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Chapter 4

Before I save someone else
I've got to save myself.

Ed Sheeran: Save Myself

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Need air… I can't breathe… I just… can't breathe…

Robin ran through the garden, stopping after a few metres, bending over and trying to catch her breath.
No, no bloody panic attack again… Not this time!

She forced herself to stand upright again and take a few deep breaths to steady her nerves. Once she managed to do so, although still extremely tense, she was set on busying herself with something. She walked over to the nearby garden shed and started pointlessly re-arranging the alignment of small, empty terracotta plant pots, turned upside down and decoratively lining the area around the shed.

With every step Strike took closer toward her, his heart grew heavier. He stopped a few steps later, giving her physical space for whatever had to come next. The clouds painted the sky in even darker shades than before, and the sound of thunder echoed in the distance. Despite the low temperature, the air was thick, making breathing more laborious. The detective braced himself mentally for the inevitable.

Robin was still pointlessly moving the plant pots, her pace frantic now, causing her breath to get shorter and heavier, but she was relentless.
"Robin…" Strike spoke calmly.
"It's not fair," she suddenly said between gritted teeth. "Not fair!"

He didn't respond just kept watching her, feeling the first, cool raindrops landing on his face.

"It's way too soon… He should be here," Robin continued, moving the pots about, her body language betraying her weakening self-control. "He should watch his grandchild grow and make Stephen teach her about sheep… and love and be loved by his wife, instead of letting her go to bed crying every night…" More furious pots moving, followed by slamming the shed door shut after the sudden gust of wind had opened it.
"He should enjoy Martin finally building a life for himself… and Jonathan graduating from Uni in a few months…"
She paused, contemplating the plant pot in her hands and getting soaked from the rain that was suddenly heavy now. Her chest was heaving again as if she had been running.
"He should watch his failure of a daughter finally having found some fucking true happiness and purpose in her life!"

Strike expected it but jerked anyway as the pot crashed on the shed wall against which Robin had thrown it with all her strength, exactly at the moment when a loud thunder reverberated above them.

All hell broke loose in the sky, turning the rain into an aggressive downpour. Yet Strike remained rooted to his spot, mercilessly getting drenched, his eyes straining to see Robin, who was now grabbing pot by pot and smashing them against the garden shed in fury, oblivious to getting drenched as well. Her strength was wavering though, as the last pot she threw didn't break, only fell to the ground into the mining field of terracotta shards.
As if the sudden look at the damage she had done broke something in Robin, she covered her face with her hands and almost bent over as the first heart-wrenching sob escaped from her throat, followed by more, each of them louder and more desperate.

Only then did Strike finally move, approaching her slowly from behind. His arms wrapped around her and pulled her close, anchoring her to him. Robin's suffering was tearing him to pieces inside, but he held her tight, until she surrendered after a short and weak fight, and leaned into him helplessly, her hands grasping at his forearms for support.
"It hurts…!" she cried her pain out, her breath hitching between the sobs. "I can't stand it…!"
"I know," Strike admitted painfully into her ear, his eyes squeezed shut. "But you'll learn to live with it… I promise you."

Using her last strength, Robin turned around in his arms and buried her head in his chest, letting her despair and grief run free and her tears mingle with the wall of rain. Strike's drenched coat felt cold against her cheek but she barely noticed it. She needed the support that had carried her through so much over the years, she needed him. Her crying was slowly losing its intensity as the sudden excruciating pain in her chest wore her out and started weakening.

The rain kept battering them with its icy hands as they stood there in a tight embrace, shivering in the middle of the downpour.
Let it all out, Robin… I'm here…

The clouds in the sky started tearing apart, letting a glimmer of light onto the land as the storm was slowly letting go of its anger. Robin finally stopped crying and despite trembling from cold, she melted completely into Strike's solid frame as he tenderly stroked her wet hair, plastered around her face.

"Come," he said then quietly. "We better get inside."

She followed him without a word, still leaning heavily into his body as they walked, his arms resting firmly around her shoulders.

As they reached the back door, they spotted Martin and Jonathan standing there, their faces the same image of sorrow, compassion and understanding. They draped a blanket each over Strike's and Robin's shoulders as they all entered the house again. With some effort, the detectives scraped off their boots so as not to sod the floor with the mud from the garden.

