Page 175 of Troubled Blood

“I’m not missing your super-subtle fucking point,” snapped Strike. “I’m telling you that in the real world, this f’cking Whore Walk—”

“SlutWalk,” said Kyle and Courtney loudly.

“—’ll make fuck-all difference. The kind of man who calls women sluts’ll look at your fucking sideshow and think ‘there go a load of sluts, look.’ Reclaim fucking language all you fucking like. You don’t change real altit—att—real-world attitudes by deciding slurs aren’t derug—derogat’ry.”

Wolfgang, who was still quivering at Robin’s ankle in the hope of getting more beef, emitted a loud whimper, which made Strike glance around. He saw Robin sitting there, pale and impassive.

“What d’you think ’bout all this?” Strike asked her loudly, waving his glass in the direction of the students, so that brandy slopped over the rim onto the carpet.

“I think it would be a good idea to change the subject,” said Robin, whose heart was beating so fast it hurt.

“Would you go on a fucking Whore—?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” said Robin, blood thumping in her ears, wanting only for the conversation to end. Her rapist had grunted “whore” over and over again during the attack. If her would-be killer had squeezed her neck for another thirty seconds, it would have been the last word she heard on earth.

“She’s b’ng polite,” said Strike, turning back to the students.

“Talking for women now, are you?” sneered Kyle.

“For an actual rape victim!” said Courtney.

The room seemed to warp. A clammy silence descended. On the edge of Robin’s field of vision she saw Max turn to look at her.

Strike got to his feet at the second attempt. Robin knew he was saying something to her, but it was all noise: her ears felt full of cotton wool. Strike lurched off toward the door: he was leaving. He bounced off the doorframe and disappeared from sight.

Everyone continued to stare at Robin.

“Oh God, I’m really sorry if I shouldn’t have said that,” whispered Courtney through the fingers she’d pressed to her mouth. Her eyes were brimming with tears. From downstairs came the sound of the door slamming.

“It’s fine,” said a distant voice that sounded quite like Robin’s own. “Excuse me a moment.”

She got to her feet, and followed Strike.

41

With that they gan their shiuering speares to shake,

And deadly points at eithers breast to bend,

Forgetfull each to haue bene euer others frend.

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

The dark, unfamiliar road took the exceptionally drunk Strike by surprise. Rain and high winds battered him as he stood, swaying, wondering which direction the Tube was. His usually reliable sense of direction was telling him to turn right, so he lurched off that way, searching his pockets for cigarettes as he went, savoring the delicious release of tension and temper he’d just enjoyed. The memory of what had just happened presented itself in a few scattered fragments: Kyle’s angry red face. Tosser. Fucking students. Max laughing at something Strike had said. Lots of food. Even more drink.

Rain sparkled in the street lights and blurred Strike’s vision. Objects seemed to shrink and enlarge around him, particularly the parked car that suddenly put itself in his path as he attempted to walk in a straight line down the street. His thick fingers fumbled fruitlessly in his pockets. He couldn’t find his cigarettes.

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.”

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