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On the side of the bottle, it had said to take one tablet, about half an hour before going to bed. Ben had taken three of them and that was four hours ago. Ruffling his pillow for the seventeenth time, his wife stirs beside him, but sleep still eludes Ben.

So he lies there, eyes fixed on the woman he married seven years ago. Her treacle hair spills across the pillow and her pale complexion, bathed in the glow of the streetlight, outside their bedroom window. Suspicions lay siege to his sleep-starved mind.

Is Marie really having an affair? Everyday, she has the opportunity and the men she works with would have to be blind not to notice her. Especially in the starched, white cotton of her nurses uniform.

Conspiracy consumes Ben and scares away any hope of sleep.

But the pills must have worked because Ben drives to work feeling as though he has slept. So much so, he doesn't recall the same morning routine that every one rushes through after sleeping late and having to dash out the door. What did he have for breakfast? Did he have any at all? On the stretch of country lane, separating the town where Ben lives and the town where he works, he sees a cat perched on top of the gate to one of old Jess Harlow's fields. He only really notices it because it looks exactly like Tigger, the Tabby, Ben's parents had bought him as a boy. The cat watches Ben's car drive past. How much ...

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