500 Miles from You

by Jenny Colgan

  He didn’t like it at all.

  He refilled Barnabas’s glass at his request (Barnabas slugged it as if it were water), then he anesthetized the area—Barnabas laughed at the idea of that doing him any good at all—and cleaned and swabbed it, then filled it with packing and taped 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.”

  Cormac looked at him in amazement. “You’ve just met me!”

  “I know!” said Barnabas. “It’ll be adorable! You’ll be like my pet 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 readmitting 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 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 toward a pile of invitations and thick gilt-edged cards.

  Cormac was still anxious about him. “Are you in pain?”

  “Why, what do you have?” asked 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 red beefeaters talking to brightly windbreakered 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 realized the Tower Bridge still opened up. But there it was, the cars and bright red buses lined up on either side of its bright blue span, 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, elegantly, sailing straight toward it. On the banks of the river, all sorts of people gathered to watch—parents pointing for children; well-fed businessmen at expensive Shad Thames restaurants, their expense account lunches forgotten, standing up to get a better look—the sun 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.”

  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 getting impatient, the children pulling at their mothers’ skirts. Cormac let himself out and down the luxurious elevator, back to the new mysterious streets so far below.

  Chapter 28

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

  “Ah,” said Aonghas, jumping back in alarm. “Ach, now.”

  “What the hell?” yelled Lissa, red-faced and furious. She realized her arm was up and slowly brought it down. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Well, aye, well, this is my farm?” said Aonghas, 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 to enjoy the sunshine; it had rained over the last few days and 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 for the realization 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 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, as 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 wooden 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 anci
ent wooden chairs.

  “Okay,” said Lissa. “Can I have a look?”

  Aonghas took off his heavy shetland jumper and unbuttoned his frayed check shirt until he was sitting in his undershirt; 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 on the surface, 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 cross 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 should have warned Cormac about him.

  “I’m going to clean it out,” she told him. “It might hurt a bit.”

  “Aye,” said Aonghas as if this didn’t bother him, which indeed it didn’t.

  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 with 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 the window, thinking about whether he should sow some more buttercup seed in the big meadow. It was a waste of money, but the cows loved them, and the blooms did look pretty in the sunshine.

  “Does she kick you often? Because, you know, there are organizations 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 . . .”

  Aonghas turned around. “Whit are you talking aboot?” he said, narrowing his eyes.

  “I’m just saying,” said Lissa. “Abuse is nothing to be ashamed of. There are people out there who can help, who care.”

  “That my cow kicked me halfway to kingdom come because I had cold hands?”

  There was a pause.

  “Oh,” said Lissa. “Oh!”

  Her hand flew to her mouth.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I thought . . .”

  “You thought what?”

  “I thought Maisie was your wife.”

  “Maisie?” Aonghas couldn’t suppress a laugh. “I tell you, lass, if I had to marry one of my cows it wouldn’t be that grumpy aul bitch!”

  Lissa suddenly found herself bursting out laughing.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” she said. “Sorry. It’s a horrible part of my job.”

  “Aye,” said Aonghas reflectively, even as she disinfected the wound area without him even wincing. “Must be.

  “Want a bit of lunch?” he said as she finished up with cream and rewrapped the bandage. Normally Lissa would have said no, but she was so unutterably starving hungry. Plus, somehow being around the farmyard and out in the open air had done something to her appetite.

  Aonghas got up and stoked the fire, then brought over a stained teapot with fresh tea, a cup of foaming milk, a loaf of fresh white bread, a glass jar full of unidentifiable objects, and a hunk of cheese. He handed Lissa a long, thin metal prong, which she had never before seen in her life. She took it and followed his lead, as he sawed off a rough slice of the bread, poked his toasting fork through it, and held it out just above the flames. Then he did the same with a lump of cheese, until it was melting on the outside, just turning brown around the edges, and starting to drip into the grate, whereupon he roughly spread it on the bread. He opened the glass jar and took out a home-pickled onion, which he took bites of as if it were an apple.

  Living in London, Lissa had taken advantage of the many amazing and varied cuisines the capital had to offer. She’d tried kangaroo; she’d eaten vegetarian mango curries with her fingers; she’d watched people throw things in the air at Benihana and lift up glass bowls of smoke and tell her to breathe in straw fumes. Kim-Ange had even once gone to a restaurant where everyone had to eat in the dark and had a very happy evening confusing the other patrons and the waitstaff.

