Five Hundred Miles From You: the brand new, life-affirming, escapist novel of 2020 from the Sunday Times bestselling author

by Jenny Colgan

  For the first time in a while, she wasn’t constantly aware of whether her heart was jumping in her chest, or worried about loud noises or someone creeping up on her. She stopped to look at this vast canvas spread in front of her, 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 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 Eleven

  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 on the top, was a white-panelled house in the shape of a lighthouse with a weathercock on the top of it. The warehouse was surrounded by terraces overlooking the Tower of London as well as looking up and down the sparkling river.

  Inside, it was the most extraordinary place Cormac had ever seen. It was immaculate; beautifully furnished in a minimalistic way. Vast, 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 climate-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. This was odd though, if the notes were correct. He’d never, ever met a junkie who kept flowers in a vase.

  Barnabas Collier leaned against an island in the enormous kitchen, having buzzed Cormac 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 huge American fridge. He was incredibly handsome: slim and fit-looking, he had floppy hair over the high planes of his face, with green eyes. It felt like a set-up, 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 a 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 seating area. It had floor-to-ceiling windows, two balconies, a vast grey modular sofa and a huge flat-screen television 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 riff-raff 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, was in beautiful shape: a narrow waist, long legs and a broad back. He looked like a statue, and gave an ‘I just can’t help being so gorgeous’ look directly at Cormac as he did so.

  ‘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 and incredibly deep.

  ‘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!’

  ‘Yeeess . . .’ said Barnabas, staring out the window and gulping at 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, trying not to stare out of the floor-to-ceiling windows or be distracted by the beautiful telescope and the great hanging works of art, or the Thames in full flow with dredgers, commuting boats, sightseeing boats and vast tugs full of slurry commuting up and down the great expanse underneath the bridges. It was a profound and extraordinary sight; the city laid 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. But he needed to focus on the job at hand.

  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.

  He didn’t like it at all.

  He refilled Barnabas’s glass at his request. Barnabas slugged it as if it were water. Then Cormac anaesthetised the area – Barnabas laughed at the idea of that doing him any good at all – and cleaned and swabbed it before filling it with packing and taping it together as best he could. It was nothing like enough.

  ‘You need to be in hospital,’ he said urgently. ‘If you get sepsis, it could kill you.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Barnabas. ‘I’m having far too good a time.’

  He waved his arm around. ‘You should join us tonight; there’s a Shoreditch restaurant opening. Some filthy fusion thing, but the champagne should be good.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Cormac, who thought it was perfectly natural to be asked to go somewhere on the spur of the moment. ‘But I’d better skip to work.’

  ‘Aw,’ pouted Barnabas. ‘It’ll be adorable! You’ll be like my
pet nurse.’

  He winced as Cormac spread the disinfectant further.

  ‘Ooh,’ he said. ‘Yes – my private nurse! I can pay you. Better than what you’re on, wouldn’t be hard. Look after me. Keep it clean. You wouldn’t even have to sleep with me!’

  Cormac frowned.

  ‘Don’t talk to me like that. Don’t talk to anyone like that.’

  Barnabas pouted.

  ‘Most people want to sleep with me.’

  Cormac blinked.

  ‘Where’s your mum and dad?’ he said quietly. Barnabas shrugged. ‘Oh, Mummy’s in Monaco, of course. She gets her drugs through plastic surgery. We both pretend we never notice. Daddy has two other families now. I can never remember the order; so very dreary.’

  Cormac looked at him.

  ‘I don’t even want to try stitching it up.’

  ‘No,’ said Barnabas.

  ‘But could you . . . could you consider re-admitting yourself? Otherwise you’re going to find yourself on the floor of A&E again.’

  Barnabas waved his hand at Cormac. ‘Oh, I will, I will. When I’m not so busy.’

  He picked up his phone again and scrolled through Instagram, wincing at many different shots of his own beautiful face. Cormac stood up.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure you must go, darling . . .’