Strike's arm went around Robin and he looked up again, seeing Linda standing at the living room door, watching them. Stephen stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. Linda's tears-strained face spoke for her, just as Strike's eyes did for him. Robin's senses were numb after her internal battle, and she barely looked up as they passed her mother and oldest brother. And since understanding, just like pain is a universal language and doesn't need verbal expression, no one uttered a word.

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Robin was standing in the middle of the bedroom, back to her senses but totally devoid of energy, feeling as though her body was not her own but only some shell where her mind and soul were randomly trapped. Although she had known the room ever since she could remember, having been a part of her family home, the place suddenly seemed like a faraway land to her – strangely familiar and yet not feeling like home.

Strike had just returned from the bathroom and wordlessly started towelling her wet hair, not minding his own, the state of which was lamentable after the rainstorm. His hands worked carefully and systematically, drying out as much moisture as they could from her golden strands, which seemed much darker now. Robin's tired, reddened eyes watched him attentively while he was working.

She didn't usually have many possibilities to stand so close to him and see the finest details of every trace of his unmistakable face. The intensity of his grey-blue eyes, the many fine lines around them and on his wide forehead as deep focus knitted his thick eyebrows, the first hints of silver in his stubble and hair, the slightly off-centred lips she couldn't help but drop her gaze to…

Robin felt like in an absurd dream. Only a few minutes ago, she was drowning in her deepest sorrow and depression, yet here she was, her focus solely on the man tending to her well-being, standing so temptingly within her reach.
Is it possible to feel grief and yearning at the same time?
Obviously, it was.

Strike finished the towelling and slowly combed Robin's hair. She was transfixed by his gentle movements and his warm gaze when he looked at her.

"Will you be all right with changing or shall I send your Mum to help you?" he asked then, his eyes still on her, not failing to notice that she was shivering.
"I'll be f-f-fine," she stuttered, only then realising how cold she felt.
"OK, I'll be right back, I'll just…" He pointed at his drenched clothes and left her with a small smile, closing the door discreetly behind him.

Still in a strange daze, Robin's head finally decided to co-operate and her trembling hands reached for the hem of her sweater as she started undressing.

Strike closed the door of his bedroom and leaned his forehead against it. The past half an hour had taken more strength out of him than a full day of the toughest training in the Army. He could barely feel his three-and-a-half limbs, freezing from the cold but ironically, he was burning up at the same time. The way Robin studied his face while he was drying her hair shook him to the core.

Stop it… right now! How twisted it is to find pleasure in it with a funeral hanging in the air?!

Annoyed with his lack of self-control, he pushed himself off the door and after grabbing some clean clothes, he started stripping the wet layers from his body. The last thing he put on then was his navy blue zipper jumper, instantly making him feel warmer. He put the wet clothes in an empty Tesco bag that he always had in his holdall, to deal with later. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, steadying his nerves. Only then did he set out for the kitchen.

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Linda Ellacott was staring out of the window into the now-darkening evening sky that carried no traces of the storm that had just passed. The raw emotional display of her daughter's feelings left her deeply shaken; she herself was standing on the edge of an abyss, trying to do everything in her power not to fall into it. She knew, though, that strength is short-lived and sooner or later, the thread holding the nerves and mind steady would snap and cause havoc before things would calm down again.

She turned her head at the sound of Strike's distinctive footsteps as he walked in.
"Are you all right?" he asked with care, causing a small smile to appear on Linda's face.
"Yes, thank you," she replied, although her eyes told a different story, and he knew it.
"Sorry, I just…" he said quietly. "I thought Robin could do with some tea."

"Of course, and you too, I guess. That was some storm..." Linda replied, quickly wiping away her tears and taking out two mugs from the cupboard, passing them to Strike. He caught the double meaning of her words, but smiled and silently started with the tea preparation.

Once the kettle switch went off, Linda found the strength to speak again.
"How is she?"
He sighed before answering. "Better."

Linda nodded and remained silent for a moment, swallowing the tears that were threatening to fall again.
"Robin has always tried to be so strong." Her voice was quiet. "Not only since… you know." Strike nodded. "I think she's always felt she has to prove herself. No surprise with three brothers by her side…" She leaned against the worktop and turned her face to him while was stirring the teas.
"My sons are all good boys, but bless them, they can be quite difficult sometimes. Robin has always been the one who tried to find balance and restore peace between us all. She's not afraid to tell them off, but she only ever tells the truth, and they listen to her. Well, most of the time."

