That last brandy might have been a mistake. He could still taste it. He didn’t like brandy, and he’d had a hell of a lot of Doom Bar with Nick in the pub.
It was a mighty effort to walk in these high winds. His glow of well-being was wearing off, but he definitely didn’t feel sick, even after all that beef casserole and a sizable bit of cheesecake, though he didn’t really want to think about them, nor about the forty or so cigarettes he’d consumed in the past twenty-four hours, nor about the brandy he could still taste.
Without warning, his stomach contracted. Strike staggered to a gap between two cars, bent double and vomited as copiously as he’d done at Christmas, over and over, for several minutes, until he was standing with his hands on his knees, still heaving, but bringing nothing else up.
Sweaty-faced, he stood up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, pistons banging in his head. It was several seconds before he became aware of the pale figure standing watching him, its fair hair blowing wildly in the wind.
“Wh—? Oh,” he said, as Robin came into focus. “It’s you.”
It occurred to him that she might have followed him to bring his forgotten cigarettes and looked hopefully at her hands, but they were empty. Strike moved away from the puddle of vomit in the gutter and leaned up against another parked car.
“I was in the pub with Nick all afternoon,” he said thickly, under the impression that Robin might be concerned about him.
Something hard was pressing into his buttock. Now he realized that he did have his cigarettes on him, after all, and he was glad of this, because he’d rather taste tobacco than vomit. He tugged the pack out of his back pocket and, after a few false starts, managed to light up.
At last, it penetrated his consciousness that Robin’s demeanor was unusual. Focusing on her face, he registered it as white and oddly pinched.
“What?”
“‘What?’” she repeated. “Fucking ‘what?’”
Robin swore far less often than Strike did. The damp night air, which felt icy on Strike’s sweaty face, was rapidly sobering him up. Robin appeared to be angry: angrier, in fact, than he’d ever seen her. But drink was still slowing his reactions, and nothing better occurred to him than to repeat,
“What?”
“You arrive late,” she said, “because of course you do, because when have you ever shown me the common fucking courtesy of turning up on time—”
“Wha—?” said Strike again, this time less because he was looking for information than in disbelief. She was the unique woman in his life who’d never tried to change him. This wasn’t the Robin he knew.
“You arrive rat-arsed, because of course you do, because what do I matter? It’s only Robin who’ll be embarrassed, and my flatmate, and my fam—”
“He wasn’t bothered,” Strike managed to say. His memories of the evening weren’t particularly distinct, but he was sure of that, at least: Max hadn’t minded him being drunk. Max had given him more booze. Max had laughed at a joke he’d made, which he couldn’t now remember. He liked Max.
“And then you launch an attack on my guests. And then,” said Robin, “you lay me open to having something I wanted to keep priv—to keep—”
Her eyes were suddenly wet, her fists clenched, her body rigid.
“—to keep private bandied about in a fucking argument, in front of strangers. Did it once occur—”
“Hang on,” said Strike, “I never—”
“—once occur to you that I might not want rape discussed, in front of people I barely know?”
“I never—”
“Why were you asking me whether I think SlutWalks are a good idea?”
“Well, obv’sly b’cause—”
“Did we need to talk about child rape over dinner?”
“I was making a p—”
“And then you walk out, and leave me to—”
“Well,” said Strike, “by the sounds of it, the sooner I left, the bett—”
“Better for you,” she said, advancing on him, her teeth bared: he’d never seen her like this before, “because you got to dump all your aggression at my house, then walk out and let me clean up your fucking mess, as per usual!”
“‘As per fucking usual?’” said Strike, eyebrows raised. “Wait a—”
“Now I’ve got to go back in there, and make it all right, soothe everyone’s feelings—”
“No, you haven’t,” Strike contradicted her. “Go to fucking bed if you—”
“It’s. What. I. DO!” shouted Robin, thumping herself hard on the sternum with each word. Shocked into silence, Strike stared at her. “Like I remember to say please and thank you to the secretary, when you don’t give a toss! Like I excuse your bad moods to other people when they get offended! Like I suck up a ton of shit on your behalf—”
“Whoa,” said Strike, pushing himself off the stationary car, and looking down at her from his full height. “Where’s all this—?”
“—and you can’t be fucking bothered, with all I do for you, to arrive sober for one dinner—”
“If you must know,” said Strike, temper rising anew from the ashes of his previous euphoria, “I was in the pub with Nick, who—”
“—whose wife just lost their baby! I know—and what the fuck was he doing in the pub with you, leaving her to—”
“She threw him out!” barked Strike. “Did she tell you that, during the Great Sisterhood Grievance Meeting? And I’m not going to apologize for wanting some fucking R&R after the week I’ve just had—”
“—whereas I don’t need R&R, do I? I haven’t forfeited half my annual leave—”
“How many times have I thanked you for covering for me when I’m in Corn—?”
“So what was with you being an arsehole to me this morning, when I was late for the first fucking time ever—”
“I’d had three and a half hours’ sleep—”
“You live over
