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“Robin? It’s Ilsa.”
“Hi, how are you?” Robin smiled to hear from her. She’d been curled up on her bed reading, debating whether to have an early night or watch a film, when her phone rang.
“Well, er,” Ilsa said. “I’m fine. We’re all fine. But we’re at the hospital.”
Robin sat up, her book falling from her lap. “What’s happened?”
“Corm got in a scrape,” Ilsa said. “He’s okay, an altercation with a guy he was tailing, they had a bit of a scuffle and ended up falling down a flight of stairs at the station. He’s all right,” Ilsa reassured her, hearing Robin’s gasp. “We got called because Nick is his emergency contact. But he’s possibly snapped a tendon in his wrist and he’s cracked some ribs.”
“Oh, no!” cried Robin.
“Anyway...” Ilsa went on. “They drugged him pretty hard, for the pain. Gave him enough to knock a horse out, Nick said. But he’s agitated and refusing to stay - you know how he hates hospitals - and now they’re talking about having to sedate him, which I know he’d hate.”
“God, yes,” Robin agreed.
“And... well, he’s asking for you. Repeatedly. Demanding to know where you are, why we won’t let him see you. I just wondered... could you come down? See if you can calm him down a bit?”
“Of course.” Robin was already scrambling off the bed, grabbing her shoes. “I’ll be right there. Which hospital?”
“King’s,” said Ilsa. “Thanks, Robin. See you soon.”
Robin quickly scribbled a note for Angela and left it propped against the kettle, grabbed her bag - and, just in case, every snack she could lay her hands on - and hurried down to where the Land Rover was parked on the street.
The evening roads were quiet and she was able to think a little as she drove, now she knew her way around London a little better. She wondered what on earth she was likely to be able to do to deal with Strike if he was agitated. He was twice her size.
She was soon pulling in to the car park opposite the hospital. She scowled at the exorbitant price she had to pay to park, but paid up anyway and hurried across the road to the entrance to A&E.
She approached the desk. “Hi, I’m Robin Ellacott...” she began, and a passing nurse stopped, and looked at her hair. Robin blinked. “You’re Robin?” the nurse said. “For Mr Strike? Cubicle three. He’s mentioned you once or twice,” she added ruefully.
Robin wasn’t sure whether to be amused or worried now. She went along the corridor towards the cubicles. She could hear Strike’s loud voice before she got to them, announcing his intention to leave, and Nick remonstrating with him to at least wait until the doctor had assessed his x-rays.
Strike was sat on a hospital bed that stood at right angles to the wall. He had no visible injuries, but his arm was bandaged and he looked more than usually scruffy. He appeared to be attempting to get out of bed, and Nick was trying to block him from doing so without actually holding him down. Robin imagined Strike wouldn’t take kindly to being restrained in his current state.
Ilsa saw Robin and beckoned her forward, relieved. “Corm, Robin’s here,” she called.
Strike looked around wildly, and Robin almost giggled then. His eyes were glassy as he gave her a huge grin. “Robin!” he cried.
She crossed to the side of the bed and he reached for her, uncharacteristically demonstrative, grabbing her hand. Nick stepped back, looking amused.
“Have you been getting into scrapes again?” Robin asked, fondly, and Strike sighed and leaned back on the pillows, still gripping her hand tightly, his eyes drifting closed.
“My own fault,” he said, his words slurring slightly. “Lost him in the crowds, then got too close without realising and he spotted me.” He opened his eyes and looked at her, slightly unfocused. “You’re here,” he said.
She smiled at him. “Yes,” she said.
“I told them,” he said. “I told them everything would be all right if you were here. And you have pretty hair,” he said, disjointedly.
Robin flushed a little and glanced at Ilsa, who nodded. “He did indeed say all of that. Very loudly. To anyone who would listen,” she said with a wink.
“‘S true,” Strike said. “You rescued the business. It was almost dead when you arrived. An’ again when you came back after I sacked you. I’m very sorry about that, Robin,” he said, suddenly earnest. “Very sorry.”
