Mark sat at the kitchen island, his head in his hands, wondering whether it was him who was going out of his mind. She believed it. She really did believe he was having affairs. Worse, she believed him capable of such horrendous manipulation. And to what end? To move someone else in in her place? Jesus.

Swallowing hard, he pulled himself to his feet. Going to the kitchen cupboard, he extracted the prescription drugs, pulled out the leaflet and studied it, yet again, desperately trying to find some explanation as to what was happening.

His wife was delusional, paranoid to the point of insanity. Hallucinating. Having screaming nightmares most nights, for most of the night, and then suffering insomnia when she wasn’t. The drowsiness, dizziness, obvious depression and irritability, those symptoms could be put down to the medication, but not this. This was extreme. He needed to speak to her GP; he hoped data protection wouldn’t prevent Meadows from speaking to him. Somehow, though, Mark doubted changing the medication would make any difference. She needed help, more help than he or her GP could offer. She needed professional help. God help him, she might even need sectioning. Mark could hardly stand the thought, but if he had to, for the sake of their children… How much was this damaging them?

Thanks to Jade, Poppy seemed almost oblivious, although she had asked him why Mummy was strange when he’d read her a bedtime story the other night. Last night, she’d prayed to God to ‘make Mummy smile again’. Mark swiped angrily at an errant tear on his cheek. Evie was fine, sleeping better than she had been. She’d sat in her bouncer for a good hour after her eleven o’clock feed, smiling and gurgling and reaching a hand towards her mobiles. Her hand–eye coordination was good. She was content. She was unaffected. For now.

Deliberating whether to take Mel a drink up, he decided against it. She’d been out of it, dead to the world, when he’d retrieved the lunch she hadn’t eaten. He’d taken the opportunity to check the bathroom cabinets. He’d never imagined, even when she’d been at her lowest ebb, after Jacob, that she would ever contemplate taking an overdose, but he was imagining it now.

Time to bite the bullet, he supposed. Searching the house for hidden bottles – Mark had never imagined himself doing that either. He didn’t want to prove anything, confront her again – he just needed to know.

---

Three bottles, all partially drunk. Feeling sick to his soul, Mark lined them up in the kitchen. One stuffed down an armchair – Mel’s chair. One in the airing cupboard, nestled between the sheets. Another secreted in a Perspex storage box in a rarely used cupboard. Mark might have missed it, if he hadn’t been looking. How many more were there? One under the mattress maybe? A couple in the workshop? No doubt she would have booze hidden away there. Fuck!

Grabbing the first bottle, Mark squeezed his hand hard around it, sorely tempted to smash it against the nearest wall. Only Evie’s presence in the house stopped him. Breathing hard, he unscrewed the top. Mel wouldn’t hurt her. He recalled her saying it. But why had she said it? Because the thought had occurred to her? Because the urge had possessed her? Not bloody surprising, putting this lot away on top of the pills. Mark furiously ditched the second bottle, and then the third, down the sink that had been blocked.

Blocked with clay. Mark stopped, the final bottle still poised. How had it been blocked with clay? From Mel washing her hands there, he’d thought. Hadn’t she said the sink in the workshop had been blocked too? From washing her tools there, he’d thought. He’d assumed the clay had accumulated in the U-bend. Except it hadn’t been particles of clay, collecting at the bottom of the bend like sand. It had been a solid lump.

Mark thought about it as he headed for the back door to dump the bottles and search the workshop. He was halfway out when he paused, thinking of Evie. She wouldn’t hurt her, he assured himself, carrying on out.

Still, though, Mark searched with haste. He checked the kiln, the shelves and cupboards, workbenches and the spaces beneath them. He was heading back to the door when he remembered the clay bin. She wouldn’t, would she? But then, it was precisely what addicts did. Mark had been a copper long enough to know that. Crouching, he made sure his sleeve was out of the way and delved down into the slip-sodden clay. Bingo, he thought bitterly, as his hand made contact with what felt like a polythene-wrapped package.

Tightening his grip, Mark attempted to pull it out, but the clay seemed reluctant to part with it. Bloody hell, what was it? A two-litre bottle? He pulled harder. The package finally unsuckered itself with a squelch, causing Mark to fall back on his haunches. Retrieving the parcel from where it had landed on the floor, he eyed it curiously, wiped some of the muck from it, and then dropped it, scrambling backwards.

Jesus Christ. Mark’s heart slammed into his ribcage, his stomach turning over as his mind registered what his eyes refused to believe. The cat’s eyes were wild, wide and terrified, its fanged mouth wide open, the polythene clinging to its face.

---

Mark’s hand shook as he poured a whisky. Knocking it straight back, he poured another and was about to swallow that when he remembered what time it was. Shit! Poppy. Mark pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, breathing in hard and trying for some kind of composure, some equilibrium in a life that was fast careering out of control.

Attempting to pull himself together, he dumped the glass back on the table and headed for the kitchen, where he heaped coffee granules into a mug. He made it strong and black, topping it up with cold water so he could swill it down as fast as he had the whisky. How much had he had? Two fingers? Three? Mark couldn’t recall. His hands were still shaking. Badly.

He raced for the stairs, cursing the creaking floorboards on the landing as he approached the main bedroom door. He wanted to check Mel was all right, but he desperately didn’t want to wake her. He couldn’t have a conversation of any kind with her until he’d got his head around what was going on. As if he could. As if anyone other than a trained psychiatrist could make sense of any of this.

His breath hitched in his chest as he went quietly into the bedroom. Mel was on her stomach, her normal sleeping position, and not one that would normally worry him, except he couldn’t tell whether she was breathing. Going closer, Mark hesitated, and then crouched down and studied her face. Seeing the rapid eye movement behind her eyelids, he dropped his head to his hands, relief sweeping through him. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. To berate the god he wasn’t sure he believed in. A god who could do this! Why?

He needed to be at the school. He needed to take Evie with him. There was no way he could leave her here, not now. Quickly rechecking the bathroom, praying he hadn’t missed anything, Mark went into the baby’s room, talking softly to her as he gathered her warm, fragile body from the cot. Evie whimpered sleepily, but she didn’t cry. Mark was grateful for this smallest of mercies.

The tablets. He couldn’t risk leaving them. But he couldn’t empty the whole house of possible suicide tools either. What the hell was he going to do? Thinking of the long row of carving knives in the kitchen, Mark knew he couldn’t do it. Not on his own. Glancing down at Hercules, who was nervously wagging her tail, Mark closed his eyes against the stark image of the startled, petrified cat. Was it even safe to leave the dog?