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

by Jenny Colgan

  Well, he wasn’t, he told himself hotly. He was doing something now. He was helping out and being useful, wasn’t he?

  But he was, unusually, very disinclined to lend a friendly ear to Lissa, who was surrounded by people who wanted her to talk about what she’d been through; who would bend anything to help her get better.

  Lissa had turned up in good time at the appointment – a post-psych ward discharge, which normally meant a suicide attempt – to be confronted at a beaten-down door of a very small farmhouse by a grubby teenage boy and a large, heavily barking dog with slaver dripping down off his chops, which Lissa didn’t like the look of at all.

  ‘Hello!’ she said. ‘I’m from the hospital.’

  ‘Shut your pus, you mingebag,’ was the reply. Lissa blinked.

  ‘Is your mum or dad home? I’m really just here to change your dressings.’

  ‘Feck off, bampot,’ came the reply.

  Lissa didn’t understand any of this, but it didn’t sound particularly welcoming.

  ‘Just let me in to have a look,’ she said. She noticed he was wearing a large, dirty jumper with long sleeves that he had pulled down over his wrists.

  ‘Get to fud,’ he said, turning on his heel in front of the gate. The dog, however, remained rooted to the spot, snarling at her.

  ‘Cormac knows I’m here,’ she tried desperately.

  ‘That fannybaws can fuckety bye an’ all,’ said the boy incomprehensibly, disappearing into the tumbledown old cottage.

  Lissa frowned. She was used to drunk or resistant patients, but it was normally only in the heat of the moment. Working in the community, most people were delighted to see her. Someone like – she checked her notes – Cameron would normally be a social work case. On the other hand, someone needed to take a look at his slit wrists, and that someone was her.

  She came back a couple of days later but the mother was no help. She refused to open the door, shouting that they were busy. Lissa could hear a lot of yelling and banging around through the door, a TV and radio fighting themselves at top volume and the dog barking its head off, and she heaved a sigh and thought, you know, sometimes there was nothing more you could do: if the state tried to help you and you couldn’t take the help, then there was a limit, truly. But the idea of losing another boy scared her rigid, and she was angry that he wouldn’t see a woman; only wanted Cormac.

  She knew she’d been lulled into a false sense of security: most of the patients she’d met had been lovely, gentle and forever pressing her with food, such as shortbread, home-made bread, cream and once memorably – when she’d confirmed Agnieska from the café’s pregnancy – a fresh lobster caught from Loch Ness which she had given to Joan, who had refused to eat it. The lobster was now happily scrappling its way around the surgery fish tank, terrorising the fish.

  Lissa was gradually growing used to the warmth of the local people, so to be confronted like this was terrifying. And, if she was being honest with herself, it was bringing back frightening memories, dialling up her anxiety again. She thought back to what Anita had tried to tell her – to go through the experience again in her head. She hadn’t been doing it, and it was showing; a common or garden issue had turned into a large problem in her head.

  She sighed.

  Cormac,

  Hi there. I’m afraid I’ve had to mark as discharged young Cameron Blaine. He wouldn’t open the door on third time of asking; won’t respond to treatment requests and is refusing treatment all round. I’m not sure what else to do without breaking and entering the house so I’m going to discharge him and file with social services.

  Cormac squinted at it crossly. This was very much not all right. Cameron Blaine had an incredibly difficult background: he’d been excluded from school, his father was in prison and his mother was only not in prison as to save the council a ton of money on trying to rehome all five of the children. The boy desperately needed help and he had . . . he’d been doing not too badly. Mostly just hanging out with him. Cormac had got him to wash his car once or twice, overpaid him but tried to make it clear how to do it thoroughly, how you shouldn’t figure out how to palm the keys in case you wanted to twoc it later. He’d spoken to Duncan, the amiable local policeman, for whom the Blaine family provided more or less ninety-nine per cent of his active work that wasn’t about parking, and they both tried to be casually walking by street corners Cameron was on whenever things looked like they might be getting a bit tasty. Cormac also had an old friend in army recruitment, but he thought that might be a step too far for Cameron, at least at the moment.

