Page 118 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

The world to them was stern and drear,

Their lot was but to weep and moan.

Ah, let them keep their faith sincere,

For neither could subsist alone!

Matthew Arnold Euphrosyne

‘Jesus fucking Christ – what was in that bottle?’ gasped Strike, who hadn’t put on his seatbelt, being unable to see, tears flooding from his eyes.

‘Pepper spray, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, it was the only way—’

Robin took the turn into the road at speed, then looked sideways at Strike, one of whose hands was pressed to his inner thigh, blood seeping through his fingers.

‘Oh God, Strike – d’you need casualty?’

‘No – ’m fine—’

‘There are tissues in the glove compartment.’

Strike groped blindly for the catch, his rapidly swelling eyes burning.

‘We need a hospital,’ said Robin, looking back at his crotch.

‘No we don’t,’ Strike said through gritted teeth, pressing a wad of tissues against his inner leg. ‘Mind you, if the fucker had been an inch higher, I wouldn’t’ve had to worry about fathering anyone ever again. It nearly had both my bollocks off.’

He dug his free hand into his pocket and was relieved to find his mobile in it. If he’d dropped it, he’d have lost his sight for no reason.

‘I’m really, really sorry,’ said Robin, fighting the hysterical impulse to laugh, ‘it was the only way to get that dog off—’

‘I know. I’ll be more grateful once I’m sure I’ve still got eyeballs… the UN should know about that bloody spray,’ Strike gasped, wiping his wet face with the sleeve of his free arm. ‘If Saddam had had that, nobody would’ve blamed us for going in.’

‘We’ll find somewhere to stop – get some milk—’

‘Milk?’

‘It’s the best thing for chillies in your eyes. I had to look it up when I touched mine after making the spray.’

At last, Robin spotted a garage and pulled in. The bored-looking teenager at the kiosk window didn’t question her urgent request for milk, but handed over a couple of cartons, along with another box of tissues.

Robin got back into the Land Rover, poured some milk on tissues and put them into Strike’s hands. He pressed the two wads on his eyes and after a while mumbled,

‘Feels a bit better.’

‘Good. How’s your leg?’

‘Fine. I’ve got blood on the seat, though, sorry.’

‘The car’s both of ours, not just mine,’ said Robin.

Strike leaned his head back, pressing milk-soaked tissues to his eyes.

‘Pity the fucker didn’t go for the prosthesis, like that Jack Russell, remember? It’d have broken its bloody teeth.’

A few minutes passed, Strike still leaning back in the passenger seat, eyes covered. After a while, Robin poured milk onto new tissues.

‘Here,’ she said, pulling one of his hands from his face and putting the new pads into it.

‘Thanks,’ he muttered.

They continued to sit on the otherwise empty forecourt, cars swishing past in the dark, and Robin, watching Strike, who couldn’t see her, felt suddenly and strangely as though he’d come back into focus.

He was infuriating, stubborn and secretive when she wished he’d be open, but he was also funny and brave, and he’d been honest tonight when she’d expected him to lie.

He was, in short, her imperfect best friend.

‘Listen,’ said Strike, milk-sodden tissues still clamped over his smarting eyes. ‘I’ve never thought you’re a weak link.’

Robin laughed, though she was glad Strike couldn’t see her, because her eyes had filled with tears.

‘That was a very poor choice of fucking words. You’re not the only one with shit in their past. Some bloke could come up behind me and yell “bang” in my ear, couldn’t they? All I meant was…’

‘I know what you meant,’ said Robin.

‘I’ve been worried, that’s all.’

‘I know,’ said Robin quietly.

‘Want to come to Sark with me?’

‘What?’

‘It’s a very small place. We can cover it twice as quickly if we go together.’

He’d noticed that the strain between them had lifted. He was in too much pain to analyse why the change had happened, but he intended to make the most of it.

Robin imagined getting on a plane and flying to Sark. Perspective, light, the sea…

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘OK.’

She restarted the car. Strike’s eyes were still stinging and swollen, his thigh wound was becoming progressively more painful, he probably needed a tetanus shot, but he was suddenly happier than he’d been in months.