The Fear Index

attacked you – am I to take it he is the other participant in the conversation on the internet?’
    Hoffmann nodded.
    ‘Where is he now?’
    ‘I’d prefer not to go into that.’
    ‘Dr Hoffmann, where is he now?’ When he still wouldn’t answer, she said, ‘Show me your hands, please.’
    Reluctantly he stood and approached her desk. He held out his hands. He felt like a child again, being made to prove he had washed before sitting down to eat. She examined his broken skin without touching it, then carefully looked him over.
    ‘You have been in a fight?’
    He took a long time to reply. ‘Yes. It was self-defence.’
    ‘That’s all right. Sit down again, please.’
    He did as he was told.
    She said, ‘In my opinion, you need to be seen by a specialist right away. There are certain disorders – schizophrenia, paranoia – that can lead the sufferer to act in ways that are entirely out of character and which afterwards they simply can’t remember. That may not apply in your case, but I don’t think we can take a chance, do you? Especially if there are abnormalities on your brain scan.’
    ‘Maybe not.’
    ‘So what I would like you to do now is take a seat downstairs while I talk to my colleague. Perhaps you could call your wife and tell her where you are. Is that all right with you?’
    ‘Yeah, sure.’
    He waited for her to show him out, but she remained watchful behind her desk. Eventually he stood and picked up the laptop. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll go down to reception.’
    ‘Good. It should only take a few minutes.’
    At the door, he turned. A thought had occurred to him. ‘Those are my records you’re looking at.’
    ‘They are.’
    ‘They’re on computer?’
    ‘Yes. They always have been. Why?’
    ‘What exactly is in them?’
    ‘My case notes. A record of treatment – drugs prescribed, psychotherapy sessions and so on.’
    ‘Do you tape your sessions with your patients?’
    She hesitated. ‘Some.’
    ‘Mine?’
    Another hesitation. ‘Yes.’
    ‘And then what happens?’
    ‘My assistant transcribes them.’
    ‘And you keep the records on computer.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘May I see?’ He was over at her desk in a couple of strides.
    ‘No. Certainly not.’
    She quickly put her hand on the mouse to close the document, but he grabbed her wrist.
    ‘Please, just let me look at my own file.’
    He had to prise the mouse away from her. Her hand shot towards the drawer where she kept the pepper spray. He blocked it with his leg.
    He said, ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to check what I told you. Give me a minute to look at my records and I’ll go.’
    He felt bad seeing the fear in her eyes, but he would not yield, and after a couple of seconds she surrendered. She pushed her chair back and stood. He took her place in front of the screen. She moved to a safe distance and watched him from the doorway, drawing her cardigan tight around herself as if she were feeling cold. She said, ‘Where did you get that laptop?’ But he wasn’t listening. He was comparing the two screens, scrolling down first one and then the other, and it was as if he were looking at himself in two dark mirrors. The words on each were identical. Everything that he had poured out to her nine years ago had been cut and pasted and put up on to the website where the German had read it.
    He said, without looking up, ‘Is this computer connected to the internet?’ and then he saw that it was. He went into the system registry. It didn’t take him long to find the malware – strange files of a type he had never seen before, four of them:

    He said, ‘Someone’s hacked into your system. They’ve stolen my records.’ He glanced over to where she had been standing. The consulting room was empty, the door ajar. He could hear her voice somewhere. It sounded as though she was on the telephone. He seized the laptop and thumped his way down the narrow carpeted staircase. The receptionist came round from behind his desk and tried to block his exit, but Hoffmann had no trouble pushing him aside.
    Outside, the normality of the day mocked him – the old guys drinking in the café, the mother with her pram, the au pair picking up the laundry. He turned left and walked quickly down the leafy street, past the drab shuttered houses opening directly on to the pavement, past the patisserie now closed for the day and the suburban hedges and the sensible small cars. He did not know where he was going. Normally