He hunches under the duvet. I stare at the darkness of the ceiling, trying to relax.
       I haven't slept in over a year.
       I listen to his breathing, hearing it slow and flatten out. For a while, I try to imagine I am on a beach, that the faint rasp is tiny wavelets washing across shingle.
       Once I'm sure he's asleep, I slide gratefully into his dream.

       Jeremy is standing in a long corridor, the walls a scuffed and institutional beige. I don't think he can see me, but I walk alongside as he moves from door to door, peering in the windows.
       I follow into what looks like a classroom, although the desks are overturned and splintered. He kicks one and, as it crumbles into ash, his laugh rolls gleefully around the small space.
       He turns towards me.
       "Come on!"
       Jeremy takes my hand, and we start to run up a grassy hillside. Before we reach the top, I am lagging behind, and a woman with red hair is beside him. I sink slowly, wading after them.
       I am back in the corridor; then I am in a bar with strident flashing lights, then in a hot and airless attic.
       I am in a misty grey cocoon, my arms wrapped around my knees. It's warm and comfortable, and a faint humming lets me know I am not alone. I let my head loll, but the cocoon is shrinking, squeezing me out, clamping down on me.
       The hum cuts off like someone ripped a cable from a socket, and I am back in bed. He rolls over, making a sound somewhere between a cough and a gasp.
       This is how I spend my nights. I don't sleep. Thankful that I found him, I take what rest I can in his dreams, and I no longer have to face exhausting nights alone. Even the nightmares, the stress dreams of missed trains and lost tickets, the occasional scenes of violence -- it's all better than the crawling landscape of eight empty, knotted hours.
       When the alarm sounds, I get up and head for the shower. Another night ticked off.

       He bites into the toast I've buttered.
       "Can you get me some more razor blades? I'm almost out."
       "Sure, the shopping's coming on Saturday; I'll add them to the order."
       He drops his plate in the sink and kisses me on the cheek.
       "See you this evening."
       "Have a nice day."
       I put the plates in the dishwasher and get ready for work.

       I don't remember about the razor blades until I'm back in bed. He snores, oblivious, as my body snaps with realisation: I forgot to change the order. I lurch out of bed and run to the computer, pulling on my dressing gown as I go. I jiggle the mouse, desperate for everything to come to life, wondering whether I can convince him they were out of stock. The website was down. My order-change didn't go through properly...
       There are six minutes left to update my list, and my hand shakes with relief as I add the razors.
       An advert slides over the screen; extravagant promises from a weirdly-shaped pillow. Your best ever night's sleep! I don't believe it, but I click anyway. I watch the video, read the testimonials, knowing that it will not make the slightest difference.
       "Claire? What're you doing?"
       I am deep in an article about the construction of weighted blankets when his voice startles me.
       "Oh, you know." I close the window, switch off the monitor. "Couldn't sleep, got distracted."
       He puts an arm around my shoulders. "Come on back to bed. It's no wonder you're always tired if you're up reading crap at 3 am."
       Three! I hadn't realised.
       "I read because I don't sleep. It's not that I don't sleep because I'm reading," I mumble.
       He smooths the duvet. "Just chill out; you'll soon drop off."
       "I don't sleep," I repeat, wondering if he'll ever listen.
       "Everyone sleeps," he says, pulling me against his chest.
       I barely feel the spurt of irritation. I try to relax against his warmth, feeling his arm grow heavy on top of me.
       He puts aside his waking self as easily as discarding clothes to the floor. He sleeps thoughtlessly, careless of his fortune. He is a rich man laughing at the poor. My teeth grind as he snores.
       Slowly, deliberately, I unclench myself. He is not cruel. He doesn't understand. His nights pass quickly; he doesn't see my long-drawn hours.
       Eventually, I soothe myself into a state gentle enough to join his dreams.

       The sun is hot, the street bright like a Mediterranean postcard. Jeremy is at the wheel of a black cab, and I climb into the passenger seat and laugh as he drives onto the beach.

