500 Miles from You Page 8

  And Cormac left to the man tearfully shaking his head over and over and cheering, as if Cormac had performed a miracle, and he felt both acutely ridiculous, given the tiny job he’d done, and rather pleased with himself. He heard the music start up again as he let himself back into the stinky lift, with an exhausted-looking young woman pushing a filthy double buggy and coping with a whining toddler at her side too, covered in snot, in a T-shirt too thin for the brisk spring day.

  He opened the door for her on the way out.

  “Can I give you a hand with the buggy?” he asked, seeing her struggle.

  “Fuck off, Social Work,” she barked at him, and the day went on.

  Chapter 26

  It was the silence she’d noticed as she sat down the previous evening on the deep and comfortable little sleigh bed in the slope-roofed spare room, with its gray washed boards and faded blue-and-yellow rug. Well, no, it wasn’t silent, in fact; there were rustles outside; she could hear the wind, unusually, moving through the trees and the distant squawk of—what, a bird? An animal? She didn’t know.

  Lissa prepared herself for not being able to sleep. She was in a strange bed a very long way from home, cast into exile. She had a million new things to do tomorrow: a new case list to take on, a new set of worries as well as the ongoing ones—everything circling in her brain. She was never going to be able to sleep, everything was so strange and odd: the sweet-smelling air, the comforting crackle of the whisky wood in the fire, the faint tinkling of the stream in the bottom of the garden . . .

  When she woke up nine and a half hours later, she hadn’t even taken her contact lenses out.

  SHE WAS TOO late to make breakfast or do anything, in her surprise, other than jump into the shower and, in her haste, use some of the old shampoo already there. It smelled of almonds.

  She threw on her uniform, put on her glasses, tied up her damp hair. Of course there wouldn’t be any food; she was an idiot for not having planned all of this yesterday. Automatically she went to open the fridge door anyway—then stopped, as her hand didn’t find the handle. That was odd. She tried it again, then smiled to herself. The door opened on the other side. It was a left-handed fridge. She supposed it wasn’t that strange in the scheme of things—one in ten—but she was left-handed too and had always considered such a thing the height of luxury. If he had a left-handed fridge, he would have left-handed scissors too! And can opener! It was oddly thrilling. She glanced around, but there wasn’t a picture of him—or anyone, or anything, in fact—up anywhere in the cozy little sitting room. Typical man, she thought. She had to email him; she glanced at her watch. Nope. No time. Dammit, and he’d have had Zlobdan’s mob this morning, whom she’d come up against before. Could always do with a bit of prior warning. She glanced at her phone; there was a long message from him telling her what she should be doing.

  Finding a half-empty tin of dry cornflakes at the back of the cupboard, she grabbed a handful and looked at the message crossly. Well, wasn’t he organized. Show-off. There was quite a lot to it. She’d look at it later.

  LISSA SQUINTED AT the address, but it wasn’t making much more sense than it did before. She was parked on a narrow single-lane track, having a fight with the GPS and having lost her phone connection, which meant she couldn’t read the email Cormac had sent her that presumably explained exactly what to do and where she was meant to be going to meet this patient. Oddly this was making her cross with Cormac rather than, for example, herself.

  She got out of the car and was struck once more by just how incredibly quiet everything was. She could see in the distance figures up and about on the hills—farmers, she imagined. Shepherds. Were shepherds still a thing? She supposed they were. She looked closer. The white shapes on the hillsides had smaller white shapes prancing along beside them. Perhaps they were lambs. It looked like something out of a children’s storybook; an old orange farmhouse set back from the road that she’d passed as she came in, with its red barn, looked like something you’d read about to a very small person.

  Lissa had never in her life given her food a second thought beyond checking it was organic, sometimes, when she felt flush enough. She never cooked at all; why would you in London? Her mother hadn’t cooked, had said it would put her in a domestic servitude role, whereas her job was to break out of feminine stereotypes. Which was why the nursing had never really gone down too well.

