Chapter 11

Simon came around a few minutes later and hauled his lifeless body slowly onto a chair at the kitchen table. He rested his head in his hands, his elbows pressing hard into the surface of the kitchen table. Nothing made sense. Nothing! The vague memories and snatches of one-sided conversation were floating around his head but he couldn't find any sort of logical order to them.

He knew for sure he would never, ever cheat on Robin, no matter how intoxicated he might have been. But that didn't explain the situation he'd woken up in or the note left for him by the man he loved.

"None of this makes sense," he whispered. Slowly he got to his feet and made his way to the phone, which he swiped and sat back down. Rubbing his temples with one hand, he jabbed at the phone with his other and dialled Robin's mobile number. He wasn't surprised when it went straight to voicemail. He took a deep breath and tried to work out what on earth to say.

"Robin," he was surprised by how weak and broken his voice sounded as he spoke, "I don't even know what to say to you right now, except… whatever you're thinking… whatever you thought you saw… it's not what you think." He flinched at the clichéd phrase. "The truth is, I don't know what happened last night, but I know I didn't cheat on you. I wouldn't. I have too much to lose. You're…" he tried to find a term or phrase strong enough to describe how he felt about Robin but struggled to put it into words. "You mean more to me than a stupid voice mail is going to get across. " he swallowed hard. "I've been set up, Robin. I don't know how and I don't know why b-but I think I know… by who… even though it seems… ridiculous." He could feel a flashback on the edge of his memory and fought to keep it away while he left his message. "Please don't throw everything away over this, Robin. I need you." he paused. "I love you." he paused again. "Please call me."

As he hung up, the memory burst forth from his subconscious, the feeling of two strong hands gripping his shoulders and laying him down. He remembered trying to fight it but his body wasn't working. His limbs had given up and his mind was giving in to darkness.

He flinched hard, rubbed his eyes to dispel the memory and picked up the phone again. Hitting number six on speed dial, he waited for his call to be answered. When someone picked up, he didn't even wait to hear a voice before he said urgently,

"Is Robin there? I need to speak to Robin."

There was a moment of hesitation on the line before a female voice came on.

"Uh… who's calling please?"

"It's Simon…" Simon began, "Uh, DCI Shoebury."

"Oh," the voice sounded strained.

Simon bit his lip.

"Something the matter?"

"Well… no, Sir," the woman began, "except… Robin told me that if you called I was to tell you that cheating scum like you could take your iPhone and jam it up your…"

"Yes, thank you," Simon interrupted, flinching at the thought. He took a deep breath and sighed. "Can you at least give him a message from me?"

"I can't promise he'll listen, Sir," the voice said apologetically.

"Just… just tell him to check his messages," Simon said quietly, " I said everything there."

"I don't know if he can," said the voice, "I think he had plans for sticking his own phone up your…"

"OK, OK, I get the message, I'm noticing the theme here," Simon sighed. He paused. "Thank you," he said quietly and hung up again.

The memories were starting to flood back now, in random orders that only served to confuse and distress him further. He remembered crashing onto the bed as someone drew the curtains to 'block out the brightness so you can get some sleep' but only served to mask the features of the stranger. He remembered the first cup of black coffee being thrust upon him, the bitter taste making him gag but listening like a fool when he was told it would help to clear his head.

The face came back to him again, the smirk, the raising of the eyebrow, one hand reaching forward and cupping his head as the room swam.

"No!" he cried out loud, unsure whether his cry was just in response to the memory or whether he had cried out at the time as well.

The ringing of the phone made him jump and gasp, shaking away the unfathomable memories. He took a deep breath and tried to compose himself before answering the call, praying with every fibre of his body that Robin would be on the end of the line.

"H-hello?" he began quietly.

"Sir?"

Simon frowned.

"Sally?"

"Sir, the Super is going crazy," his DI's voice came over the line, "you had an appointment to see him this morning. To discuss your progress and how you were coping, being back."

Simon closed his eyes and cursed inwardly. He hadn't even thought about work. He squinted at the clock, his vision still not 100% and saw it was nearing eleven.

"Sally, I need you to cover for me," he began, I'm… I'm not feeling well, I just need some time to…"

"Sir…"

"…get myself together and…"

"Simon…"

Simon stopped talking.

"Yes?"

"It's all round the station," Sally said quietly.

Simon swallowed.

"What is?"

"About you… last night," Sally began apologetically, "turning up, looking for Robin… drunk… shouting… Sir, I don't think the Super is going to be very happy if you don't show up as soon as is humanly possible."

Simon took a deep breath.

"What do you mean it's all round the station?" he whispered.

"Everyone is talking about it," Sally said quietly, "they're all saying you came back too soon… they think you need more treatment."

Simon clenched his fist.

"And what does the Super think?" he asked through gritted teeth.

He heard sally sigh on the line.

"The Super thinks you need to spend more time with your friends and family," she said sadly.

Simon felt involuntary tears pricking his eyes.

"I can't lose my job and my boyfriend in one day," he hissed, shaking from head to toe.

"Just get here," Sally urged him, "damage limitation. Get in, do some fast talking - you can get out of this, I know you can."

Simon felt a tear roll down his cheek. He didn't have her faith, that was for certain.

"Bye, Sally," he whispered and hung up before she could reply. For a few moments he stared at the phone in his hands, unsure what to do for the best. He just wanted to die; to slip into darkness and never wake up.

His mouth felt dry and his throat raw. Slowly, he got to his feet, slouched across to the sink and filled a glass with water which he downed quickly. It helped to take the edge off of his thirst but did little to calm the trauma he was going through inside.

As he placed the glass down beside the sink his attention was caught by two tea spoons. He wasn't sure what made him reach out and pick them up but something seemed amiss. On closer inspection he noticed a white, powdery residue covering the back of one spoon and the front of the other, as though something had been ground to a powder between them. He chewed on his lip and felt his heart beginning to pound. The coffees - the damn black coffees. He touched the spoon with his finger and a tiny amount of powder came away.

"This sure as hell isn't sugar," he murmured to himself.

The realisation settled upon him like a dark cloud over his spirit. The drink wasn't the only thing that had knocked him out the previous night. Whatever Keats had given to him it was enough to knock him out for hours on end. Recovering the memories of what happened in the meanwhile - now that was something that scared him to the core.