Strike couldn't suppress a smile.
"I can believe that," he remarked fondly, able to relate a lot.
"She has always been the one trying to look after others more than herself, and it started to worry me after some time. Michael was the same… When Robin was with Matthew, I thought she had found someone who would look after her, but that was true only for a short while. Even before the marriage, I knew it couldn't end up well because I could see that for some time, she wasn't happy in that relationship, with Matthew being the dominant one. It was difficult to believe that the same strong woman we knew from home was almost someone else when being with him."

Her words made Strike look at her, his interest piqued. Of course, he knew she was right, but it was still quite unexpected to hear it from her. He thought she was always in favour of the marriage.
"Michael and I have always supported her, whatever choices she had made. But it wasn't until she started working for you that she found a real purpose. Before that, she often seemed a little lost and uncertain of the life she was supposed to lead by conventional standards. She wasn't happy and yet, she was still going on for others, while struggling herself. "

Strike observed her quietly, not sure where all this was leading, but eager to know anyway.
"See, Cormoran, what I'm trying to say is that I am very grateful you are in Robin's life... Not just for giving her the chance to do what she loves, but mainly… for looking after her. Not only these past days but ever since the beginning. Maybe we haven't shown much gratitude over the years, probably because we didn't ask her enough to get behind what we knew mainly from the newspapers or TV. I know Robin values your friendship more than anything else, and knowing she has someone in her life she trusts completely and who has her back makes me happier than you could imagine."

Strike wasn't often lost for words. Whatever emotional state he was in, he was mostly able to react to any kind of comment, regardless of how distressing, offensive or moving it was. However, Linda Ellacott managed to render him speechless. It took him a while until he was able to speak again.

"Robin…" he started, searching for the most accurate words. "She has made everything better for me, at work and in life. I look after her because I…"
He lowered his eyes for a moment, almost revealing too much. His effort to sound casual proved a failure.
"I care about her… She sees me for who I am, without insisting on changing me. No woman… No one else has ever done that. She's my best friend." And so much more…

It was getting difficult for Strike to bear Linda's penetrating look. His emotional defence barrier, which he so often used when speaking about anything personal, got huge cracks in the last few days. Linda's smile grew wider as she regarded him knowingly, with fondness he would never have expected when he had crossed her threshold.

"I guessed as much," she stated, patting him on his forearm before making to leave the kitchen. Suddenly she turned on her heel to face him again, as his eyes couldn't help but follow her.
"You know, I think you should talk to Robin… when the time is right," she said quietly. "I may not be young anymore, but I'm not blind yet… And we never know how much time we get with those we... care about." Her voice faded.

Strike was stunned, finding it hard to believe what he had just heard. However, deep inside he knew there was no question about what she meant.
When the time is right… A sense of déjà vue hit him hearing those words.
"Better take that tea up to her before it gets cold," Linda added warmly before disappearing from his sight – and making him speechless again.

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Robin was standing at the same place where Strike had left her before leaving the bedroom. She was dressed in dry clothes, though, clad in a flannel shirt and her joggers, wearing thick winter socks. Her first instinct was climbing into bed but for some reason, she remained rooted to the spot and staring at the door.
"I'll be right back…"

What was wrong with her? Her rational thinking was clearly gone after her breakdown when she was dumbstruck by the mere thought of Strike's hands in her hair, remembering the precious – for him surely just practical – moments from not long ago…

She took a shaky breath and decided to hide in bed after all, when the door suddenly opened again, revealing Strike, carrying two mugs of steaming tea.
"Here," he passed her one but took it back from her only a moment later when he noticed her violently shaking hands. She had almost spilled the tea.
"Sorry," she apologised, closing her eyes, feeling ashamed. "I don't know what's wrong with me…" Her breath hitched.
"A belated shock," Strike said calmly, putting both mugs on the bedside table next to the switched-on elegant, cream-coloured lamp. "You're still recovering." He noticed her whole body was shivering. "And bloody freezing."

