The Phantom Ritual (DCI Morgan Chester: Case One)

Chapter Twenty-One

Toby Charles woke with a startle. The room was spinning around him. A dull throb in his forehead grew as he lifted his head from the pillow; he eased it slowly back, hoping to ease the pain. Sweat had caused strands of his raven coloured hair to stick to his forehead.

He dreaded the state of the kitchen he and his flatmates had left it in. Someone ordered pizza last night, he remembered. If there were leftovers, that could be his breakfast and soak up the alcohol running through his system. He had not drunk that much since his first year at university. It was not a regular occurrence. A blow-out every once in a while was good for him. It allowed him to let go of his emotions. Deep down, he was still grieving for the friend he lost.

Feeling nausea rising snapped him back into reality; he was going to be sick. He sat up in his bed and closed his eyes tight, which made it worse. It felt as though his stomach had dropped suddenly, and bile quickly climbed up his throat. He launched his body from the bed and across the tiny bedroom for the white oval bin by his desk.

Knuckles tapped against his door. He coughed and told the person to leave him alone. They did not listen, and the door creaked open.

"It's only me, mate. Bloody hell, you look like you have been dug up." His flatmate Scott chuckled.

"What do you want, Scott?" he groaned in pain.

"You slept through your alarm. Best get dressed and some food down you."

Toby's eyes widened. "Shit, what time is it?" he hiccuped as he reached for the phone he discarded by his bed.

He cursed and jumped up from the floor. He had twenty minutes to start his shift.

"I will have a coffee ready for you in the kitchen," Scott told him and closed the door behind him as Toby frantically pulled a clean tracksuit and pair of boxers from the wardrobe.

Thankfully, he made it to work on time as Scott paid for his Uber fare. But it did not stop the stares from his colleagues when they saw his awful complexion.

The hangover gradually got worse despite fueling himself with water and painkillers. His shift was tedious, and the ward he was stationed on went into a panic during his lunch break. One of the patients was violently murdered. The afternoon was spent calming patients and their visitors as the police did their work.

He saw the female detective storm out of the waiting room, and the dead girl's partner curled in a corner crying. When the body was removed from the ward, his gaze connected with hers. She had a menacing glint in her eyes.

Four o'clock quickly came, and he was relieved to stop for another well-deserved break. The staff room was quiet for a change. He placed himself in the armchair in the furthest corner of the room. His hooded jumper was folded and placed between his head and the back of the chair. Sleep quickly took over his heavy body, and his mind drifted to the nightmare that kept recurring. The night he had the argument with Emma, the last time he saw her alive.

*

He entered the hallway of the dorms with the letter crumpled in his palm. Betrayal coursed through his veins like lava. He had to restrain himself from punching his fist through a wall.

Music flowed from her room. He could smell her sweet perfume; she always put on too much. She left her door unlocked as usual. He knocked gingerly and slowly opened the door. She caught him in the vanity mirror on her desk, screamed in terror and covered herself in a dressing gown that draped lazily over her small single bed.

"He made you do this, didn't he?" he accused and threw the letter onto the floor. "What have I done to make you hate me so much that you had to get a restraining order against me?"