  Anyway. Lissa wasn’t going to think about that right now. Instead she drove back into the center of the village, parking right in front of the bakery, to her utter amazement. There were no yellow lines or anything. She took a photograph to send to Kim-Ange, but she couldn’t make it send.

  Nothing seemed to have a street name, or at least not one she recognized. There was something called “The Binns,” something else that looked like “Lamb’s Entry,” which she didn’t like the look of in the slightest. Why they put a farm name in the case notes, when there were no directions to farms and they didn’t show up on Google Maps, was unhelpful to say the least.

  She looked in the window of the bakery. There were lots of things she hadn’t seen before, including signs advertising “Puddledub!” and “Lorne!,” neither of which meant much to her, but she went in nonetheless. It was incredibly cozy and warm inside, and a cheery-looking woman looked up.

  “Hello,” she said, taking in Lissa’s uniform. “Och! You’re yon lass that’s up here doing Cormac’s job for three months! Amazing, welcome, it’s lovely to see you. Now listen, do you want me to put you down for a regular ginger delivery? And also the provost says could you join the Highland Games Committee? But he says that to anyone who turns up, you don’t have to say yes just to be polite, okay? Dinnae mind it.”

  Lissa had understood about one word in six of this and was seriously unnerved by why this woman was jabbering away to her and how on earth she knew so much.

  “So, listen, if you join the Kirrinfief Facebook you can find out everything that’s going on. There’s a barn dance coming up, if you’re not married—are you married? Cormac didn’t think so, said there was only one person coming, and then Mrs. Ochil said, ‘Well, maybe she’s just trying to take a break from her man for a wee bit—you know men, can hardly blame her, and maybe he’s got one of them big jobs down in London or you know.’ I know you’re from London and it’s all lesbians there too I suppose . . . Can I still call them lesbians? My son says I get it wrong all the time . . .”

  Her face looked worried, as Lissa stood like a stone, completely unresponsive.

  “. . . um,” said the woman, running out of steam. She met a lot of tourists in the summertime, but they were usually more than happy to chat, to ask about walking trails and Highland cows, and to buy bags of shortbread and tablet and big sandwiches overspilling with coleslaw. She wasn’t used to this. London, she supposed gloomily. She’d been once on a coach trip with her friend Agnes, and neither of them had thought very much of it, was her settled opinion.

  Lissa tried not to panic—the woman was only trying to be friendly, she wasn’t some spy sent to track her down, the stupid voice in her head had to shut up.

  “Um . . .” Lissa stared, bright red, at the food behind the counter.

  A young laborer, unshaven and ready for the day in heavy work boots, came in with a cheery grin, shouted, “Hi, Deirds,” and ordered five steak bridies, two macaroni pies, and four cheese scones, and Deirds asked him did he lose a bet, and he replied yes, indeed he did, but it could have been worse, it being the last thing he had asked for. When her attention turned to Lissa again she nervously asked for a cheese scone and was there the possibility of a coffee? Deirdre said of course and simply made her a Nescafé rather than asking her which of ninety-five different varieties she’d like to try and charged her 80 pence for the privilege and handed her a scorching plastic cup, and Lissa muttered her thanks and got out of there as soon as possible.

  “That’s the new girl?” said the laborer, Teddy. “She’s pretty.”

  “Pretty r
ude,” sniffed Deirdre. “Honestly. Why English people can’t give you the time of day is beyond me.”

  “It’s because they’re evil oppressors,” said Teddy, who had grown up in a staunchly independent family and was very clear as to what he thought of the visiting influx, which was why he kept working the land rather than somewhere nice and cozy inside in a tourist operation.

  “Aye, she’s just never been made welcome afore,” said Deirdre. “When Agnes and I were in yon London . . .”

  Teddy was only twenty-two, but he was no stranger to Deirdre’s rant about how much she disliked yon London, and although he never minded to go there himself—evil oppressor central—he knew he’d better get out to the lower field before Lennox gave him a kick up the arse. He was a great boss, Lennox, didn’t interfere as long as the work was done, but you’d do no good getting on his wrong side during lambing season, anyone knew that, so he bade Deirdre good morning and headed on his way, observing the strange English girl sitting in her car, looking as miserable as someone attempting to eat a warm cheese scone fresh out of the oven could possibly look, as word was already spreading about the village about her snotty ways, and if she hadn’t been an evil oppressor, Teddy would have felt sorry for her.

