‘I don’t know why I’m so – oh God.’
Unable to stop herself crying, she slumped forwards on the table, just as Danny de Leon had done earlier, face hidden in her arms, her hair falling into her plate of spaghetti. Her loyalty to Murphy mingled with her conflicted feelings about the text he’d just sent her, and she was battling a powerful urge to let out the things she hadn’t dared say to any other human being.
Strike could think of nothing to do except reach across the table and lay a large hand on her shoulder while she cried. He’d rarely been at such a loss, or so afraid of saying the wrong thing.
‘Did you… want it?’
‘No,’ said Robin, her voice halfway between a squeak and a moan. ‘It was a complete accident. I didn’t even know – until it was all – all over… oh God, I’m sorry…’
‘Stop apologising,’ said Strike. In his total ignorance of what might be involved in ectopic pregnancy, he said, ‘What… how long were you in hospital?’
‘Only a couple of nights,’ said Robin, raising her wet face, still trying to regain control. ‘It wasn’t a big – not a big deal. It’s just that it happened because… the rapist… when I was nineteen… he gave me an infection and that’s why I can’t… I don’t know why I’m doing this!’ she said a little hysterically, as more unquenchable tears fell, and she frantically wiped her face.
‘Does Murphy – Ryan—?’
‘He’s been great, but he really wants kids.’ Robin blew her nose on the kitchen roll, then took a deep breath. ‘I can’t fault him, he says he wants me, whether or not I can have them, and he’s been really kind since it happened…’
‘Good,’ Strike forced himself to say, although it was possibly the most insincere monosyllable that had ever passed his lips. ‘’Course,’ he added, ‘he’s not stupid. He knows he won’t ever find anyone like you again.’
‘Thank you,’ Robin mumbled, mopping her eyes with her left hand, but her right found Strike’s, and squeezed it.
‘And by the sounds of it,’ said Strike, ‘you could still – if you wanted—’
‘But I don’t know whether I do want kids,’ said Robin, and her relief at saying this to someone other than Murphy felt like taking off a tourniquet. ‘If I had a baby, I couldn’t do this any more. I’m sure there are women who could do both, but I don’t think I’m one of them. It isn’t that I don’t like kids, I can totally see why people want them and love having them, I get it, as much as you can when you haven’t done it yourself, but I love this so much. It wouldn’t be the same if I had children, I’d be more worried about taking risks, I’d feel guilty about the hours, it would mean divided loyalties, and I’m worried I’d resent them for having to give this up, or not being able to give it what I can give it now. Is that selfish?’ she asked, looking at Strike with tear-filled eyes.
‘Bloody hell, it’s the opposite of selfish,’ said Strike robustly. ‘If everyone thought properly about having kids before they did it, there’d be a lot fewer fucked-up people in the world.’
‘The doctors say I should freeze my eggs, and Ryan wants me to, he paints it as me having options… maybe I should,’ said Robin, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. ‘Maybe that’s the smart thing to do… it’s just all been forced on me, and finding out that that fucking rapist took the chance away from me…’
She wiped her eyes, noticed the cheese sauce on her hair, and wiped that off, too.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Strike again, at a loss as to what else to say.
‘It’s fine,’ said Robin, blowing her nose. ‘It was nothing, compared to what you went through.’
‘What, my leg? It’s different, not worse,’ said Strike. ‘Once you’ve been inside a military hospital, trust me, you count your bloody blessings. My amputation was below knee. That’s a whole different ball game to above the knee. I’m not paraplegic. Didn’t have my genitals blown off, I’ve still got my sight – just, after that bloody spray. I do fine.’ Afraid that it might be too soon for humour, he nevertheless added,
‘Obviously a blow, knowing I’ll never dance Swan Lake again.’
To his relief, Robin laughed.
‘D’you ever think about the person who planted the IED?’
‘Not much,’ said Strike. ‘He did what he thought he had to do. It wasn’t personal.’
‘I don’t s’pose it was personal with my rapist, either,’ said Robin.
‘That’s different,’ said Strike again.
Robin took a deep breath and said,
‘I’m really sorry I laid all this on you.’
‘What friends are for,’ said Strike.
But he’d never been in such a quandary as the one he now faced. Could he really tell her now, when she was reeling from a recent pregnancy loss, ‘Here’s something you might want to factor in when thinking about the future: I love you’?
‘Let’s just talk about the case,’ said Robin, withdrawing her hand from his. ‘Please.’
‘All right, but let’s eat first,’ said Strike.
So they ate, each consumed by their thoughts. Strike was furiously pondering what to do for the best, trying to examine the question from all sides. She’d just shared something deeply personal. Didn’t that open the door for him to do the same? They were alone together at last, in the most remote place they were ever likely to visit, where nobody else could reach them or interrupt. Wasn’t it madness to let this chance go? Yet he was afraid that by speaking now, when Robin was clearly already in a state of crisis, he’d transform himself, perhaps for ever, from friend and confidant into another source of pain and confusion.
Robin noticed Strike’s slight scowl, and wondered whether he was thinking her as chaotic and careless as she felt herself to be, for getting into such a mess, for slumping into her spaghetti and sobbing, and she had a sudden mental image of Kim Cochran, always neat and professional and cheerful, her personal life in perfect order. We’ve all made mistakes. Admittedly, I never married one of mine…
When both had finished their dinner, they moved at Robin’s suggestion into the sitting room next door, which had a beamed ceiling and a brick fireplace with a wood burner, Robin carrying the wine.
‘Fire?’ suggested Strike, because the room was chilly, and while that didn’t much bother him, he knew from experience it tended to bother women.
‘Great,’ said Robin, who’d already pulled a throw off the sofa to wrap around herself.
She looked around the low-ceilinged room, at the ship in a bottle and a china horse standing on the mantelpiece, at yet another seascape on the wall and the array of pamphlets advertising the attractions of Sark spread on a side table, and thought how much she’d have liked being here if not for that text of Murphy’s. She felt physically tired, but craved mental stimulation, and was conscious, too, of a desire to prove to Strike that she was still up to the job, no matter her personal problems.
‘So,’ she said, while Strike was busy with old newspapers and logs, ‘we’re back at the question of why Wright was killed in the vault, if it wasn’t a masonic double bluff.’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike, whose spirits had sagged at these words. She wanted to talk about work. Was this a deliberate closing of the door on any more personal conversation? Was she as aware as he was of the unusualness of this situation – the isolated house, the hundreds of miles between them and London – and seeking to restore relations to a professional footing? With reluctance, and a heaviness of heart, he reached the conclusion that bringing up his own feelings right now would be a mistake; possibly an irrecoverable one.