  It had been a good solid couple of years of work of trying to build up trust, and Lissa was letting it all collapse in two minutes by behaving like exactly the kind of snotty posh woman Cameron had mistrusted all his life. He was angry and emailed back quickly something exactly on those lines, basically instructing her to get back there and get things sorted out.

  ‘He was very grumpy,’ she complained to Nina in the van the next day. Nina squinted. ‘Cormac MacPherson?’ she said. He’d done the health visiting for John when he was tiny and had come in, bounced the tiny creature up and down, dangled him from his fingertips, while she had watched in horror, turned him upside down to glance at his bum and said, ‘Yup, perfect bairn, A1,’ and got straight up again. Lennox had allowed himself a private grin given how much Nina had fretted about the baby and whether he was all right and if a snuffle meant he was going to die. Lennox knew livestock, and obviously his only son wasn’t livestock, but he wasn’t exactly not livestock, and Lennox knew something bouncing with glorious health when he saw it.

  ‘I know,’ said Lissa crossly. She was more upset than she’d let on; she’d kind of thought they were becoming . . . friends didn’t seem to quite work. Penpals?

  However, she’d made sure every other note she’d sent that day had been entirely professional in possibly quite a passive-aggressive way and he had, equally passive-aggressively, not got back to her at all and left her in quite the temper.

  Her face softened, though, as she spied the new Kate Atkinson novel and Nina handed it over.

  ‘Maybe London’s affecting Cormac,’ said Nina thoughtfully. ‘Making him cranky. Is he happy there?’

  Lissa looked pensive.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It never occurred to me to ask. I’ve no idea how he’s getting on.’

  ‘Right,’ said Nina. ‘Well . . . maybe you should?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Lissa. ‘And what about Cameron Blaine?’

  Nina looked around. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I don’t know. I mean, I believe books can fix most things but . . .’

  She had a sudden thought.

  ‘You could try?’

  And she went to the shelf of classics and pulled out The Catcher in the Rye.

  ‘Buying him a book?’ said Lissa.

  ‘No need to sound so sarcastic.’

  ‘I don’t want to buy him a present! I want to clip him round the ear.’

  ‘Tell me you didn’t say that to Cormac.’

  ‘No,’ said Lissa, looking chastened. ‘He’s not talking to me now anyway.’ She picked up the familiar copy; it was the edition she knew, with the red horse on the cover.

  ‘Do you think? It’s ancient now.’

  Nina shrugged.

  ‘Does as good a job at reaching adolescent alienation as anything I’ve ever known.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Lissa. ‘Okay, I’ll take it. Cormac can pay me back for going above and beyond.’

  ‘Bring it back if he doesn’t want it,’ said Nina.

  ‘What if he can’t read?’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘What if the dog eats it?’

  ‘I think you’re procrastinating.’

  Lissa thought guiltily of everything she should have been doing, and felt the anxiety surge again.

  ‘Maybe,’ she admitted.

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Nina. ‘Most people when they come across the Blaines just turn and run. Procrastin
ation is a step in the right direction.’

  But even when she wanted to email Cormac to tell him what she’d done – she’d left a note inside the book, put it on top of the letter box and, she was ashamed to say, run away – she found she didn’t because she still hadn’t heard from him. And then she was puzzled why she even cared that she hadn’t heard from him, and wanted to stop checking her phone, which was annoying because . . . well. It was annoying. He was being stubborn and irritating and accusing her of not doing her job, and she was furious.

