She had slept badly again. At first, she thought that it might be the wine or the late night dining, or it could just be that some of her old life in Whitechapel was trying to remind her that although she was no longer part of the old Whitechapel, those streets were still part of her. Meg sat up and after rearranging her pillows into a silken upturned ‘V’, she reached for the water jug on the side table, poured the contents into the large glass beside it and then drained it. The water was crisp and cold and as it travelled down her throat she felt the scar on her neck twitch. Meg tried to snuggle back down into the bedsheets but she was awake five minutes later. She stared at the ceiling, becoming angry and frustrated that sleep eluded her; and to add insult to injury, the jug was now empt