Without thinking, he took off his jumper and gave it to Robin, remaining in his T-shirt. She stared at it, comprehending only slowly. She had her own spare sweaters…
"Put it on," he said matter-of-factly and moved to the bed, pulling the bed cover and duvet away a little.
Without further questions, she did as he asked, her trembling hands pulling the zipper right up to her chin. She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. His warmth and masculine scent still lingered in it. Although the shaking hadn't stopped yet, the mental relief came immediately – as well as something more powerful…

She turned around to look at what he was doing and saw him standing by the bed, watching her. He outstretched his hand to her, raising his eyebrows.
"Would you rather join the polar bears?" he asked, his practicality back in place.
Robin managed to walk the few steps toward him, wondering how come he didn't shiver from the cold, and finally climbed into bed. Strike started pulling the covers over her, but her shaking hand caught his wrist, stopping him; her eyes were afraid to look at him, though.

Strike neither moved nor spoke, staring at her trembling hand which was burning his skin… Then he looked at her face, seeing her internal struggle playing out clearly on it. The woman who had never asked for help in any personal matter, and always prided herself on being able to deal with anything even if all hell broke loose, The same woman was now asking for his help. And it didn't take him more than a second to understand what she silently wanted him to do.

"OK," he said with a barely audible voice, making her finally meet his gaze. The relief in her blue-grey pools was immense – she had half-expected him to refuse.
"But first, have a bit of this," he said, reached for one of the mugs on the bedside table and put it closer to her mouth.

Robin managed to take a couple of clumsy sips, then moved a little to the side of the bed. Strike watched the shivering bundle in his jumper that his best friend had turned into, and suddenly felt something restricting his throat. It was painful for him to see her in such a state, but he was grateful that she chose him to be the one to comfort her. Instinctively, she must have known that he would have done anything for her...

He sat down on the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath. Then he slowly stretched out his large bulk on the mattress, ignoring the slight pressure from the prosthesis, and leaned against the headboard only inches away from her. Robin was sitting with her arms around her knees, suddenly feeling very vulnerable but she dared a look at him. The smile that reached his eyes touched her deep inside, and she fought fresh tears away. As bizarre as the situation may have seemed, he was there for her, throwing personal boundaries out of the window, because that's what best friends did…

Strike opened his arm to her, inviting her to share his warmth. Robin happily accepted, lying down and leaning into him. He pulled the covers over her, and his arms went around her, rhythmically moving his hands up and down, to warm her shivering body. Robin's face was resting on his chest and she could hear his heartbeat – it wasn't slow but it was calming her shaken nerves. So many times in the past, she had imagined them like this, although the context was miles away from the one they had found themselves in now.

Her feelings for him were as strongly present as ever before, maybe even more so, but this felt different. She was like a broken porcelain vase, holding intact with the help of strong glue, although the damage had created a visible pattern. In Strike's arms, she felt like the broken pieces of her soul had fallen into place, making her whole again. At that moment, she couldn't have asked for more.

"Thank you," she whispered after a while of silence in the softly-lit bedroom. Behind the window, the early evening covered the land with a velvety blue veil.
Strike gently stroked her hair.

"You're not a failure," he said quietly. "Quite the contrary. You're bloody exceptional in every possible way… and your father knew it."

Robin, whose shaking was already subsiding, moved her arm under the covers and snaked it around his waist, burying her head even more into his broad chest. Her only reply was a deep, shaky sigh that ruffled Strike's T-shirt, tenderly touching his heart with an invisible hand before his arms locked tightly around her.

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Linda pushed the half-opened bedroom door open and stood still, transfixed by the scene revealed to her. She came to see if her daughter was feeling better but the sight of Robin peacefully sleeping in Strike's arms brought water to her eyes. She swallowed hard, feeling a sharp stab at her heart for having lost the same precious connection to someone special. But then her motherly love prevailed, and a ghost of a smile appeared on her troubled face.

She quietly entered the room, walked over to the bed and put a plate with a few ham and cheese sandwiches on the bedside table. She cast one more look at the two people resting in each other's arms after some heavy moments. Both of their faces looked tired but relaxed; their entwined bodies reminded her of the two puzzle pieces again.

Suddenly she felt like a stalker and mildly embarrassed, although still smiling, Linda left the room, quietly closing the door behind herself and another difficult day of their lives.

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