  Cormac was furious. He would have thought that she of all people would understand the vulnerability of damaged young men; she was literally there to try and look after them and make life a bit better. Okay, so they were a bit tasty, but he’d met plenty worse on her beat. He reckoned she thought everyone in the Highlands was just adorable like on a shortbread tin, and everything was gorgeous and perfect. She didn’t want anything to cloud her judgement of how beautiful the place was or to spoil her vision of loveliness. It was all about her. But there was poverty and deprivation there as there was anywhere else; sometimes worse due to isolation, stretched services, low wages and bad public transport. She couldn’t turn her head away just because it wasn’t pretty and she had to realise that. And now Robbie was preying on his mind too.

  London annoyed him tonight; it was hot and noisy and he couldn’t sleep. He wished he was back at home in the cool breeze of the cottage, the window opened, nothing but the rustle of . . . SHIT! He sat bolt upright in bed.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Cormac was still cross with Lissa. He didn’t want to email her. And it was late. But he’d forgotten about Ned! How could he? Damn damn damn damn. London had turned his head.

  He reached for his laptop and opened it up. Maybe she’d be in bed. Or asleep. And he didn’t want to type first – it would look like he’d been apologising.

  He looked at his last sent message and winced a little. Maybe it had been a little harsh. But even so, this was serious.

  He sat in his T-shirt and boxers on the side of the too-small single bed, rubbing the back of his neck with his large hand, wondering what to do. Finally, he began to type: Are you up?

  Lissa couldn’t deny being pleased but was also annoyed that a: she was still up and b: she’d been waiting to hear from him while pretending she wasn’t. She typed, rather stiffly: Can I help you?

  Can you hear anything in the garden?

  What? Why, what is it? Is someone out there?

  No. Yes. No.

  Heart beating slightly fearfully, Lissa jumped up. Was it the family she’d seen earlier? Were they going to come round, torch the place or something? She stared out into the garden. She couldn’t see anything, but she could hear a rustle. A definite rustle. Her heart started pumping nineteen to the dozen.

  Do I need to call 999?

  Cormac stared at the computer in disbelief, starting to laugh.

  God, no. DON’T! It’s Neddie. I forgot he comes about this time and I meant to tell you and if you don’t feed him he might leave.

  ?????

  In the spring. When he wakes up.

  ????

  He’s a hedgehog.

  HEDGEHOG?

  Yes.

  YOU GAVE ME A HEART ATTACK FOR A FRICKING HEDGEHOG!

  He’s a very nice hedgehog.

  I DON’T WANT A FRICKING HEDGEHOG!

  I’m not asking you to adopt him. Could you leave a saucer out for him? Water and honey. Not milk – that’s a myth.

  You want me to get up right now, go out in the pitch-dark and freezing cold and leave honey for a hedgehog?

  Is that okay? Only if he doesn’t find it, he’ll go elsewhere and he’ll get killed on the road or something.

  Lissa looked outside again but couldn’t see a thing. There was some rustling. Oh crap, she was going to have to go outside, otherwise she’d be a hedgehog murderer as well as a “bad nurse”. She rolled her eyes and went downstairs, squeezing some Huckle honey and water into a little saucer.

  The world outside was extraordinary. No cars passed at this time on the little road so there was no manmade light to be seen anywhere except the dim kitchen lamp in the cottage.

  An almost full moon shone overhead, making everything bright and clear. The stream rippled, full of gold and silver, and the heavy scent of the bluebells settled over everything. The grass was wet and cold beneath Lissa’s feet; it needed cutting but she didn’t mind. She stepped forwards carefully into the enchanted midnight garden, not a soul in sight, waited for her eyes to adjust, then knelt down.

  She padded as quietly as she could over to the rustling bush, then took out her phone and turned on the torch. And there it was! A tiny flash of two bright eyes, then in a blink the little creature was in a fierce ball.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she crooned. ‘It’s okay.’

  She switched the torch off immediately; she didn’t want to scare him.

  ‘Here.’

  She put the saucer down, the moon reflecting straight into the clear ice cool water, then retreated quietly and knelt down by the back door, absolutely freezing, to watch.

