500 Miles from You (Scottish Bookshop #3)(26)

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 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!”

“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.