  ‘Please, please check yourself in.’

  ‘Oh yes, darling,’ said Barnabas. ‘I’ll add it to the therapists, the rehab people, the psychiatrist, the art therapist and the yoga guru list Mummy sent over.’

  He waved his hand towards a pile of invitations and thick gilt-edged cards. Cormac was still anxious about him.

  ‘Are you in pain?’

  ‘Why, what do you have?’ said Barnabas.

  ‘Not like that. I mean. Inside.’

  Barnabas blinked.

  ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘Everything’s fabulous!’ And he heaved himself to his feet. ‘Come look.’

  He grabbed Cormac by the shoulder, pulled him to the window.

  ‘Look out there,’ he said. ‘Look at everything down there. Look at it. Look at that old tower . . .’

  He indicated the vast sprawl of the Tower of London, dotted with bright red Beefeaters talking to cagouled tourists.

  ‘See down there? That’s layers of living history. Right in front of you. There’s Traitors’ Gate. That’s where they rowed in Anne Boleyn for the last time. You can stand there, feel what went through her mind. Look at that bridge.’

  Cormac gasped. He hadn’t even realised Tower Bridge did still open up. But there it was, the cars and bright red buses lined up either side of its bright blue sides as incredibly slowly, the road itself, markings and all, began to move. It was hypnotic, particularly as a tall ship, sails furled, masts high, was carefully and elegantly sailing straight towards it. On the banks of the river, all sorts of people gathered to watch: parents pointing to children; well-fed businessmen at up-market Shad Thames restaurants, their expense account lunches forgotten, standing up to get a better look. The sun was gleaming off the water and the polished teak of the boat’s hull as she glided through, as if impudently unaware of asking an entire city to stop just for her beauty.

  ‘Wow,’ he said.

  ‘The city is yours for the taking,’ said Barnabas. ‘I don’t want any more of it.’

  ‘But you said tonight would be fun.’

  ‘For you,’ he said. ‘Not for me.’ He collapsed back onto the sofa. He looked very wasted now.

  ‘Do not,’ he said, ‘let it use you up and spit you out. But do not waste it. And do not miss its magic.’

  The bridge was slowly lowering again; the taxis were getting impatient, and the children pulling at their mother’s skirts. Cormac let himself out and down the luxurious elevator, back to the new mysterious streets so far below.

  Chapter Twelve

  Aonghas Collins didn’t mean to be frightening; he just had absolutely no idea why someone he assumed was Cormac from the uniform was hanging about his farmyard when they both had plenty to be getting on with, so he lumbered over carefully.

  ‘Aye, whit are you doing, you lazy big Jessie?’ he said, his brain, not being of the quickest sort, not quite getting into gear before he’d hit the fluorescent medical jacket squarely on the back with his good arm, knocking the figure forward and eliciting, to his horror, a loud scream.

  The person turned round, black curls bouncing, hand up, ready to slap him in the face, true terror and panic in her eyes.

  ‘Ah,’ said Aonghas, jumping back in alarm. ‘Ach, now.’

  ‘What the hell?’ yelled Lissa, red and furious. She realised her arm was up and slowly brought it down. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘Well, aye, well, this is my farm,’ said Aonghas, muttering and looking around carefully just in case it might, for whatever reason, not actually be his farm.

  Lissa was panting.

  ‘Why did you hit me?’

  ‘Aye, well, I thought you were Cormac,’ said Aonghas, screwing up his eyes apologetically.

  ‘Do I look like Cormac?’

  ‘Aye, no, well, no, no you don’t, no.’

  ‘Why did you hit Cormac?’

  Aonghas didn’t really like being told off in his own farmyard.

  ‘Didn’t he tell you I was taking his place?’

  It was entirely possible, Aonghas had to concede. Truth was, his mind wandered a little bit from time to time when people were talking too much, to wondering how his cows were getting on. He hadn’t done well in school. But it hadn’t mattered much. Although he supposed, indirectly, it had led to this – a strange woman shouting at him in his own farmyard . . . His gaze wavered over to the high field, where he’d turned the cows out. The grass was so green it was practically fluorescent.

