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“I asked her.”
The big man, who sat alone at a table in the corner, was muttering to himself.
Kelly had served him each time he had ordered a pint; currently on his second London Pride, which, she was pretty sure, wasn’t enough to get a guy his size to the point he was muttering to himself, not like that anyway.
Plainly sad, and, if she was right, maybe in pain; she wasn’t sure if it was mind or body yet, she was sure pain was involved.
The table he was sitting at could accommodate four people, but his general air of ‘Fuck off and leave me alone’ and his muttering had created an invisible barrier around him.
Kelly knew who he was; everyone in London must unless they lived in a hole or were stupid. The whole ‘cult’ case had caught huge press attention, and although the papers hadn’t said a great deal about the man in the corner and his agency, they had mentioned enough. She had read the story and had been both stunned and impressed: stunned that a cult could get away with such things for so long, and impressed at the people who had brought the cult to its knees.
His mutterings weren’t loud, but Kelly had made a point of hanging around the end of the bar nearest him: she was about to knock off her shift. She should be heading home to catch up on some coursework ( why oh why had she, on the cusp of turning twenty-five, decided to do a home study course about ancient history?), but, as she looked up at him again, Kelly found herself interested, and, thinking on it, she felt sorry for him.
Cormoran Strike turned the half-empty pint in his big hand. He was about to consider getting a packet of crisps (the diet be damned now) when one appeared before him. A young woman sat opposite him, put down a glass of orange juice, and pushed the packet towards him.
“Thought you might be hungry”. She took a sip of her drink. “Just clocked off my shift, was going to go home to my history course, but thought you might need some…”
“ I…what? I think you have the wrong man…”
The young woman in front of him laughed. “This isn’t a pick up, nope, I mean, there’s something about you, but that’s not why I’m sitting here…”
“ I don’t want anyone…” That wasn’t true; he did want someone, just not this woman and her packet of crisps.
“What a person wants and what they need are very different things at times. No, you need a friend, not someone you already know. I’m guessing they’d give you all types of advice that won’t be helpful. A stranger's advice can sometimes be more helpful.” She opened the packet of crisps, took a few, and as she munched on them, she looked at him.
“I thought those were for me.”
Kelly nodded. “Yup, but I got a sudden urge for some cheese and union.”
Despite himself, Strike smiled.
“There you go, see, that’s it. You look better when you smile.”
“Bollocks do I!” Strike reached for a handful of crisps and munched on them.
“You do. I guess you don't often, which explains the default, ‘Fuck off and leave me alone’, look.”
Kelly grinned, watching him munch. “ I know who you are.”
“After an autograph? If you are, you’ll be disappointed.”
“What, you can’t write?” Kelly eyed him.
“Funny.” Strike leaned back and studied the woman before him. Mid to late twenties, with dark hair and blue eyes - an interesting combination. “You’re the barmaid.”
“There you go, you’ve cracked the case.” Grinning more, Kelly took a sip of her juice.
“History is a good subject.” Strike had filed that bit of information away.
Kelly eyed him. “Thought crime would be your thing.”
“It is, but I did history at university before I dropped out.”
“Hmmm, read that somewhere, Oxford?”
Strike nodded, trying not to let his memory go back there.
Nodding, Kelly went on. “Sorry about your mum, tough that. I know it was a long time ago, but time doesn’t eradicate how tough it is to lose your mum that way, well, anyway, but you know what I mean.”
Strike stared into her eyes; the blue was striking, and he was sure they attracted a lot of attention. “Why did you sit with me?”
“You need someone to talk to.” Kelly pinched a few more crisps; she should have gotten two packets.
Strike stared more.
Laughing softly, “As I said, I know who you are, about your business. You brought that cult down…”
“I didn’t, she did.” Strike slumped.
“Ah.” Said Kelly.
For a few moments, there was silence between them.
“Robin, that’s her name, isn’t it?” Kelly sipped her drink more.
Strike nodded.
“Is she what the muttering is about?”
Strike nodded again.
“Ah.” Repeated Kelly.
For the next ten minutes, Strike (to his amazement), told this unknown woman a summary of his relationship with Robin Ellacott.
She sat and listened, sipping her drink slowly, nodding occasionally. When he was done, she had tears in her eyes.
“Why the tears?” Strike handed her a tissue from his pocket; it was more or less clean.
Sniffing back snot, Kelly looked at him. “Bloody love story that!”
Strike thought on that. “Your definition of a love story might be off kilter. Do you want another drink?”