“I know. It’s okay.” Robin tried very gently to extract her hand but he clutched it tighter, so she gave up and sat down on the chair next to the bed.
“I’ll go and see if I can hurry things up a bit,” Nick said. “Not my patch, don’t want to tread on toes. But I’ll see if I can find a name I know.” He left in search of the doctor on duty.
Strike had closed his eyes again. Robin wondered if he was asleep, but the grip on her hand wasn’t lessening at all. Ilsa shook her head in wonder. “This is the quietest he’s been for hours,” she said. “He was cross and in a lot of pain earlier, so they gave him a huge dose of something, and that just made him confused and disoriented. And then he started demanding to see you and getting worked up.”
“Glad I can help,” Robin said softly.
Strike suddenly opened his eyes. “An’ you don’t tell me what to do,” he said, scowling around as though the room were full of people doing just that.
“No,” Robin said. He closed his eyes again.
There was a long pause. Robin found herself stroking the back of Strike’s knuckles gently with the thumb of the hand he was holding. His hand was huge, engulfing hers. His grip relaxed infinitesimally. Ilsa sighed and rubbed a hand over her face. She looked tired.
Presently Nick returned. “Right,” he said. “Good news is, he hasn’t snapped the tendon in his wrist, so that support bandage they’ve put on will do for now, it’ll probably swell so they don’t want it too tight. The ribs are cracked, but he just needs to rest.”
He turned to Ilsa. “They want him monitored, but I’ve done some negotiating. They’re not prepared to keep him here without sedation, but they’ll release him to me because I can do the meds and check on his breathing and so on. There’s a tiny chance he could get fluid on his lung but they’re pretty sure he’s not punctured it. So...”
“So we can take him home,” Ilsa said. “Wonderful news. He’ll be easier once we get him out of here.” She glanced at Robin. “Could you come and help get him settled?” she asked.
“Of course,” Robin said at once.
Ilsa went ahead in the Herberts’ car to prepare the spare room for the patient, and Nick and Robin loaded Strike into the Land Rover, a task not without incident as it took two of them to keep him focused on the task of walking to the car. He was more interested in telling anyone they passed that everything was okay now because Robin was here and she had pretty hair. But he was quite biddable as long as Robin was telling him what to do. It reminded her of the night he’d got so very drunk in the Tottenham so long ago, when she’d barely known him.
They managed to get him into the passenger seat, and Nick scrambled into the back. Robin got behind the wheel. Strike leaned on the side of the vehicle next to the door.
He seemed to sleep for most of the journey, lulled by the Land Rover’s familiar rattle. “You’re a miracle worker,” Nick said quietly to Robin, marvelling at how quiet Strike was now.
Robin shook her head. “Funny how the drugged brain gets stuck on one idea,” she said lightly. Nick looked sideways at her but said nothing.
Ilsa greeted them at the door as they negotiated Strike into the house. He baulked when he realised he wasn’t being taken home, but Robin talked him over the threshold.
“Let’s get him straight upstairs,” Nick said. “We’ll never shift him if he falls asleep on the sofa, and he needs proper support for those ribs.”
“Need to pee,” Strike announced as they reached the landing. Robin laughed. “That is most definitely your department, Nick,” she said, firmly.
Strike straightened up with exaggerated dignity. “I can manage,” he said. Then he grabbed her hand, anxious again. “Don’t leave,” he said.
“I won’t leave, I promise. But I’m not coming into the bathroom with you,” she said, grinning.
In the end Robin had to wait outside the bathroom door while Ilsa went downstairs to make cups of tea. Nick busied about making sure he had stethoscope, thermometer and the drugs to hand.
“Right, Oggy, into bed with you,” Nick said when Strike emerged, wobbly but upright. Robin waited on the landing again while Nick organised getting Strike down to his boxers and T-shirt and settled in the bed. Strike refused to get into bed until he’d been reassured Robin was still present, but then submitted to Nick taking his temperature and listening to his chest.
