nose against the smooth, warm skin of his back. He squirms a little but doesn’t wake up. Eyes shut I begin to count his heartbeats. I float on the verge of sleep and listen for the tapping. Just as my eyelids droop, as the world tips and becomes more dream than reality, it comes again and jolts me awake. 

‘I’ve asked her three times to do something about the blinds.’ 
I am scooping pasta salad into a plastic tub. Andrew is leaning against the sink in the narrow kitchen, watching me. It is early and his eyes are puffy from sleep. 
‘She knows then,’ he yawns. ‘She’s on it.’ 
‘She is not on it!’ I slam the bowl down on the worktop so that the fork I have been using falls in and rattles. ‘If she was on it, it would be done by now. She’s useless.’
Andrew frowns, a little line driven into the skin between his eyebrows. 
‘She’s your friend. You’re the one who was desperate to rent off her.’ 
‘Well, that was before I knew she’d be such a shitty landlord.’ 
I pop the plastic box closed, pasta curls and sweetcorn squeezing up against the lid, and cross the kitchen with the salad bowl held against my chest. Andrew is still glaring at me as I open the fridge. I swing the door closed and turn to face him. 
‘What?’ I snap. 
He rolls his shoulders, glances away. ‘I just don’t see what the big deal is.’ 
I stare at him, furious. I didn’t sleep until the early hours, when a fraction of daylight was already inching into the sky, then woke up late, leaving no time to shower. My clothes feel clammy and tight and my skin itches. I have raked my hair back off my forehead, but it feels damp at the roots. I open my mouth to speak but suddenly I feel like I am falling. The kitchen and its objects float around me.
Andrew’s form is silhouetted against the uncovered square of the window. Broad chest, strong arms. Over his shoulder it is a clear day, the sky is wintry blue. I hear, very softly, the strange triple tap from the night before, as though a hand has reached up and rapped on the window behind him.
My mouth is dry and the pulse in my neck races. I reach out and lightly touch the counter, steadying myself. 
‘I just don’t see why you’re always defending her.’ 
The words sound small but Andrew fires up. I see the spark catch in his eyes. ‘I like her, alright? I like the way she does things.’
‘Does things?’ I scoff, a little of the heat returning to my voice. ‘What things does she do? We’ve got no curtains, no decent chairs, the fridge light doesn’t work, and the bathroom lock is still broken. But I suppose you’d admire me more if I lounged about all day on other people’s money?’
Andrew looks away again. When he speaks his voice is bitter. 
‘I don’t know why I’m arguing with you about this. Like I say, she’s your friend.’ 
I take Andrew a coffee at his desk before I leave. He is playing a PC game, gunfire rattling onscreen. My lips scuff against his stubble. He turns his head but doesn’t look away from the screen. ‘What are you going to do today?’ I ask. 
‘Play games,’ he replies, not looking up. 
‘Send out any job applications?’ 
‘I might.’ 
His tone tells me that he will not do any today simply because I have asked. 
I leave Raquel another message as I’m walking to the office, gritting my teeth and trying to make my tone sincere. 
‘Hi, just calling to see how you are? How’s things at the new house? Oh, by the way, any chance of getting the blinds put in this week. Andrew and I are being dazzled every morning. Aberdeen’s tropical climate! Call me when you get a chance.’ 
The air outside is crisp and the sun is blinding. It catches on the slick pools of ice that line the road. I pass the Humanities building and descend by a series of cobbled alleys into the long square office block next to the playing field.
My office is on the ground floor. I approach it down a brightly lit, windowless corridor that puts me in mind of a hospital. Stuffing a hand into my pocket, I rifle through a wad of receipts and old tissues, searching for my key. It turns in the lock with a soft clunk and a cool breeze wafts out as I open the door.
Someone has left the window open. I complain about them under my breath as I set my bags down on the swivel chair beside my desk. The window pane is rocking in the wind and I have to stretch up on tiptoes and make a few grabs at the handle before I can catch it and yank it shut. I stand for a moment gazing blankly out through the glass and let how tired I feel sink in. The events of the morning run together in my mind like objects seen through a fog. When my eyes come back into focus, I realise that I am staring across the small courtyard and in through the latticed window of the building opposite. A familiar figure is framed there.