Kelly nodded, “And more crisps.” Sitting, she dabbed at her eyes with the crumbled tissue he had given her. The man had something about him that was for sure. Huge, beaten up, and in his forties (she guessed), he had the aura of a bear, one a little damaged at the moment. As he had told her his story, she remembered other things she had read about him: war veteran, amputee, and illegitimate child of a rock star. And then there was his ex, Kelly remembered reading about Charlotte Campbell's suicide.
She sniffed back a dose of snot as another orange juice and a packet of crisps appeared in front of her, along with a couple of paper napkins from the bar. He hadn’t brought himself another pint.
“Not got another for yourself, oh, and thanks for the napkins.” She blew her nose, hiccupped, and smiled as a blush appeared on her cheeks. “Sorry.”
“It's alright, your hiccups have the scent of odour of cheese and onion.”
Kelly laughed.
“Right, let me say this…” She took a long sip of her drink. “Sure, you don’t want another drink?”
“No, getting pissed will only make it worse.”
Kelly nodded. “You can take a sip of mine if you need to.”
Strike nodded. She was kind.
“Right, here I go, my opinion, so brace yourself. The how and the why of all this can be endlessly debated and drive you crazy. I think you’ve done that already. This is where you are. You love her, you told her, you even asked her to marry you. Did you mean that, your proposal?”
“Very much so. I know she’s the one for me. I want to grow old with…” Strike sighed deeply. “…I thought I was broken, I thought Charlotte had broken me. Robins fixed me, fixed my business, fixed me. I…I…” bending his head, Cormoran Strike runs his thick fingers through his receding hairline. Emotion was not usually his thing, but right now it was threatening to ruin his reputation as a ‘hard bastard’.
As her hand squeezed his other hand gently, Strike raised his head. Kelly was smiling at him shyly.
“It's ok to be emotional at times. I’m guessing you never thought you were that type, not if you thought you were broken, to want to marry?”
“No, No…”
Nodding, Kelly let his hand go.
“Right, where was I… oh yeah. You told her, asked her. She’s gone off, not believing you. I understand why, from what you’ve told me, she must have thought you just wanted shags on the side.”
Strike grimaced; the truth of her summoning up of his past behaviour now made him feel ashamed.
“So, she’ll go off, and well, you know her, I don’t, so I have a question for you?”
Nodding Strike shrugs.
“Do you have any reason to think she might feel the same about you?”
Strike thought, he went through all those times, those times…the hug, the bed, the whisky, the Ritz. Some he had already mentioned, but now he did so with more detail.
Kelly hiccupped, sniffed; she was going to cry again. This man and this woman were going to break her heart.
“Christ sake, you two!” Taking a long sip of the drink, he had got her. “Ok, so, I think you do.”
“What?” Replied the surprised Strike.
Nodding, Kelly leaned forward a bit. “The problem is, well, we know the problem, but now I see how big it is. You two don’t talk to one another.”
“We talk…”
“Give me strength…no, you two don’t. You’ve never even talked about that hug on the stairs when you thought about asking her to go away with you. You’ve mulled over the other occasions in your head, and I bet she’s done the same. You need to tell her, talk to her about those times. Be honest, tell her why you love her, how it crept up on you. There's a chance the same has happened to her.”
Strike thought. “I’m ten years older…”
Kelly waved her hand, dismissing his words. “So, what, my dad was twelve years older than my mum. Never knew two people so well matched. Don’t rule yourself out because you’re older. If you’re the man for her, tell her, explain why, show her, fight for her. Bloody hell, Cormoran, you’re a catch, I can see that, I mean, no and all, cause it's pointless because you’re taken and you’re almost old enough to be my father. You need to give her a reason to claim you, I suppose, something like that, I’m not sure how to word it. But you two should be together. I can see that. She’s brave, it was mostly her who brought that cult down, if she can do that, she can well, you…” Waving her hand again, motioning to him.
“Let her cool down, think about it, she’ll either come back trying to, well, whatever, but don’t you dare fucking give up. I want to read about your marriage soon, to her, you hear me, I want to read that story. Fuck it, I’ll cut it out and stick it on my fridge!”
Cormoran Strike stares into the tearful blue eyes above a bright smile. “You know what, if that day comes, you’ll not be reading about it, no, you’ll be invited. Now…” Handing her his notebook and pen. “…write your name and contact details down because I’ll need to know where to send the invite.”
The night air filled his lungs as he left the pub. Sober, a determined grin on his face, Cormoran Strike heads back to his office, patting the pocket where his notebook lies with the contact details of a woman he will, (he hopes), always be thankful to.