       It's been a long week. When I get in from work - late - I'm longing for a hot bath and a lazy evening on the sofa. I'm surprised to find him already at home, just getting out of the shower.
       "Yeah, knocked off early for once. Decided I'd rather not get ready in a rush."
       Ready?
       "You haven't forgotten tonight? Rad's birthday?"
       "Of course, I haven't forgotten. I'm looking forward to it."
       When I come out of the shower, he's sprawled on our bed. The game on his phone flashes and blips.
       "What do you think I should wear?"
       He doesn't look up. "Black jeans and that blue top."
       The top is a few years old now, but it's one of my favourites. It'll take me anywhere. I pile my hair up, put make-up on, find the long silver earrings he gave me for my birthday.
       We walk to the restaurant; it's not far and the evening's warm. As we round the corner, he puts his arm around my waist.
       "Don't you start ogling Rad tonight."
       "Of course not!"
       He's jealous that Radcliffe had the motivation to stick to the ambitious weightlifting program the two agreed on in January.
       "Jez! Mate!"
       I hear Radcliffe before I see him.
       "And Claire, how are you?"
       "Hi, fine," I smile. My eyes skate quickly over Radcliffe and onto his new girlfriend. "Hello... " For a horrible moment, I can't remember her name. We've only met a couple of times. "Tessie! Hello, Tessie."
       The table is laid for five. I ignore the chair near Radcliffe and slide into the next one, beside a man with rough, sandy hair and glasses.
       "Tessie invited my brother along." Radcliffe waves his hand vaguely. "Owen."
       "Hi."
       Owen's smile is friendly, so I nod nervously and look at the menu.
       Brothers? They're not alike at all. Owen's never been around before. He doesn't look like the friends Radcliffe usually hangs out with. He looks... well, the word that comes to mind is 'nerdy.'
       "Claire? Claire?"
       "Oh, er, white wine, please."
       Our starters arrive and, while the waiter is setting them down, Radcliffe leans across.
       "Owen, why don't you tell Claire what you're working on?"
       He drops back into his own conversation, and I turn to Owen. His eyes are expressionless.
       "I'm writing a tool to model the performance of quantitative algorithms for hedge funds."
       "That sounds interesting," I say automatically.
       He grins. "It is, to me. But not to most people. What do you do?"
       "Oh, I'm just a teaching assistant."
       "That's cool. What's happened in school recently that got the kids really excited?"
       "Oh. I. Er..."
       Conversations run on rails. No one has ever asked that question before. I stare at the restaurant's fancy lampshades while I wonder how to answer.
       "This morning, a few of the kids were really acting up. And the teacher - who's usually pretty patient - completely lost it and yelled at the class. The children were a bit stunned and were just sitting there in total silence when the class guinea pig farted, like, really loudly. I don't think I've ever seen a bunch of kids laugh that hard; it basically took out the rest of the morning. And, oh God, you probably meant like a really interesting science experiment or a great learning opportunity, and instead, I've just told you this weird story."
       I look back at Owen and am surprised to see he's laughing.
       "Did the teacher find it funny?"
       "I thought for a second she was going to explode, but, in the end, she got the giggles pretty badly as well."
       "Which kid in your class do you reckon you'll remember in ten years' time?"
       "Oh, no question, it'll be Malcolm..."

       As we're getting ready for bed, he asks whether I had a nice evening.
       "Yes, thanks. You?"
       "Sorry, you got stuck talking to Rad's geeky brother."
       "It's okay; I didn't mind. Did you enjoy yourself?"
       "What did you talk about?"
       "Work, mostly."
       "I bet he just went on about his computer stuff."
       "Not really, he asked about school. Like which kid, I'd remember in ten years."
       "Jesus, what a weird question. He was only there because Tessie felt sorry for him."
       He puts his arms round me and pulls me over to the bed.
       Afterwards, he falls asleep like he always does, as simply as sitting down. I follow quickly into his dreams.

       Jeremy's running down a muddy field, punting a ball as he goes. Someone's running alongside him, jostling to get the ball. Jeremy gives it a final kick, and it sails towards the makeshift goal, smacking a skinny, blonde kid in the face.
       The skinny kid crumples up, crying, while jubilant shouts of 'goal' echo round the field.
       Jeremy and - surely - Radcliffe whoop and scamper off, and for once, I don't follow. I walk over to the kid whimpering on the ground as he tries to wipe mud off his glasses.
       "It's okay, Owen, it'll be okay." He looks up, still muddy and tear-stained, but now adult.
       "It'll never be okay."
       I kneel beside him, put my arm around his shoulders.
       "Sure, it will."
       The mud is gritty against my lips as I kiss his cheek.
       We're sitting on a train, Owen and I, when I start to feel the weight pressing down on me, crushing me back into wakefulness. I open my eyes, resentful, to check how far I've made it through the expanse of the night.