  But this was one of the strangest dining experiences she’d ever had. And yet the thick malted bread, slightly charred around the edges; the strong melting cheese; and the tartness of the sour onion all taken together when you were absolutely starving, and washed down with the foamy milk, was one of the most delicious and satisfying meals she’d ever tasted. She sat back in front of the fire with a smile, the sun streaming into the bare room, total silence except for the ticking of an antique clock on the mantelpiece.

  “Thank you,” she said eventually. “That was very kind.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Aonghas. “I’ll be sure to pass on your regards to Maisie.”

  Lissa grinned. “Okay. Listen, don’t get it wet, try to sleep on your front, and I think you can take the bandage off yourself in a week. Otherwise call the service and they’ll make you another appointment.”

  Aonghas smiled. “Ach, lass, I think I can manage that.”

  “I think you can too,” said Lissa. “Good luck with Maisie.”

  “She’s an aul bitch,” said Aonghas.

  And Lissa drove away from the farm and stopped by the side of the field, where a clutch of extremely contented-looking peanut-butter-brown and white cows peacefully grazed in the cold sunshine on a field that glowed with buttercups, and they all looked beautiful.

  Chapter 29

  After several more house calls, and both of them getting lost countless times—as well as a near miss with a cyclist who called Cormac several names he hadn’t heard before and didn’t feel he entirely deserved, and Lissa finding that, off-puttingly, people knew more and more about her as she did the rounds so that by the time she got to the last house someone was sending good wishes to her mother—each collapsed at home, equally exhausted. Lissa wasn’t at all sure this placement was quite as restful as HR thought it was, although she had rather enjoyed the twenty minutes she’d had to sit stationary in the car while a flock of sheep was herded up the road. She must take a book with her for the next time she found herself waiting, then realized what a long time it had been since she’d even felt unstressed enough to consider reading a book. Interesting.

  Cormac by contrast was feeling antsy, oddly full of nervous energy for someone who was normally a pretty laid-back person. It was as if London had this static electricity that buzzed through it, making you wriggly. Maybe that was why so many people here were so skinny.

  Lissa had to log on to her Skype session with her Occupational Health therapist next, which she was looking forward to about as much as a plate of snake spaghetti, so she thought she might as well get the emails over with first.

  It was a very odd experience, sitting in someone’s front room, with his telly and his Xbox and his sofa and his cups and plates, and introducing yourself. Biting her lip slightly, Lissa picked up her laptop and began.

  To: cormac.macpherson@npl.nhs.uk

  * * *

  Hi, this is Alyssa Westcott. Thanks for the notes, they were really helpful.

  She lied. She would definitely read them later.

  The house is
cool.

  She didn’t mention how the idea of having an entire house to yourself, with a garden and a spare bedroom and a stove and a stream, was insane. She was sitting in about five million quids’ worth of real estate, if it could only be shifted 583 miles south.

  Here’s what to look out for tomorrow. James Felixton’s dog will try to eat you, but Lee Cheung’s is fine. James’s is a little dog and Lee’s is a big dog. Please don’t try and talk too much at the Frasers’, they have form for reporting people. And park in the home car park on the Effinch estate but pay for street parking at the Widdings estate, they’re buggers.

  Cormac looked at it. Well, that was a bit more useful. She didn’t seem very friendly, though, which was exactly the message that had been passed on down from everyone who had met her or met someone who had met her or simply liked to have a view on things. He really hoped this wasn’t going to turn out more stressful than London for her. Also she hadn’t asked him whether he was enjoying London. Probably assumed that he’d absolutely have to love London—who wouldn’t? He felt a little bristly about this.

  To: alyssa.westcott@npl.nhs.uk

  * * *

  Hi Alyssa, thanks for all of that. Let me know if you need me to draw you any maps, I know some places are hard to find. Also I like drawing. ☺ How are you settling in? Are you liking it?

  But Lissa had already moved on to the next thing she had to do, the appointment she was dreading, and didn’t reply. Well, so much for you, thought Cormac, leaving his phone and moving to the window, trying to open it to circulate the stale trapped air of the heavily populated building. But it kept sticking in the frame, and no matter how hard he tugged, the window wouldn’t open.

  Chapter 30

  Lissa made herself a huge cup of tea. Anything to postpone the inevitable. She knew lots of people had therapists. She didn’t see any stigma in it, but she’d never felt the need for one herself. But that was before. And now it was 6:30. It was time.

  It took a few moments for the pixels to rearrange themselves, but the figure on the other side finally settled down into a woman of about fifty, well put together, with a humorous tinge around her mouth and a level gaze visible even through the camera lens and the poor reception. She also appeared to be eating something from a bowl.