“I’m not sure; I think whoever invented it was just fishing for the world’s ugliest medical backronym.” Alex squirms, as if trying to shrug his way out of a straitjacket. “Anyway, it’s PHANG syndrome. Or Persons of PHANG. Photogolic because we really don’t get on with sunlight; hemophagic because, er, let’s not go there? Anagathic because some of my older colleagues suddenly don’t look a day over twenty. Neurotropic because it has some other interesting side effects, and the ‘G’ got tacked on the end because you can’t call someone a PHANG Fucker without one, yes, ha ha, very droll, you’d better get it out of your system because you’ll be meeting the rest of us in due course, and Janice really doesn’t have a sense of humor about that kind of shit—”

His face is stony. For a moment Pete has a vision of an alternate universe where Alex is a stand-up comedian’s straight man, or maybe earns his crust as one-half of a Proclaimers tribute band. Then the ineluctable truth begins to sink in. “You don’t catch fire if exposed to garlic or holy water by any chance? Crosses or other religious symbols?” Alex shakes his head. (In the background, Andy stands and begins to slither doorwards.) “Jolly good. We don’t have much to do with that stuff in the C of E anyway,” he adds, “but it’d be kind of embarrassing to share an office with someone with a garlic bread allergy.” He looks at Andy. “Will you please stop that? I know what you’re trying to do, and so does Alex.” To his relief Alex nods rapidly. “I’m sure this young man—”

“I’m twenty-four!”