       I can't see the yellow glow of his alarm clock. The room is very light. And the wrong shape. The wall has moved. And changed colour. The man next to me rolls over: it's Owen.
       I catapult out of bed, dashing for the door. I don't even think to move quietly.
       Looking out the front window, it's a totally unfamiliar street. I don't know where I am. The clock in the hall says 4:15. And I'm naked.
       There's a drying rack with clothes in the bathroom. I pull on tracksuit bottoms and a long-sleeved shirt. They don't fit me, they're not even close, but they're better than nothing. Owen's shoes are useless. I grab the thickest socks I can see, shrug into a fleece, rifle as much cash as possible from Owen's wallet, and let myself out. The door is hard to close. I try for a while to shut it silently; then I realise I don't have time for that.
       I run down the road.
       As soon as I get to the corner, I see familiar shops. I'm not that far away; I can walk it in forty-five minutes - even without shoes. The morning air is a cool, quiet grey. I wrap my arms around myself and walk determinedly towards home.
       It's probably not even half five yet; he will still be asleep. If I can just get in the house and hide these clothes, he will never know. Only as I reach the front steps do I realise that I don't have my keys.
       I squeeze between the gate and the hedge, shoving the thick, prickly branches away from my face and hearing the acrylic rasp of fleece over the rough wooden post. Damp soil clumps on my borrowed socks, and my hair snags painfully on something. I yank it free and run down the side of the house. Through tears, I see windows open, but they're all upstairs. Could I break the glass downstairs somewhere? Make it look like a break-in?
       I lean on the doorhandle, but of course, it's locked. The door is old, the frosted pane cracked and loose in its frame. The peeling paint crackles against my cheek when I try to peer through the keyhole. A blurry shape blocks my view - the key is in the other side of the lock. I snap a thin twig off a dead plant and stick it into the lock, poking around to nudge the key. The twig splinters, and the key slips and twists away from me. I jab again, grab a new twig, hear myself sob as it, too, breaks and jams in the lock. Again, and again... suddenly something gives, and I hear the key fall onto the doormat.
       I reach through the cat flap, illicitly installed by a previous tenant for some long-gone pet, grab the key, and let myself in.
       I run upstairs, yanking the clothes off and ramming them in a bundle behind the hot water tank.
       He's still asleep and doesn't stir as I slide back into bed. I lie, rigid, breathing carefully until I'm certain that he is definitely asleep. It's after six.
       And then I begin to shake.

       When he gets up, I get up. I mechanically make toast, have a shower, go to work. I come home, cook dinner, watch TV. It isn't until I'm lying in bed again that I can bear to think about what happened.
       I slipped into his dream, the way I always do to get through the night. But I passed on somewhere else - into the dream of a man I've barely met. And I woke up in a strange bed in another part of town. What if Owen had caught me? What if I had been in a different city, a different country, with no clothes or shoes or money. Or passport?
       The stifling thought of being stranded, caught in another bed, presses on me. But I feel the tiniest glimmer of excitement: I could slide into a dream and come out anywhere.
       Could I have dropped back into Owen's dreams, and walked from one mind to the next, all the way across the world?
       If I could, I would spend the rest of my life, peaceful, in that liminal space. I could live, ethereal, walking the sleeping minds of others forever.
       I could step into his dreams right now and just drift away.
       I snatch myself back. It's a romantic notion, but sooner or later, everyone wakes up. Eventually, an alarm will sound, and I will be pinned back to reality in a stranger's bed. And then what? Screaming, violence, the police. Me, back here, trying to explain to him what happened.
       I could be free.
       He would be furious.
       How can I try it?
       I'll be caught.
       How...
       The muscles in my neck are tight like cords, my teeth clenched, my knuckles digging into my thighs.
       This is how I used to spend my nights. Every night. Every hour, every minute. Staring into the darkness with hot eyes, thoughts spinning on a nail.
       Until I discovered I could cling to his dreams.
       He saved me. No wonder.
       Slowly, I relax until I can join him. I'll stay close.