Embarrassed, I almost step back but for once he is not gazing at my window but off to his left with a scowl on his face. His hands are in his pockets and over his shoulder I can see the bright square of a PC screen with a block of text typed on the page. We share the view of the courtyard. His name is Evans. It’s printed on the sign outside his office, and I make a point of reading it every day at lunchtime.
I used to walk outside and cross the courtyard to reach the bakery, but recently I’ve been taking a detour through the maze of corridors, up and along and then down several flights of stairs, the tapping of my shoes echoing in the cold, windowless space.
I always slow my steps when I reach his door. It is the last door before the exit. There is a water cooler, a notice board, and a pot plant separating it from the other offices in the block. It is a game I play with myself. Sometimes I speed up, rushing past, as though I am afraid of getting caught. Other times, I creep up to his door and freeze, listening to him move about, wondering if he is still at the window watching me, wondering where I have gone. Occasionally I hear footsteps creaking on the boards behind the door and then I race towards the exit and plunge out into the street. 
I met Evans at a faculty conference on First World War poets. That was the day I became cursed and the day Andrew lost his job. One week before we moved into Raquel’s place. I was new to the campus and didn’t know anyone except my supervisor, who gave me a hasty nod when he saw me at the conference but steered himself hastily in the other direction. I was orbiting the buffet, a plastic cup of warm white wine in my hand, when Evans shuffled over holding a paper plate. He glared down at the spread of sandwiches cut into dry triangles and crackers spread with meagre amounts of cheese. His mouth turned down into a near perfect semi-circle. 
‘Always the same,’ he muttered half to himself and half to me. 
He dropped the paper plate back onto the pile and stuffed his hands into his pockets, lingering beside me, and scowling down the length of his nose. He had a broad, heavy brow beneath a mop of reddish hair, and below that an unkempt beard. His features were handsome in a way, crude yet striking. 
‘You haven’t eaten any of this have you?’ he asked gruffly, peering at me sideways.
‘No,’ I smiled. 
‘Good, the last thing we need is a lawsuit for poisoning new students.’
He took me in then, looking me up and down without turning his head. ‘You are a student?’ 
‘Research,’ I said. 
I could feel my face flushing from the wine I’d already drunk and hoped that I had not turned an absurd shade of red.
‘What are you researching?’ 
‘The devil,’ I replied, then, noticing his eyebrows lift, I quickly added, ‘History of Art. I’m looking at medieval images of demons. Thinking about the way people personified temptation or guilt as something physical, like a demon; something that could have a tangible proximity to them in the world.’ 
The man jerked his head in one decisive nod and exhaled thoughtfully. ‘I have a colleague in the Divinity department who is an intimate friend of the devil. If you need any books that aren’t in the library, knock on his door. No doubt they’ll be buried in there somewhere.’ 
‘That would be really helpful,’ I said, sliding my bag off my shoulder and beginning to rifle through it looking for my notepad, clutching it precariously in the same hand that held my wine. ‘If you’d give me his name…’ 
‘Carmichael,’ the man said. ‘But I wouldn’t bother going to him now that I think of it. He’s always off on leave. The devil makes work for idle hands. Come by my office if you need anything from him. I have dinner with him every few weeks. He can drop it off with me.’
I let my bag hang loose on my elbow and studied him more carefully. He still had not turned to face me directly. His eyes were scanning the crowd in the stuffy little room. His mouth was turned down still and he seemed to thrust himself forwards where he stood, his bearded chin sticking out, as though already primed for his next move. He had an air of extreme vigour and I felt this across the narrow space between us, almost making me want to pull away. At the same time, I felt drawn to him, and a bright, electric shiver ran down my back.
I lifted the plastic cup to my mouth and touched its rim between my teeth. The man glanced at me again, his chin tipped up, and his sharp, dark eyes wandered over me, surmising, appraising.
