Lethal White

It is a necessity for me to abandon a false and
equivocal position.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
Strike paid in pain for the walk through the woods at Chiswell House the
next morning. So little did he fancy getting up out of bed and heading downstairs
to work on a Sunday that he was forced to remind himself that, like the character
of Hyman Roth in one of his favorite films, he had chosen this business freely.
If, like the Mafia, private detection made demands beyond the ordinary, certain
concomitants had to be accepted along with the rewards.
He had had a choice, after all. The army had been keen to keep him, even
with half his leg missing. Friends of friends had offered everything from
management roles in the close protection industry to business partnerships, but
the itch to detect, solve and reimpose order upon the moral universe could not be
extinguished in him, and he doubted it ever would be. The paperwork, the
frequently obstreperous clients, the hiring and firing of subordinates gave him no
intrinsic satisfaction—but the long hours, the physical privations and the
occasional risks of his job were accepted stoically and with occasional relish.
And so he showered, put on his prosthesis and, yawning, made his painful way
downstairs, remembering his brother-in-law’s suggestion that his ultimate goal
ought to be sitting in an office while others literally did the legwork.
Strike’s thoughts drifted to Robin as he sat down at her computer. He had
never asked her what her ultimate ambition for the agency was, assuming,
perhaps arrogantly, that it was the same as his: build up a sufficient bank balance
to ensure them both a decent income while they took the work that was most
interesting, without fear of losing everything the moment they lost a client. But
perhaps Robin was waiting for him to initiate a talk along the lines that Greg had
suggested? He tried to imagine her reaction, if he invited her to sit down on the
farting sofa while he subjected her to a PowerPoint display setting out long-term
objectives and suggestions for branding.
As he set to work, thoughts of Robin metamorphosed into memories of
Charlotte. He remembered how it had been on days like this while they had been
together, when he had required uninterrupted hours alone at a computer.
Sometimes Charlotte had taken herself out, often making an unnecessary
mystery about where she was going, or invented reasons to interrupt him, or pick

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a fight that kept him pinned down while the precious hours trickled away. And
he knew that he was reminding himself how difficult and exhausting that
behavior had been, because ever since he had seen her at Lancaster House,
Charlotte had slid in and out of his disengaged mind like a stray cat.
A little under eight hours, seven cups of tea, three bathroom breaks, four
cheese sandwiches, three bags of crisps, an apple and twenty-two cigarettes later,
Strike had repaid all his subcontractors’ expenses, ensured that the accountant
had the firm’s latest receipts, read Hutchins’ updated report on Dodgy Doc and
tracked several Aamir Malliks across cyberspace in search of the one he wanted
to interview. By five o’clock he thought he had him, but the photograph was so
far from “handsome,” which was how Mallik had been described in the blind
item online, that he thought it best to email Robin a copy of the pictures he had
found on Google Images, to confirm that this was the Mallik he sought.
Strike stretched, yawning, listening to a drum solo that a prospective
purchaser was banging out in a shop below in Denmark Street. Looking forward
to getting back upstairs and watching the day’s Olympic highlights, which would
include Usain Bolt running the hundred meters, he was on the point of shutting
off his computer when a small “ping” alerted him to the arrival of an email from
[e-mail], the subject line reading simply: “You and me.”
Strike rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, as though the sight of the
new email had been some temporary aberration of sight. However, there it sat at
the top of his inbox when he raised his head and opened his eyes again.
“Oh, shit,” he muttered. Deciding that he might as well know the worst, he
clicked on it.
The email ran to nearly a thousand words and gave the impression of having
been carefully crafted. It was a methodical dissection of Strike’s character, which
read like the case notes for a psychiatric case that, while not hopeless, required
urgent intervention. By Lorelei’s analysis, Cormoran Strike was a fundamentally
damaged and dysfunctional creature standing in the way of his own happiness.
He caused pain to others due to the essential dishonesty of his emotional
dealings. Never having experienced a healthy relationship, he ran from it when it
was given to him. He took those who cared about him for granted and would
probably only realize this when he hit rock bottom, alone, unloved and tortured
by regrets.
This prediction was followed by a description of the soul-searching and
doubts that had preceded Lorelei’s decision to send the email, rather than simply
tell Strike that their no-strings arrangement was at an end. She concluded that
she thought it fairest to him to explain in writing why she, and by implication
every other woman in the world, would find him unacceptable unless he changed

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his behavior. She asked him to read and think about what she had said
“understanding that this doesn’t come from a place of anger, but of sadness,” and
requested a further meeting so that they could “decide whether you want this
relationship enough to try a different way.”
After reaching the bottom of the email, Strike remained where he was,
staring at the screen, not because he was contemplating a response, but because
he was gathering himself for the physical pain he was anticipating upon standing
up. At last he pushed himself up into a vertical position, flinching as he lowered
his weight onto the prosthesis, then closed down his computer and locked up the
office.