Ilsa brought cups of tea up and Robin went to sit next to Strike on the bed. “I’ll just stay till you’re asleep,” she said softly, stroking his hair. She wasn’t sure what had made her do that suddenly - just that he looked like a little boy, tucked up in bed. But once she’d started touching it, she couldn’t stop, fascinated by how soft it was.
“You’re staying,” Strike said firmly, his eyes closed now. “You promised.”
“I just meant...” Robin began, and he opened his eyes and started trying to sit up, drawing a sharp breath of pain as he did so.
“Okay, okay, I’m staying,” Robin capitulated, and he sank back down onto the pillows. She glanced helplessly at Ilsa, who shrugged. “You’re very welcome,” she said.
“Staying here, with me,” Strike mumbled, half asleep now. “It’s okay because you’re here.”
Ilsa smiled at Robin. “I’ll find you a toothbrush,” she said. “Need to borrow anything to wear?”
Robin glanced down at her leggings and T-shirt that she’d changed into after work. “These’ll do, thanks,” she said. In the bathroom she quickly brushed her teeth and slipped out of her bra, stuffing it in her handbag next to the forgotten snacks. She could hear Strike already demanding to know where she was and Ilsa trying to explain.
“I’m here, Cormoran,” she called softly as she came back into the room, and he settled again, reaching for her hand.
“C’mere,” he said, pushing the covers aside and pulling her towards him. Robin stopped.
“Cormoran...” she began, but Ilsa giggled. “I don’t think you’re getting a choice,” she said, and Robin laughed a little too, resigned, and climbed gingerly into the bed next to him. Strike fell asleep almost immediately, the familiar rumble of his snores that she was used to hearing from the sofa in the office or his flat overhead filling the room, his hand still holding hers tightly.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Ilsa said softly. “We’re just across the hall.” Robin was surprised to realise how late it was, how tired she was. Hospitals eat time, she thought.
Exhausted, she slept for a couple of hours, until Strike became restless next to her, shifting in his sleep and groaning. She sat up. His breathing was rough.
“Cormoran, are you all right?” she whispered, her hand on his shoulder.
He grunted. “Fucking hurts,” he said. “My arm, my ribs. Hurts to breathe.” He frowned at her in the dim room, lit only by a street lamp beyond the curtain. “What are you doing here?” Then he glanced around. “Where are we?”
“Nick and Ilsa’s,” she said. Just then she heard an alarm go off across the hall, and a few moments later a sleepy Nick stumbled in, stethoscope in hand.
“How are you doing, mate?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep. “Check-up and more meds.” Robin sat quietly while Nick checked Strike’s temperature and listened to his chest again, then produced a syringe.
“This has to go in your backside, you know the drill,” he said. Strike grunted and rolled onto his side a little, cursing at the pain in his ribs, and Robin studiously looked away as Nick pulled Strike’s waistband down just enough and expertly jabbed him with the needle.
“Takes a few minutes,” he said to Robin. “Shout me if he needs anything.” Robin nodded and Nick went back to bed, yawning.
Robin settled back down next to Strike and listened to his laboured breathing. She knew his lungs were clear because Nick had just checked, so this must be pain. “I’m sorry it hurts so much,” she whispered, but Strike just grunted again.
She drew closer, wishing she could help in some way, but careful not to touch him and make his pain any worse. She waited quietly in the darkness, and presently his breathing began to ease and she knew the medicine was working.
“Robin?” he said suddenly.
“I’m here,” she said softly.
He nodded, his eyes closed. “Stay,” he whispered.
Robin propped herself up on her elbow and gazed down at him, her heart tender. “Of course,” she said, stroking his hair again.
He opened his eyes and looked up at her. “You have pretty hair,” he said. She smiled. “So you said,” she answered.
His eyes were a little glassy but they regarded her steadily. “You’re a good friend,” he said.