I felt seen. I felt – as though it had already happened and was a burst of memory – this man’s lean arms around me. I saw myself, as if in a vision, pressed down onto the floor and his weight bearing down on me; a furious bolt of energy passing between us. 
‘Why don’t you come by now, in fact?’ he asked casually, still staring out across the gathering. ‘I’ve probably got a few things lying around which would help you.’ 
‘Oh no,’ I said, feeling the heat from the wine spread across my face. ‘I should get back to my office.’
‘Where have they put you?’ 
‘Matheson,’ I said. ‘D Block.’ 
‘Ah, the science wing,’ he smiled wryly. ‘I know it. They always stick Humanities strays in there.’
He took in a great breath and without another word moved off abruptly in the direction of the drinks table. I watched him greet another professor with the same gruff expression. The pair stood there talking and the man kept his hands in his pockets and glared at the ground, nodding at what the other had to say. 
I didn’t stay to finish my wine. I set the plastic beaker down and hurried from the room, smiling politely at the professors who nodded at me or moved out of my way. I half ran back to my office, almost taking a wrong turn at the bottom of a harshly lit stairwell and narrowly avoiding entering the maze of labs which spread out bewilderingly on the basement level.
I found my office empty and let the door slam shut behind me. Leaning against it, I felt the cool wood of the door between my shoulder blades through the thin fabric of my blouse. I staggered over to my chair and collapsed into it, letting my legs stretch out beneath the desk.
I should work, I thought, that’s what I was here to do. I shoogled my mouse, waiting for the computer to whir into life, and set my hands on the keyboard. Still with my hands in place, I glanced up towards the window and saw Evans. He was across the courtyard, in the window opposite mine.
I couldn’t see him well because of the light on the glass but I recognised his shape. I held my breath and waited, saw him move away from the pane. I closed my eyes, taking a few deep breaths, and waited. I knew that he was coming, making his way down the corridors, taking the stairs with his steady, casual gait, the way that people see visions and know that fate is coming their way.
I felt him pulled towards me as though I was at the centre of a labyrinth and he the destined hero. My breath shook between my lips and my fingers trembled over the keys. I heard three soft taps on the door and pushed my chair out from under the desk. 

I wonder what he is thinking about this morning. His posture is slumped, the suit jacket he always wears is ill-fitting and shabby. I hold my breath, wondering if he will see me.
He moves all of a sudden and pulls down the blinds. They drop smoothly, concertina fashion, and bounce a little as they settle in place. I remain by the window for a moment and look at the tree branches framing the glass. They shake in the wind, rattling together with a skeletal sound. A dull feeling of horror seems to press down on me from the colourless sky.
I take a few steps back, then turn and hurry to my desk. There is a highlighter pen lying in the binding of an open book, showing where I last left off. I pick it up and try to read, but the words blur together. I blow out my cheeks and lean back, decide to go for a coffee. Before I leave, I duck into the toilet, fix my hair in the mirror and dab on some make-up. I head for the outside door but, at the last minute, turn and make for the stairs and take the long way around, indoors. 

I try to work into the afternoon, but my concentration wavers and I keep thinking about Andrew and the flat and the blinds. I check my phone every few minutes, leaning down and rooting for it in my bag. I am waiting for a response from Raquel. Every half hour or so I glance at the window. The blinds in the pane opposite are still closed. I lean my head back against the padded headrest and try to picture what Andrew might be doing.
I imagine him at his PC, face still unshaved, fingers clicking furiously on the mouse as monsters or aliens evaporate onscreen. I imagine the smell of weed that hangs around the desk. I picture the open tab with unanswered emails and half complete job applications flashing at the bottom of the screen. I close my eyes, feeling sleepy.
It is warm in the office. The central heating murmurs in the wall. I am falling asleep, dreaming of myself on a hot day under a web of sunlight that falls through a canopy of trees; short dry sprigs of grass crackle underneath me and a warm breeze is sliding over my skin. There is a man’s voice; deep, soothing as the sunlight itself. The sound of liquid splashing into a glass, a taste of wine on my lips. When I look up a pair of flint dark eyes stare into mine. 