  After what felt like a long time, when she could make out all the outlines of the bushes and the trees perfectly well, the rustling started up again, and she saw the little shape scamper on tiny feet over to the bowl. It was so cute she nearly made a sound, and she wanted desperately to take a photo but knew she couldn’t.

  Instead, she simply sat and watched, feeling incredibly privileged as the tiny thing lapped at the saucer happily. She felt as if royalty had come to tea; as if the universe had bestowed upon her a great secret gift.

  Euphorically, she stayed completely still until he had had his fill, refilled the saucer, then headed back up to bed, chilled but triumphant.

  He’s here!

  Great!

  Why is he called Ned?

  All hedgehogs are called Ned! Neddie Needles!

  His full name is ‘Neddie Needles’?

  That’s what’s on his birth certificate.

  I’ve seen worse.

  So have I.

  How do you know it’s the same hedgehog?

  I put a splodge of paint on his bristles – did you see it?

  Isn’t that cruel?

  It’s a very tiny splodge. Right, I’m going to bed. You can report me to the Royal Society for the Prevention of Paint-Based Hedgehog Cruelty.

  There was a pause. Then Cormac wrote:

  Sorry for being hard on you about Cameron. I’ve had a tough day.

  No, you were right. I just wasn’t expecting it. I bought him a book!

  Have you been hanging out with Nina?

  Might have.

  She thinks that’s the answer to everything.

  Maybe it is.

  If he can read.

  I’ll pop back in.

  Cheers.

  Well, goodnight.

  Goodnight.

  And then a short time later:

  PART THREE

  Chapter One

  Ned was gone the next day, but Lissa refilled his saucer anyway. She’d have liked to have taken a picture. On the other hand, she had a drawing. She pushed on through the garden and out into the field behind the house.

  Lissa found herself wandering through the waist-high meadowsweet, breathing it in. When it wasn’t absolutely hosing it, there was no doubt that the landscape was completely ridiculous. She supposed the rain was what made the green so vivid as to be luminous, and the clumps of wildflowers – and nettles, as she discovered wandering off-piste and being glad she hadn’t gone the whole hog and plumped for shorts – so vibrant and full, the bees dancing among the tall purple flowers.

  She found another stream nestling through the woods past the bluebells and, worrying slightly as to whether or not she’d be poisoned (she checked for sheep pooing in it: there didn’t seem to be many nearby), finally filled her water bottle, the sun was warm on her back, and took a long pull.

  The freezing
bright freshness of it made her gasp; she could feel it coursing down her throat, so pure and clean and refreshing she felt her eyes dazzle with it, as she straightened up, almost drunk on the frozen light, and found herself face to face with a stag on the opposite bank of the stream.

  She blinked and stretched out her phone to take a picture, almost as if it wasn’t real until she did . . . but as soon as she moved her arm, to her great regret, the stag turned and bounded away, crackling through the bracken with astonishing speed, until it was gone and she felt like she’d dreamed it.

  She carried on, walking almost without direction, off past the village and onto a long road overshadowed with trees. It was further than it looked, and she realised quickly that she was out of condition. She’d just been sitting, she thought to herself. Sitting and fretting and obsessing and fiddling with her phone just to put off . . . well, everything. Looking at pictures of other people’s parties. It had been a distraction, but it hadn’t helped. Anita was right. Coming off social media was the best thing she’d done.

  She hit the roadway eventually, about to turn back when she saw trundling towards her a pale blue van, and recognised Zoe, the woman with all the children driving it, although she was alone for once. She waved, and Zoe immediately pulled over.

  ‘Hello! Want a lift?’

  Lissa almost smiled: it felt as if the universe had answered her so quickly.

  ‘Um, yes please. Are you heading to the village?’

  ‘Nina needs to do the banking. Hop in!’

  ‘It’s weird to see you by yourself.’

  ‘I know! Having both hands to myself is very strange.’

  Lissa pulled herself up into the van’s tall carriage. Zoe passed her a bag of tablet.