500 Miles from You (Scottish Bookshop #3)(5)

The harsh strip lights felt purgatorial; the rain-spattered windows showed nothing but themselves back to them. Lissa wondered for a second if they had all died in that ambulance. Her eyes were drawn to the door as a bent-over woman entered, her face anxiously scanning everybody in the room. When she saw Lissa, she blinked.

The woman who approached them couldn’t have been much older than Lissa, was surely only in her thirties. But the expression on her face was that of someone who’d lived a million lives.





Chapter 5


The woman was pulling her cardigan around herself, shuddering in the cold wind, the rain spattering from the south.

“Och, hello there, Cormac.”

“Hello there yourself, Mrs. Coudrie.”

There was a pause. “Could you just . . . I really don’t want to bother the doctor.”

He turned to Jake. “Off you go,” he said. “I can get myself home.”

Jake grimaced. “Is it wee Islay?”

The woman nodded.

“Aye, aye, I’ll come along,” said Jake, with the resigned voice of a man who knows that his dream of a lovely foaming pint and possibly a quick flirt with Ginty MacGuire has almost certainly just vanished forever.





Chapter 6


Lissa lifted her eyes to the strange woman’s. The lady’s face was drawn with pain.

“Excuse me,” she said.

It was as if someone were speaking from far away. Lissa managed to blink. “Yes?”

“I’m . . . I’m Kai Mitchell’s mother?”

She said it so quaveringly, as if she wasn’t absolutely sure whether she was or whether she could still describe herself as such. Perhaps, Lissa found herself thinking, she wasn’t a mother anymore. She must be Ezra’s auntie.

Ashkan jumped up and offered her a chair.

“No,” she said gravely. “No, thank you. I don’t want to sit.” She looked around the chilly clinical cafeteria. “I’m not staying.”

Ashkan leaned over. “I am so, so sorry for your loss.”

She held up her hand. “I’m not. I’m furious.”

Lissa nodded, something stirring within her. “Me too,” she said.

Ashkan shot her a warning glance that she ignored. Instead she stood up.

“I’m furious too.”

“I just wanted to know,” said the woman. Behind her, at the door, stood a cluster of frightened, upset people: friends and family. Outside, Lissa knew, would be cameras, journalists, the media, desperate to spin another narrative of death.

In here, in this now-silent room, was just a desolate mother.

“You have people helping you?” said Ashkan, looking over. “You won’t be alone.”

“Yes, I will,” said the woman. “Were you with him?”

Ashkan indicated Lissa. “She was with him the most. She did the most.”

“I didn’t do enough,” said Lissa dully. If she’d been braver. If she’d realized the car was going too fast, shouted a warning. If she’d paid more attention.

“You need to know we did everything we could. We tried . . .” said Ashkan—they couldn’t be too careful, not these days, with lawyers hanging around like carrion crows.

But the woman wasn’t listening to him. She had stepped forward and was taking Lissa’s cold hands.

“You held his hand?”

Lissa nodded.

“This hand held his hand?”

“We tried,” said Lissa.

And suddenly the two women were weeping in each other’s arms, clinging to each other. Ashkan was very unhappy. This wasn’t appropriate, not at all. He wasn’t sure what to do.

“I’m so sorry,” Lissa sobbed.

“Did he say anything?”

Lissa desperately wanted to say he had asked for her or said to tell her that he loved her. But she couldn’t.

“He was . . . he was already so unwell,” she said.

The woman nodded. “Oh well,” she said. “I’m glad . . . I’m glad someone was with him.”

Lissa nodded, wishing she could do more.

“All those people shouting at me,” said the woman, looking confused. “You know, they want to chop him up! They were shouting at me! To chop him up! To cut up the body of my son! Before he’s even cold! To cut bits off him!”

Ashkan winced. The transplant people were so desperate, so determined—and if he had good organs, oh, what a difference they would make to people.

Lissa seemed to snap out of herself a little then and straightened up. “What did you say?” she asked.





Chapter 7


The cottage was nearly identical to the one they’d just left but furnished in a neutral, modern style, with a wood-burning stove and large prints of the children in black and white on the walls.

“Hello there, Islay,” Cormac said cheerily. “Why aren’t you asleep, then?”

The tween was lying on the bed, blue and breathing heavily. Nonetheless she attempted a grin for Cormac and a slightly flirtatious look for Jake, who was generally a hit with the ladies.

“Ach, you’ve looked better,” said Cormac, understating the case. The child had severe cardiomyopathy, and absolutely nothing seemed to be helping. The pacemaker was just the latest in a line of therapies that were failing her.