I sit bolt upright in my chair, gasping for breath. My hands begin to shake as I realise what has woken me. A triple knock, faint yet insistent, somewhere on the edge of my mind. I sit very still, lips trembling, sweat prickling on my brow. The knocking comes again.
There is the sound of muffled voices outside, the clink of a door handle turning and footsteps entering the office across the hall. My body sags. I lean my forehead in my hand and squeeze the bridge of my nose. I check my phone for messages. It is only four pm but already growing dark. Rising to stretch my legs, I walk the length of my office and stand looking out of the window, arms folded. Evans has opened his blinds again. The courtyard is now in shadow, and the Professor’s window glows, a bright rectangle of yellow light.
I duck across my own office and switch off the light before creeping back to my spying place. Evans sits with his back to his PC screen, hands folded in his lap, head bowed, glaring at the floor. He stands abruptly, turns, and lifts his eyes. I am rooted to the spot. He seems to be staring straight at me.
I see myself tearing up the spiral staircase and through the empty passageways. I see him throw open the door. I am in his arms, my body winds about his, our mouths push together. We are vanishing onto the floor. My hand reaches up and tugs at a corner of fabric, the edge of a tablecloth covering a desk. It upsets a pile of books, and they tumble down onto us, in a never-ending cascade, like the earth closing over our heads. 

As the afternoon dies, I have the feeling, creeping at first, then almost overwhelming, that something awful is going to happen. I leave the office early and walk quickly along the corridors, flicking the light switches as I pass so that the long tunnels fall dark behind me.
It is dark outside too and a cold wind is whipping round the corners of the building. A handful of dead leaves clatter across my path as I stand in the doorway, winding my scarf about my throat. I bundle myself up. That is the phrase Andrew always uses. ‘Bundle up,’ he says when I am about to leave the house. 
The way I walk is lit with single streetlamps, spaced far apart. When I reach the wider, freer expanse of the High Street the wind engulfs me like one giant scream, deafens me so that I walk with my bag hugged to my side, head bowed.
The nearer I get to the flat the faster I walk. My palms are clammy, and my legs feel as though they could shake out from under me. The sick sense of foreboding increases as I climb the stairs to my apartment. I want to see Andrew in front of me. I want desperately to hear his voice, see him smile and look up from the computer as I enter. I want, for the first time in weeks, to fold myself around him and breathe in his scent.
I lean on the banisters for a moment halfway up, and when I reach my door sag heavily against it, catching my breath. It is then, with my cheek pressed against the varnished wood, my bag hanging loosely to the floor from the ends of my fingers, that I hear voices inside.
A man’s gruff patter followed by a woman’s sing-song lilt. I jump back from the door as if it were burning, my heart beating fast. The woman’s voice sounds brash. It is Raquel.
I can hear Andrew laughing. Is she there to fix the blinds? Surely, she wouldn’t be doing it herself? My head swims. I see the door as if it is far away at the end of some long corridor. Andrew laughs again and this time Raquel joins in. The two sounds wind around each other.
I can hear my pulse pounding in my head like somebody knocking to get in. Slowly, I clench my hand into a fist and lift it towards the door. Three taps.
The voices stop. There is a shuffling inside, the sound of footsteps growing faint, moving towards the back of the flat. Andrew’s voice calls, ‘Coming!’ and I hear his steps, slow and steady in the hall.
I hold my breath, afraid that he will recognize the sound, afraid that it will give me away. I feel my jaw set, teeth clamped together. The key turns in the lock. I’m sure I am going to fall. My nails dig into the skin of my palms. Andrew opens the door. His hair is ruffled, and his shirt is open to the waist. His jeans have been pulled on in a hurry and the fly is undone. His feet are bare.
At first, he looks surprised but, a second later, he sags against the doorframe and stares resignedly at me. His expression is washed out, as though he is looking at a stranger. There is pity in his look but no guilt. I take a step back, tears wetting my cheeks, and peer over his shoulder into the flat. I can see down the corridor into the bedroom. I can see the naked rectangles of glass, filled up by the night, black and crowded with reflections, gaping in on the scene.