1 The Cuckoo's Calling

around him; people skirted his table on the way to the bathrooms as though it was
three times the size.
“Shall we take a walk?” Robin suggested. “Get something to eat?”
“D’you know what?” he said, leaning forwards with his elbows on the table,
almost knocking over his pint. “D’you know what, Robin?”
“What?” she said, holding his beer steady. She was suddenly possessed of a
strong desire to giggle. Many of their fellow drinkers were watching them.
“Y’re a very nice girl,” said Strike. “Y’are. Y’re a very nice p’son. I’ve
noticed,” he said, nodding solemnly. “Yes. ’Ve noticed that.”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling, trying not to laugh.
He sat back in his seat, closed his eyes and said:
“Sorry. ’M’pissed.”
“Yes.”
“Don’ do it much these days.”
“No.”
“Haven’ eat’n anything.”
“Shall we go and get something to eat, then?”
“Yeah, we c’do,” he said, with his eyes still shut. “She tol’ me she was
pregnant.”
“Oh,” said Robin, sadly.
“Yeah. Tol’ me. An’ then sh’said it was gone. Can’t’ve been mine. Nev’
added up.”
Robin said nothing. She did not want him to remember that she had heard this.
He opened his eyes.
“She left ’im for me, an’ now she’s left ’im…no, she’s lef’ me fr’im…”
“I’m sorry.”
“…lef’ me fr’im. Don’t be sorry. Y’re a nice person.”
He pulled cigarettes out of his pocket, and inserted one between his lips.
“You can’t smoke in here,” she reminded him gently, but the barman, who
seemed to have been waiting for a cue, came hurrying over towards them now,
looking tense.