  ‘Excuse me, are you listening?’

  Aonghas looked at the girl again. She sounded bossy.

  ‘Just . . . don’t sneak up on people . . .’ she said, as if she’d slightly run out of steam.

  He blinked.

  ‘But you’re in my farmyard,’ said Aonghas again, stubborn as his own cows when it came to sticking to a point.

  They seemed to be at something of an impasse. Lissa, who had been shocked to the point of tears, then furious with both herself and this man at the realisation that of course she wasn’t any better yet, how could she be, tried to shake herself out of it and glanced down at her notes.

  ‘A-oooo,’ she started, then gave up. ‘Are you Mr Collins?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Aonghas, who was thinking it must be lunchtime.

  ‘I’m standing in for Cormac. I’m here to look at your back.’

  Aonghas didn’t want this bossy person – a woman no less – to have anything to do with his wound but he didn’t quite have the courage to say so in case she yelled at him again.

  ‘Aye,’ he said.

  He looked in pretty good health from what Lissa could see but she followed him into the farmhouse.

  Inside the low building was a nearly bare kitchen, with a long low table. One cup, plate and knife were neatly washed up on a draining board. Minimal supplies – porridge, flour, a small bowl of apples – were on the surfaces of the old kitchen; a fire was dying down in the corner. Aonghas paced over the flagstones, scowling. He didn’t have people in the house very often, and he was never there himself during the day. He led Lissa to the table and sat on one of the ancient wooden chairs.

  ‘Okay,’ said Lissa. ‘Can I have a look?’

  Aonghas took off his heavy Shetland jumper and unbuttoned his ancient frayed check shirt until he was sitting in his vest – the air in the dark house was chill, but he didn’t seem to notice. Lissa gasped when she took off the blood-soaked bandage. A great curl of skin had come off his back and the top of his right shoulder. It was all superficial but it was a horrible thing to see, like he’d been sandpapered. It must have hurt like hell.

  ‘Are you all right? Doesn’t it hurt?’

  Aonghas shrugged. />
  ‘What happened? It looks like a burn.’

  ‘Aye, Maisie got right shirty with me.’

  Lissa rummaged in her bag for the disinfectant and Sudocrem and looked at him. Was that his wife? Girlfriend? Was she going to have to hand out one of her domestic violence leaflets?

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, keeping her voice neutral as she always did in these situations. ‘Did you have a bit of an argument? Had you been drinking?’

  Aonghas snorted.

  ‘Naw! She just kicked me.’

  ‘You know,’ said Lissa, inspecting it. It didn’t smell, which was a good sign; it wasn’t suppurating. She remembered suddenly that Barnabas had been on her list today. Oh crap. She really would have to warn Cormac about him.

  ‘I’m going to clean it out,’ she warned him. ‘It might hurt a bit.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Aonghas, as if this didn’t bother him, which indeed it didn’t. He sat down as she ran a bowl with very hot water.

  ‘So,’ she said, launching into the spiel. ‘Relationships can be tricky, can’t they?’

  Aonghas wouldn’t know about that, as he had a special lady friend in Inverness whom he saw strictly on market days and the rest of the time got along just fine, thank you very much.

  ‘Do you find you fight a lot?’

  Lissa was abrading a small piece of flesh; Aonghas didn’t even wince. Amazing.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ she said. ‘So, about the fighting . . . I mean, it’s hard, sometimes. To live together.’

  Aonghas was looking out of the window thinking about whether he should sow some more buttercup seed in the big meadow. It was a waste of money, but they loved them, and it did look pretty in the sunshine.

  ‘Does she kick you often? Because you know, there are organisations that can help out there. People tend to think that they’re just for women, but they aren’t; it’s a common misconception. Everyone suffers from violence and there is help available. I can get you a leaflet . . .’