She smiled again. “Thank you,” she said. “So are you. We’re a pretty good team.”
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Partners.”
“Yup,” she said, her fingers still in his hair.
“An’ one day we’ll be proper partners,” he said, woozy now, his eyes drifting closed.
She frowned, puzzled. “We are proper partners,” she said.
He waved a hand vaguely. “No, you know,” he said. “Gonna ask you out. One day. But it’s too soon.”
Robin’s hand stilled. Her mouth had gone dry. “What?” she whispered.
“Too soon,” he mumbled. “Don’t want to rush you. I can wait. Been waiting.” His eyes were still closed.
Robin stared at him, her mind racing. “For how long?” she managed, eventually. You’re taking advantage, questioning him when he’s this out of it, she told herself.
He considered for a long minute. “Barrow,” he said finally, and Robin gasped softly. Barrow. So long ago.
He opened his eyes again and looked up at her. “You’re so pretty,” he said, reaching up a hand to stroke her hair. “An’ smart. An’ brave.” Tears filled Robin’s eyes now. Barrow.
Then he was gently pulling her head down to his. She was powerless to resist. He kissed her lightly, tenderly.
I shouldn’t be doing this, Robin thought. I’m not sure he’ll remember any of this tomorrow. But his lips were so soft yet insistent, his tongue coming forward to meet hers. She found her mouth opening over his as she deepened the kiss, tongues sliding. She shivered at the feel of him, gently exploring with her tongue and lips, kissing and kissing him. Desire coiled deep within her. Eventually, reluctantly, she pulled back. He gazed up at her, unfocused, and her heart melted.
“Go to sleep now, Cormoran,” she whispered. He nodded obediently and closed his eyes. Soon he was snoring again, and Robin lay down next to him in the dark, her heart fluttering, thinking.
...
Morning light was flooding the bedroom when Ilsa knocked and entered with two steaming mugs of tea next day. Robin woke and blinked, confused for a moment, then flushed as she remembered last night’s revelation. Had he meant it, or was it just drugged ramblings? She sat up, thanking Ilsa softly for the tea. Ilsa glanced at her coloured cheeks curiously but said nothing.
Next to Robin, Strike woke and groaned in pain. Robin could almost see the memories of yesterday come back to him, the accident, the hospital.
“You must be hungry,” Ilsa said. “Nick’s doing a fry-up. He said to tell you you’re down to co-codamol from now on, any time after nine.” She smiled and headed back downstairs.
Swearing at the pain, Strike dragged himself into a sitting position, settled his back against the wall and carefully, slowly picked up his tea. He looked at Robin, a little shamefaced. “Yesterday’s a bit of a blur,” he said. “But you’re here, so I guess I didn’t dream all of it. Did I really beg you to stay?”
She giggled. “Yeah, you were quite insistent,” she said. He sighed. “Sorry,” he said, ruefully. “But thank you for staying. I’d got it into my head that they were all trying to decide what was best for me and nobody was listening.”
Robin nodded. She knew that feeling only too well. She supposed Strike must have endured it a lot, too, after losing his leg.
There was a pause. Then Strike asked, a little startled, “Did I tell the whole hospital you have pretty hair?” She nodded again, grinning, and he grimaced. “Sorry, Robin,” he said again. “I was high as a kite, talking rubbish. Though, for the record, I do like your hair,” he added.
She smiled softly. “Thank you,” she said.
She waited, watching him sip his tea, and then he suddenly flushed red and she grinned wickedly. There it was.
He glanced at her, caught her expression and went redder. He said nothing, just looked at her, uncertain.
She put him put him out of his misery. “Barrow?” she asked gently. He dropped his gaze back to his mug, quiet.
“Yeah,” he said finally, roughly. “Maybe even before that.”
Robin reached out and took his mug from him and put it on the bedside table. She put a gentle hand under his chin, tilting his face up, making eye contact.
“It’s not too soon,” she whispered, and kissed him.