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Chapter 12

"Text Barclay. Say I want to see him. Now. Shit, what a mess." He was trying to sit up as Robin text, but Linda put her hand on his shoulder to keep him against the pillows. He just looked at her before settling back.

"Done. God his wife will be-"

"I know. Why did I tell him to bring the gun?"

"It's not your fault," she looked over at her mum for support, but didn't get any. It made her angry, she spoke to Linda more than to Strike, "If Barclay didn't have that gun they probably wouldn't've let me go. They only did when he threatened them with it," her phone buzzed. She smiled.

"What?"

"He says 'tell the fat bastard I'll be there at two.'"

oOo

Linda wanted to leave, he could tell, but Robin wanted to stay, Michael had left with Wardle. Strike wanted to know what had happened between being hung from the tree and waking up, especially before Barclay got here. He noticed Linda didn't want to talk or hear about it, but Robin held his hand the whole time, willing to tell him what he wanted to know.

"Once they pulled me away from you, dragged me down the hill... hit me," she saw the anger flash over his face. So did Linda. "I'm fine, really. Barclay turned up. He was cold as ice. I can't really remember what he said... but they let me go when he had the gun. He was talking to me... but all I could think was getting back to you. As soon as he saw you – hanging there – he ran, half lifted you up. I cut the rope with his knife."

"He lifted me up?"

"Well, maybe that's an exaggeration... once the rope was cut you fell on top of him so..." Strike laughed in response. "But then he gave you CPR. Gave you mouth to mouth," he just looked at her, "Three times, felt like forever. He was saying stuff... but not to me. Like he was talking to you. Then he said he thought he'd broken your rib. Then you breathed... he was out of breath, went to get Wardle. Then I didn't see him again. I didn't even notice he was gone."

"That's not your fault... there was a lot going on." Linda was looking at her daughter like she didn't really know who she was. She turned to Strike, but he was looking at Robin too.

"They intubated you... I wasn't there. Then there was blood, on your shirt. I don't know what they had done, they forced the tube... as soon as I shouted at them you opened your eyes. You held my hand. So tight. I was with you in the ambulance. I had them put me down as your next of kin... since Lucy isn't here."

"What?"

"Your next of kin. Just for now, until Lucy..."

"Why would you do that?"

"I wasn't going to let anyone else do it. You have my back... I have yours." Linda just watched as they stared at each other.

oOo

She was in the toilets, Linda crouched down beside her, trying to get a breath. The panic had come out of nowhere, the man in the corridor had just smiled at her. Then she was shaking. Her mum was talking to her, but she couldn't hear it. The rushing in her ears was deafening.

"Robin?! Robin? Breath. It's ok. It's ok. I'll get help..."

"No. No I'm fine. I'm..." but the rasping breath didn't let the words out.

"Robin..."

oOo

"So, how are we feeling?"

"Been better, definitely been worse. How's it looking?"

"Well, your windpipe is holding strong, breathing is fine, talking is getting stronger. Ribs are healing nicely – although you'll still have pain for a while," the doctor looked at him before he continued, "Leg will be fine... eventually. You'll need to keep off it for at least six weeks, maybe longer. Wheelchair..."

"Crutches..."

"Not in your state. No excess strain. Not on your neck muscles, ribs. Wheelchair. I'm sorry." It was the first sign of humility the doctor had offered.

"You... you said you were military. Right?" Strike looked at him, the too long hair, small glasses.

"Yes. Discharged three years ago." It was clear he didn't want to say anymore. Something Strike understood. The silence that had developed was suddenly broken by the opening of the door, a hand and large floating balloon entering the room, seemingly unconnected to a body. The wrist of the hand was heavily bruised with finger marks.

"Is it safe ti come in... not getting a bed bath are ya?" Strike smiled at the sound of Barclay's voice, which quickly vanished when the whole body of his friend – something he now thought Barclay must be considered – came into view.

"Fuck me." Strike was rarely shocked in his line of work, but he was shocked. Barclay's top and bottom lip were split, the skin around each split a sickly green. His left eye was red, bloodshot and painful looking, the bruising going from temple to cheek bone to the bridge of his nose. His right eyebrow was purple. There were dark finger marks on his neck, front and both sides.

"No thanks mate, already had to kiss ya." He smiled as he walked closer, Strike noticed the tentative way that he moved. His smile faltered when Strike didn't laugh at his kissing joke, letting the balloon bob beside the bed. Looking self-conscious he sat down. "Not as bad as it looks mate. Wish I could say the same about you. Look at that neck."

"I'm going to leave you both too it," the doctor gave Strike a small smile as he retreated. But Strike was too preoccupied to notice.

"Sam... holy shit. I'm so sor-"

"Don't even think about it. It was my choice to follow your insane plan. And I'd do it again. How is she? Haven't seen her yet."

"She's - she's holding it together. For now. She told me what you did. For her. What you did for me. You saved my life, I can never..."

"Ok, stop. I pulled ye from a tree, gave mouth to mouth, was beaten unconscious... but this is painful." Strike just laughed, the first real laugh since before the diner at Robin's. It was to this noise that Robin and Linda entered the room, only seeing Barclay's back. Strike stopped laughing at the pale face and lack of eye contact. Robin looked half her size. But on seeing Barclay, she smiled.

"Sam! You're here. You," she gasped as he stood and turned, hand flying to her mouth, Linda doing the same. "Sam... look at you... oh my..."

"Hey Robin. I'm fine. I'm so happy ti see you," he lent towards her, feeling her stiffen slightly as he hugged her, before her arm hugged him back. Strike saw it too. Barclay grunted in pain.

"Sorry," she had pulled back quick, looking worried.

"'S fine. No worries. Look, I wanted ti see you guys, see you were ok. We're going home for a few weeks – Glasgow – thought work might be a bit thin right now..." he looked at Strike. After saving his life, almost dying and almost staying in jail due to his boss' instruction, he was still asking permission to take time off.

"Six weeks minimum 'til I'm back up and... well not running, but you get the sentiment. So, take as much time as you want... that's considering you want to come back..."

"Fuck aye. Take more than some poncy English buggers to stop me," Strike and Robin laughed, Linda happy with the reaction, "But... the gun. Wardle needs the paperwork before this is 100% official... I assume you have-"

"I'm a dick but I'm not insane. Wouldn't've sent you in with an illegal."

"Yeah that's what I thought. I can stop in and get-"

"No," he didn't mean it to come out as sharp. Robin and Linda had sat, both startled by his tone, "I mean, no. It's fine. Robin can get it."

"Robin needs to rest," Linda looked disgusted with the callous way he threw out an order at her traumatised daughter. But he just looked at Robin.

"Yeah, I'll get it. I need to stop by the office anyway..." She felt her mum glare at her.

"Great, thanks, Pat'll love to see ya. Look, I'm gonna head, I'll see ya soon." As he turned to leave, nodding at Linda and winking at Robin, Strike stopped him.

"Sam?" turning, both men stared eye to eye, "Thank you. I mean it."

"Shut the fuck up Strike." But he smiled as he left.