       I do stay close. I stay with Jeremy until he jerks awake with the radio in the morning. We get up.
       We go to bed. I follow Jeremy through his dreams. When he dreams of others, I don't look at them. I try to hold his hand. Sometimes he lets me. Sometimes he bats me away, or my grip dissolves, and I am left holding empty space. Or worse.
       The alarm sounds.
       After work, after dinner, I stare at the TV.
       "...probably too late now, though, isn't it? Claire?"
       "Huh?"
       "You haven't been listening to me at all, have you?"
       "Sorry, I'm just tired."
       "I'm not surprised; you're always up at weird hours. You just need to go to sleep earlier."
       "I never sleep. Not anymore. You know that."
       "You must do. You've just got that disorder where people think they lie awake all the time."
       "I don't sleep. Ever."
       He shakes his head, smiles to himself, and picks up his phone.
       I hate arguing. I hate the shouting. Usually, I am the one trying to smooth the situation, calm things down. But his expression riles me in a way I haven't felt in months.
       "I lie awake all night, every night."
       "Whatever you say, Claire."
       He doesn't look up, and he keeps that smug smile to be sure it's clear he doesn't mean it.
       Anger starts to spin inside me. I want to scream, to slap away his phone, to shake him until he listens. Until he takes me seriously. Instead, I grit my teeth, knowing none of those things will help.
       I breathe. I count to ten.
       "Next time you see me asleep, take a photo. Then I'll know it's just my imagination."
       "Whatever."
       I turn the light off when I go to bed and, when he comes in, I see the red flash of the camera's sensor.
       "I'm not asleep."
       "So you keep saying."
       I whisper it again, in the night, when he wakes up and reaches for his phone. And again, when he turns to look at me just before the alarm goes off.
       I can feel him getting angrier.

       At school, with the kids all cooped up indoors over a wet lunchtime, one of the youngest is curled up alone in the reading corner. She's holding a book, although it's upside down and her eyes are closed. I sit down next to her and try to relax.
       It's easy, easier than I could have imagined, to push into her dreams. She's somewhere hot and dark, and a childish voice sings over and over, "it's your turn, Amy, it's your turn." I struggle quickly back to the schoolroom.
       "It's okay, Amy," I say, putting a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay."
       There is, after all, nothing special about him.

       I lie on the sofa at home, trying to concentrate on what to do.
       "Claire!" The sound echoes from upstairs. "What the fuck is this?"
       There's a rising note in his voice that makes every one of my muscles tighten at once. Where is he? It sounds like the bathroom.
       Clothes. Shit. Owen's clothes. I forgot about them. How do I explain a set of men's clothes rammed behind the water tank? Has he ever looked there before? What if I say they must be from the previous tenant?
       "Claire?"
       His voice is getting louder. We did meet the previous tenant ages ago. Was he tall, like Owen? I've found really odd stuff left in rented houses--a burnt drumkit, once, in an attic. Clothes behind the water tank wouldn't even be all that strange.
       "Claire!"
       His face is red, and his eyes are narrowed mean.
       "Did you not hear me shouting?"
       "Yes, I..."
       "Why didn't you come up?"
       "I was going to, I..."
       "I shouted for you ages ago."
       Once, I would have been up there like a shot, desperate to make right whatever was wrong. Now I'm tired, and it feels like too much effort. Everything feels like too much effort.
       He looms, bulky, over the sofa. When I don't react, he seems lost.
       "Are you okay?" His voice is uncertain, the unfamiliar route of the conversation unsettling him. He doesn't wait for an answer, remembering his purpose.
       "What's going on in the bathroom?"
       I have no idea what he means.
       "The bath's run, it's cold, there's towels in the water, there's that pink stuff all over the floor. It's a complete mess."
       Was I running a bath? I push past him. Did I leave the towels balanced on the edge? The lid of my damask rose bath oil sits on the windowsill, but the bottle is tipped over at the other end of the room. I start to wipe it up with a flannel.
       "Claire?"
       "I guess I ran it when I got in from work and forgot."
       "It's Saturday. You weren't at work."
       The scent of roses fills the air around me, thick and dizzying. The last thing I remember is waking Amy up. Was that yesterday?
       "What are you playing at? You're like a fucking zombie."
       "So would you be if you hadn't slept in a year."
       "Will you drop that shit!"
       "Got that photo yet?" I stare at him, bath oil soaking into my socks.
       He mutters something as he stalks out. Which means 'no.'
       Someone - was it me? - has filled the fridge with groceries. I make dinner. When I hand him a plate, he looks at it as if it might bite. I don't think he eats much. I don't think I do.
       He puts his coat on.
       "I'm going out."
       I nod and hear the front door slam. He comes back stinking of whisky and slumps on the sofa.
       I drift in my own rose-scented cloud and get dressed. Jeans, boots, a jacket with pockets. My wallet has cash in it, and I pick up a couple of treasures.
       I sit down next to him on the sofa.
       When he wakes, I'll be gone.