Fine time for a hangover to kick in, he thought.

What he needed now was water, and maybe some paracetamol. The bedside table held neither. A drunken Derek Reid was not a prepared Derek Reid, no matter how much practice he may have had.

Reid rose to his feet and walked towards the built-in wardrobe beyond the end of the bed. He took out a white robe, one he had ‘borrowed’ from a five-star hotel years before. It was just about the only thing his third wife had not taken in their divorce.

Old and beat up, he thought. Like its owner.

The robe was not a perfect fit. ‘One Size Fits All’ is a claim not made with Reid’s body shape and height in mind. But it covered enough, protecting Reid’s modesty from the grand total of no one with whom he shared his home. Still, there were mirrors in the house and Reid did not like what they told him about his naked body.

He slowly made his way out of the room and down the stairs, his legs unsteady from the evening’s excess. It had become a regular night-time journey. Reid could trace the route in his sleep; in fact he probably had. Not that he needed to tonight. He was certainly groggy, but he was awake.

The medicine was kept in the downstairs bathroom, behind the sliding door of the mirrored cabinet. Reid went there first, found a packet of paracetamol and then noticed a single American-strength Alka-Seltzer sachet beside it. Two tablets, brought back from his last trip to New York and designed for exactly what was troubling him.

Reid ignored the paracetamol and took the sachet.

Next he moved to the kitchen. It smelled of spilled red wine and unwashed plates and pans. None of which helped the hangover. Reid tried to ignore it while he filled a tumbler glass with water and dropped in the two Alka-Seltzer tablets.

The fizzing sound would stop once the carbon dioxide was released. Indicating that the medication was ready. It would take at least a minute, so Reid used the time. He took another clean glass from his cupboard, filled it with water from his refrigerated filter jug and headed to his living room.

The lounge was pitch-black. The window shutters Michael had fitted when he had rebuilt the front of the house did their job perfectly, blocking out the street light.

Reid moved by memory alone. He was used to the darkness and knew where every obstacle would be. He found his leather chair as easily as if the midday sun were filling the room, sat and lifted the smaller glass to his ear.

The fizzing had stopped, so Reid moved the glass to his lips and drained the contents. Followed by a mouthful of filtered water to wash away the taste.

The TV remote was on the table next to the chair. Reid needed no light to tell him that. The presser, as Reid called it, was always on the table or in his hand. Never anywhere else. He reached out and flicked the flat-screen into life.