But next time he opened his eyes, all his possessions could only be seen in silhouette, crowding him silently. He pulled out his phone and checked the time – just after 10.00 p.m. He thought about calling Meredith again, but then felt overcome with sleepiness and texted her instead:

Going to bed now. Knackered and full of beer. Talk in the morning. Love ya.

Leaving the bottles where they were, he did at least get up and check that both bolts were firmly shot across before filling a pint glass with water and staggering into bed, via a final visit to the loo to clean his teeth and have a last pee. He was asleep within minutes of tearing off his clothes and flopping down on the mattress.

A knocking sound awoke him some hours later; like knuckles on glass, persistent and loud. It was still pitch-dark, but something felt wrong; something more than just his dry mouth and slight biliousness. Who the hell was rapping on his window? The boat was rocking, far more than the gentle bobbing it made when moored. He sat up, ignoring the dizziness, and pulled back the curtain covering the porthole in his berth. Usually, his view would have been of the marina’s stone walls, faintly orange-tinted from the light thrown by the street lamp in the car park above.

But there was no light visible. Shapes of trees loomed in monochrome, and as Pete’s hearing sharpened into wakefulness, he heard the slap of water against Barton Bee’s sides. The moon came out from behind a cloud and suddenly light refracted off the water; not the enclosed sides of the marina, but open water.

He was drifting, mid-river. Shit!

At first he couldn’t think how this could be. There was a strong offshore wind blowing an ebb tide that night, but that couldn’t have disturbed the lines, unless they’d been tampered with. The lines had been secure when he’d boarded that afternoon – he always checked them, bow and stern, ever since some teenagers had untied him a couple of years ago. Fortunately he’d spotted them then, snickering and riding away on their bikes, another dare completed, and he’d started the engine, swearing loudly as he steered Barton Bee back to her mooring.

The bedside clock’s red digital letters showed it was 3.30 a.m. Unlikely to be kids, then. But what had that knocking sound been?