  LISSA FINALLY FIGURED out which was the Collins farm by asking another passerby who, madly, also immediately knew who she was and was eager to engage her in conversation, and asked if she wanted to join the village choir. She was pretty sure that wasn’t in Cormac MacPherson’s notes; he hadn’t mentioned that she’d be expected to have a full personal conversation with literally everybody she met and not much guidance about how to get around. The fact that she wouldn’t have gotten all the necessary relevant information about how to get around by cheerfully talking to everyone she met had simply never occurred to Cormac; how else did people live?

  The farm was small, a few cows and chickens mostly, the farmyard a churn of mud and the track leading up to it single lane and full of potholes. It did, however, crest a vast hill, and she suddenly caught a glimpse of the valley and the village down below, beneath the shadows of the crags, a straight train line on one side and the great expanse of Loch Ness on the other. She stared at it for a long while. It must be so strange to grow up here. All this space, all this fresh air. Did they like it? She supposed they must. How strange.

  Blinking, she stepped out of the car, up to her ankles in mud.

  “Hello?” she shouted out. The farmhouse itself was quiet, old gray stone and empty-looking windows. It was perched high up in the hills and the cold wind whistled through her, completely unprotected above the low stone walls, but the view was utterly breathtaking. She felt as if she were in the middle of a living, breathing painting in a million shades of green.

  For the first time in a while she wasn’t constantly aware of whether her heart was jumping in her chest, wasn’t worried about loud noises or someone creeping up on her. This vast canvas spread in front of her. This landscape with birds rising from scattered seed and tiny bounding spots of fluff on distant hillsides, mirroring the little clouds scudding quickly past in the cold bright blue sky. Lissa shut her eyes and took a deep breath.

  So it was ironic, really, that the very next second she jumped out of her skin.

  Chapter 27

  The traffic wasn’t getting any less frightening, Cormac noticed. He thought there was meant to be something called a “rush hour,” but it didn’t seem to exist here. It was like that all the time.

  The next address was a tower block too, but a very different one.

  Right on the south bank of the river, on a street called, mysteriously, Shad Thames, stood a high warehouse building and, at the very top of it, as if it had been plonked down, a white-paneled house in the shape of a lighthouse, with a weathercock on the top of it, surrounded by terraces overlooking the Tower of London and the sparkling river.

  Inside, it was the most extraordinary place Cormac had ever seen. It was immaculate, beautifully furnished in a minimalistic way. Large, expensive-looking paintings lined the walls, even though from the mirrors on three sides of the room the view was reward enough. It was a beautiful day in London, warm enough that Cormac’s hi-vis jacket was an encumbrance, but the apartment was perfectly temperature controlled. Fresh flowers were lined up on every available surface. There weren’t many drugs in Kirrinfief, but Cormac had dealt with a few overdoses as a student on placement. He’d never, ever met a junkie who kept flowers in a vase.

  Barnabas Collier leaned against an island in the vast kitchen, having buzzed him up. At first Cormac couldn’t imagine what on earth he was doing there. His patient was standing with a glass of something he’d just taken from a massive American fridge. He was incredibly handsome: floppy hair over the high planes of his face, long green eyes. Slim and fit looking. It felt like a setup or a strange blind date gone a bit wrong.

  “Hello,” said Barnabas warmly, shaking his hand. He was wearing lots of what was clearly an extremely expensive cologne. “Coffee? Water? Wine?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” said Cormac, then he frowned and glanced at his hospital notes. Why couldn’t Lissa have filled him in? There was nothing but the basics here . . . “Sorry, it says here we have a wound treatment?”

