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Chapter Text

From Chapter 1 of Lethal White:

…Strike had sought refuge, in spite of invitations from friends and his sister, in a Travelodge near Monument station.  There he had attained the solitude and privacy he craved; there he had been free to sleep for hours undisturbed; and there he had downed nine cans of lager and become increasingly desirous of speaking to Robin with each empty can that he threw, with diminishing accuracy, across the room into the bin.

…he had dialed directory inquiries and succeeded, after many requests to repeat himself more clearly, in getting connected to Robin’s parents’ house.

Her father had answered.

“Hi, c’n’I speak t’Robinplease?”

“To Robin? I’m afraid she’s on her honeymoon.”

…Strike had hung up, then continued to drink until he passed out.

You were the first thing that I thought of

When I thought I’d drink you off my mind

When I get lost in the liquor

You’re the only one I find

And if I did the things I oughta

You still would not be mine

So I’ll keep a tight grip on the bottle

Gettin’ loose and killin’ time

In the days following Robin’s wedding, Strike didn’t leave his flat, and later the Travelodge, unless it was absolutely necessary.  Buying more beer was just such a necessity. 

The first time he had gotten drunk was mainly to lessen his anxiety and pass the time until Robin called.  He knew she would be busy, that she would have a lot to deal with.  Weddings were hectic anyway.  He could only imagine what it must be like to end a marriage on the very night it had begun.  But the waiting had been unbearable.  It became somewhat easier with each pint, until he had become very thoroughly drunk and had stumbled to bed feeling very sorry for the hell his partner was surely going through.

The second time he had gotten drunk was to ease his frustration that Robin still hadn’t called.  He was trying his best to be understanding, but his patience had drained right along with each of the empty cans piled in the trash.  Adding to his frustration was the growing crowd of press that were now stationed outside his door.  He would need to clear out for a few days.  Early the next morning he packed in a rush, desperate to escape to some unknown location before the vultures could follow him.

On his way to the Travelodge, Strike had bought plenty of beer and food, which he failed to ration that evening.  He slept most of the day away after his rather large lunch of fish and chips.  He had snacked on tea, biscuits, and crisps throughout the afternoon until boredom and increasing anxiety had caused him to pop open his first can of lager long before it could be considered an appropriate time to do so.  The second can followed not long after.  Unlike that first night, his anxiety did not lessen with each drink, but had intensified until finally he had made that fateful call to Robin’s parents’ house. 

He had woken late the next morning, still fully clothed, with a headache and a tongue that felt like cotton.  Feeling something akin to shame, he had left the Travelodge in search of more supplies, only to return later with more beer than food.

The fourth time he had gotten drunk in as many days, Strike wasn’t trying to ease his anxiety or screw up his courage.  The fourth time he had gotten drunk, he was simply passing the time.  Until what, though, he had no idea.  His only hope had been to drown any thoughts of Robin and what she might be doing on her honeymoon.  But far from washing her from his mind, she seemed to be hiding at the bottom of every bottle.  With each drink he finished, he would have to start anew, hoping the next bottle would deliver him from the depression that phone call had brought him. 

He switched from beer to whisky, hoping that a stronger spirit would drive Robin from his mind.  It didn’t.  She was still at the bottom of every glass.  He tried toasting her; her career, her health, her sham of a marriage, her twat of a husband.  It didn’t help. 

He still waited for her to call, hoping he would get some explanation.  Maybe they had gone on the honeymoon as a goodbye.  Maybe she was giving the tit a chance to explain.  Maybe there was still hope.  Maybe she would return unencumbered, and she could build a life of her own.  But with each passing hour, a phone call seemed less and less likely.

In the ensuing days, he slept, he ate, and he drank until he no longer knew what day it was or what time.  He had stopped shaving, and didn’t shower as frequently as he probably should.  He didn’t even bother getting dressed.  He lay in bed for hours watching TV, reading, or playing a stupid game on his phone.  He ate more than he should, smoke more than he should, and drank more than he cared to admit.  But even through the haze of cigarette smoke and the alcohol clouding his brain, the truth never left him.  Robin was coming back to him, but she was coming back as a married woman.  It didn’t matter if Strike smoke and drank himself to death, Robin would never be his. 

