The following fanfiction was written by TheLastLynx. Here’s the link to the original source: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13722819/chapters/31526457
CHAPTER 4
From the smoke in your hair
To the blood in your bruise
And the bows on the shoes you kicked off
I’m joining the dots
I’m joining the dots
Arctic Monkeys, Joining the dots
She was surprised how well she had managed it through the service so far. The vicar had a patient and soothing demeanour, and Robin gladly strove to imitate his attitude of saintly proficiency. All her attention was focused on doing the right thing at the right time, not missing a word, or an action, careful to not let her quavering determination slip between her fingers. Matthew had been beaming at the sight of her walking down the aisle, a vision of summer beauty, as though their previous altercation was all but forgotten. His appreciation was almost enough to make her forget her misery. There was no trace of his irritation at her last minute confrontation, Matthew was just glad and slightly smug that they had made it to the finish line – without that big ugly bastard.
Only once, half–way through the service, had Robin fretted over a possible disturbance to her countenance.
“First, I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry, to declare it now.”
Robin was shocked. She had forgotten about this part of the ceremony and was now briefly panicked that Linda might say something. Relieved, at first, that no one objected –even though she had noticed, out of the corner of her eye, Sarah Shadlock stirring uncomfortably next to her boyfriend Tom – she was then hit by the even more dreadful realisation that Strike had, after all, not shown up. She chastised herself for, despite everything, indulging in such a childish hope, designed to highlight her misery. She was too preoccupied to notice that Linda had, indeed, been nervously shifting in her seat, tucked between her husband Michael and her son Martin, worried eyes directed at the sad face of her only daughter. But the congregation remained perfectly silent, and the service continued.
Concentrate on what’s before you. Matthew is all you have left. He loves you. Be grateful. You must plow on to the finish line.
Content with the congregation sitting in silent agreement, the minister dutifully went on:
“The vows you are about to take are to be made in the presence of God, who is judge of all and knows all the secrets of our hearts.”
Robin felt that her heart must stop. Was it right to swear faithfulness to Matthew, when she knew, buried deep down, that she loved another? But no, she should stop kidding herself. Strike had not called again, would never call again, and she should stop kidding herself.
Her cold resolution notwithstanding, she felt utterly defeated as the officiant continued, “therefore if either of you knows a reason why you may not lawfully marry, you must declare it now.”
You can do this. Matthew is all you have left. Think of Linda, think of Dad. They supported you; you chose, now you have to see it through. But her thoughts kept returning to the one man, she so desperately wanted to keep out of her head, her heart. Her anguish made Robin blush.
Matthew, who was utterly unaware of the inner turmoil his bride–to–be was suffering, attributed her rosy cheeks to the vows they were about to give, glowing, eager to get on with the next part.
So, both remained silent, and the officiant continued.
“Do you, Matthew John Cunliffe, take this woman, Robin Venetia Ellacott, to be you lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
“I do”, Matt declared with firmness, voice echoing through the church, trying to catch the downcast eyes of his beautiful almost–wife, slightly annoyed by the sudden bang of the heavy church door.
Robin did not look up, but gazed steadily downwards onto her bouquet of white roses in her hands. Hearing Matthew make his declaration, strong and proud, made her even more uncertain as to how she could possibly muster the strength needed to get over the finish line. She knew what was about to happen, what she would have to commit to. But despite her resolution to do, to say what she must, she was not so sure if she could bring herself to say aloud the words that were expected of her. Words that would bind her to the man standing next to her, but were also the complete opposite off all she felt at this moment.
“Do you, Robin Venetia Ellacott, take this man, Matthew John Cunliffe, to be you lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death –”
“Oh shit!”
With a deafening clang, something toppled and – with the sound of a blustering arpeggio – came crashing down onto the hard stone floor. Matthew did not need to look up to instantly guess what had happened. He knew, had always known something like this would happen. Robin, on the other side, could barely believe her ears. She, too, had instantly recognised the voice, but had looked up, incredulously, to grasp the enormous figure shuffling at the back of the church. Still, she could scarcely believe her own eyes. What was Cormoran doing here?
“Christ, I’m sorry,” Strike gasped.
“– do you part”, finished the vicar patiently.
Matt, realised right this moment that there would be conflict. He was livid. Why had he, of all people, come? But in all earnest he knew, had known all along, that there was only one reason, why – after all this time – after not being able to reach her by phone, Strike had made the trip up north to speak to Robin directly, uncertain whether she was even going to talk to him. Matthew was dead sure that this man he despised so wholeheartedly was in love with his Robin, my wife , he thought coldly.
Robin on the other hand was brought alive by a new found energy, rushing through her numb limbs, electrifying her every fibre, and gave her the strength to say what must be said.
“I do,” she declared in a ringing voice.
This was it. She was his now, Matthew thought, briefly triumphant. Expecting her eyes on him, Matthew stared back into the face of his wife. But Robin was barely aware of him. All service long she had been glum and depressed; a sign, so Matthew had thought guiltily, of her being sacked by Cormoran, his glee at her misfortune, and him telling her just before the service – inaccurately – that Strike had called for a final goodbye. He had tolerated her impassive demeanour as a sign of weakness and anxiousness, something that would pass soon enough – surely in the course of their special day in the company of friends and family.
But now, she was beaming, beauty and joy radiating from her body in an intensity he could almost feel.
Seeing her expression change so dramatically, not because of him – not because they were, finally, husband and wife, marking a happy ending to their nine years together and bringing one and a half years of exhausting changes to their dynamic to an end (all of which, Matthew mused darkly, anger creeping up in him, was the fault of the very man that had just ruined the service) – but at the sight of the large, dark figure Matthew hated and feared with all his heart. It was too much to take.
“What are you doing,” he hissed at Robin.
As if awoken from a bad dream Robin looked back at Matthew, surprise and confusion blooming on her face. This was extraordinary. She knewStrike. This was so absolutely out of character, for him to be making such dramatic appearance – or coming to her wedding at all, for that matter. She remembered how unwilling he had been just to RSVP a few weeks back. That he never had, she was sure of; despite everything, she had checked last night if there had ever been a note regarding his invitation. “I’m sorry, my dear,” Linda had been thoroughly sympathetic when she told her daughter that no, Cormoran had not replied, not even to say he wasn’t coming.
Curiously, ignoring Matthew, she studied Cormoran’s face: the blue shadows around his nose made it apparent that it had just recently been broken and amended, the slits and bloodied lines in his face and his ear were clear indicators that a dramatic showdown had taken place.
She knew. The simple fact that Cormoran Strike was now standing here, battered and bloodied though he was, in this church in Masham, meant that the Shacklewell Ripper had – at long last – been caught!
This Robin concluded in an instant, detective skills and quick perception reawakened as the exhilarating sight of him chased away the all–consuming sorrow that had been gripping her tightly and had rendered her impassive and unaware.
Overwhelming relief pervaded her. She could, after all, not be blamed for the continuing horrors of a monster as gruesome as the Shacklewell Ripper! And through all the relief and excitement, the next realisation hit her with the violent, but delightful force of an ocean wave: Strike stood there, anguished and embarrassed though he was, face red above the smashed arrangement of white flowers at his feet – but utterly alone. He had faced the Shacklewell Ripper and, instead of getting some much needed rest, instead of enjoying a weekend with his girlfriend Elin, he had travelled up north, to her wedding.
She did not stop to wonder just how he had come here. He had chosen to do what he had not even done for his hauntingly beautiful girlfriend of sixteen years. He had come all this way, to see her; to stop her from making a terrible mistake. This she knew with the certainty of the avid investigator she was.