  “Yah,” said Barnabas, yawning ostentatiously and pouring himself another large glass of Chablis from the fridge. “Sorry, don’t mind if I do? Rather a hair of the dog—I was at a Serpentine party last night, and goodness, you know how they are.”

  Cormac very much did not and smiled awkwardly.

  “So,” said Barnabas, leading him through to the sitting area. It had windows on three sides, two balconies, and a vast gray modular sofa; a huge flat-screen television hung on the wall. Cormac didn’t know many junkies who had those either. “You’re a very rugged young man. One of our Celtic cousins?”

  “Scottish,” said Cormac shortly.

  “Ooh, lovely. Although I do miss busy Lissa . . . Is she well?”

  Cormac shrugged. “Never met her.”

  “Oh, that is such a shame. Seriously, my tastes are”—he gave Cormac a long-lashed look—“very broad, but she is sweet as a peach.”

  He sighed and sat down. Cormac frowned. This man didn’t seem terribly ill at all.

  “Sorry, but . . . why isn’t this being handled by your GP?”

  Barnabas sighed. “Oh yes . . . we had a little bit of a rumpus . . .” He smiled at the memory. “Goodness me, she was quite the . . . well. Mustn’t be disrespectful.”

  “Did you get struck off the list?” said Cormac, amazed.

  “Oh, darling, we both got struck off,” said Barnabas, smiling cruelly. “Ho hum. And I’m banned from Bupa. Hence the riffraff like you, darling.” He lifted up his glass. “Are you sure you don’t want a little glass of this? Just emptying Daddy’s cellar . . . It’s quite tremendous.”

  “No, thank you,” said Cormac. “In fact, I’ve got lots of—”

  “Yes, yes, more patients, I know.”

  Barnabas stood up and unbuckled his trousers. He was wearing Calvin Klein underpants, and although too thin, he was in beautiful shape: a narrow waist, long legs, a broad back. He looked like a statue on the beautiful sofa and gave a “I just can’t help being so gorgeous” look directly at Cormac.

  “Aye, aye,” said Cormac. His attention focused on a small lump on the side of Barnabas’s underpants, and he put on gloves to take a look at it. He had a good idea what it was, but he was utterly horrified when he finally unwrapped the bandage. Suddenly it became clear why Barnabas needed so much aftershave.

  What was revealed wasn’t merely a wound.

  It was a hole, directly into his groin. Even Cormac, who had seen a few things—a man gored by a stag for starters; a tankful of soldiers picked off by snipers—had never seen anything quite like this.

  “I know,” said Barnabas, continuing to drawl. “A little dramatic. Although it’s quite the party piece.”

  The thing was vicious, infected, oozing, incredibly de
ep.

  “Why aren’t you in hospital?!”

  Barnabas rolled his eyes. “They won’t give me the good stuff and they time everything.”

  “You need a skin graft!”

  “Yeeeaass . . .” said Barnabas, staring out the window and gulping his wine, and suddenly the full horror of what was actually happening struck Cormac forcibly.

  Barnabas wasn’t getting help because he didn’t want it. A direct route into his body was actually fairly useful to feed his habit. The two men looked at each other, Cormac trying his best to hide his horror and disgust.

  “And they still want to fuck me, can you believe it?” said Barnabas languidly.

  The pain of it, Cormac thought. The amount of drugs he must need.

  “I’ll need to clean it out,” he said, gulping.

  “Yes, please,” said Barnabas. “I do pretty well, but it tends to make me faint.”

  He slurped more of his wine, and Cormac got to work, glancing at the beautiful telescope and the great hanging works of art and out the vast floor-to-ceiling windows, the Thames in full flow, dredgers, commuting boats, sightseeing boats, and huge tugs full of slurry traversing up and down the great expanse underneath the bridges. It was a profound and extraordinary sight; the city lay at your feet, yours for the taking, everything you could possibly want. And what this beautiful dissipated young man had wanted was to stuff himself so full of drugs that he had created an entire hole in his body.

  Cormac hadn’t really come up against money before—even the local laird was more or less skint, or certainly dressed as though he was. This hushed, thick-carpeted world was new to him.