All that was left to him now was work, the agency.  All he could do was pass the time in this Travelodge until he could go home and wait for his partner to return.

This killin’ time is killin’ me

Drinkin’ myself blind thinkin’ I won’t see

Not if I cross that line and they bury me

Well I just might find I’ll be killin’ time for eternity

Chapter Text

No more propped on a barstool, tear in my beer

Drowning my sorrows, wishing you were right here

No more 80-proof bourbon to get you off my mind

Ain’t why I’m sitting here sipping one tonight

 

Yeah, I’m over drinking over you

I’m done with bottles or chasing the blues

I still go out with the boys and knock back a few

But I’m over drinking over you

It was almost two months after Robin’s wedding.  Strike’s friendship with her could only be described as nonexistent.  They discussed work and work only.  For Strike’s part, this was purely out of self-preservation.  Ever since Robin had come back to work still wearing her wedding ring, all thoughts of her personal life put him on edge.  He hadn’t managed to keep the ire out of his voice when he had commented on the presence of her ring.  That was the last exchange of anything even remotely related to their personal lives.

Strike didn’t want to know how the honeymoon had gone – he certainly hadn’t asked to see pictures – he didn’t want to know how the house hunt was going, he didn’t ask after Matthew or Robin’s family.  He simply didn’t want to know.  He wasn’t ready to smile and nod and pretend he was happy for her, and he was certain that he never would be.

It was far easier to pretend that Robin’s home life didn’t exist.  She wasn’t married, she didn’t live with a man he despised, she wasn’t planning a life and a future with the twat.  She was an employee, someone who did the job and did it well.  If it ever occurred to Strike that he would occasionally ask after her life outside of work if she were a bloke, he chose not to acknowledge the thought.  They could work companionably so long as he could pretend that she only existed at the office.

When she would leave for the day, Strike would do his best to put her from his mind.  At first, this was a rather arduous task that involved copious amounts of alcohol and nicotine.  He had had vivid dreams of Robin.  Robin leaving him, Robin saying “I do,” Robin in bed with her husband, Robin showing up at his flat saying she’d left Matthew, Robin asking if the hug had meant as much to him as it had to her, Robin, Robin, Robin.  Sometimes alcohol drove her from his mind and sometimes it brought her to the surface. 

His tryst with Coco, misguided though it was, had served one very important purpose.  It had created distance in his mind between himself and Robin.  If they were both sleeping with other people, then surely there was nothing between them.  She had chosen her husband, and he had to accept what he had always known – that they could never be anything more than colleagues.  This far, and no further.

After Coco, Strike had set off on an endless quest for distraction.  He knew he couldn’t keep drinking like he was.  His trousers were starting to feel tight, there was more pressure on his stump, and his skin was looking puffy and dull.  He also didn’t want to keep fighting off the likes of Coco.  Football became a welcome diversion, and Strike allowed his friends his talk him into coming round every now and then.

It was one such outing, at Wardle’s birthday party, that Strike found the best distraction of all.  As the beautiful brunette continued looking his way, it occurred to Strike that what he really needed to get Robin and her marriage off his mind was a relationship of his own.  And there, in a beautiful red dress, seemed to be a willing contestant.  And so he had approached her, and it quickly became clear that she could offer him very pleasant distractions indeed.  It was lucky that she was pleasant and enjoyable, and wasn’t looking for a serious relationship. 

Lorelei became his anecdote.  When thoughts of Robin threatened to poison his mind, he would turn to Lorelei for relief.  It never occurred to him that he was treating her unfairly.  He had been clear in his terms from the very beginning.  He never thought twice about how he might be using her.  And when he knew that she was developing feelings beyond the casual fling, he chose to ignore it.

He was able to pretend that he was happy, he was content, he had everything he wanted.  His life had turned out exactly as he had intended it to.  At least, that's what he told himself.

Well I just might find I’ll be killin’ time for eternity.