3. Ollie
Chapter 3
Ollie
What a bullshit way to start the new year.
Every muscle in my body screams in agony and it's so cold, I can't feel my feet. I shouldn’t be waking up in my van, and definitely not for the second morning in a row.
She's been mine for two months now, but she’s a long way off being ready for the nomad life. Sure, I can drive her, but so far I’ve spent all my time fixing issues with the bodywork before starting on the interior. I haven’t fitted insulation, and I’m nowhere close to building and installing the bed that will keep me comfy and warm on my travels.
I don’t even have a sleeping bag, for fuck’s sake. Last night I slept underneath my jacket, but a freezing night in the van was still a better option than staying in my nightmare house share while a bunch of strangers partied around me.
The only option, actually. I was hardly going to drive home to my parents and admit things aren’t as good as I’ve made them out to be. I’d never be able to unsee the righteous look on Dad’s face.
It was bad enough staying one night for Christmas, all of them sitting around the table blowing smoke up each other's arses while making judgy eyes every time the conversation turned my way. I get it, I’m a huge disappointment, I don’t need a reminder.
Zipping up my jacket, I lock the van and make my way through the quiet suburban streets back towards the house. I daren’t keep the van on our road in case one of the idiots I live with does something stupid to it. Tyler woke up with eleven traffic cones in his bedroom last month, so I know they’ve got form.
On the corner of our street, I dodge a pile of sick, then another, and a third outside my front gate. No surprises for guessing which house the mystery puker stumbled out of.
Moving here was a mistake. If I’d done as I was told, I’m sure I wouldn’t be standing in front of a three story terraced house where the front door's been wide open all night.
These fucking arseholes.
Yesterday was New Year's Day, and I came home around lunchtime, hoping the strangers who turned up to see in the new year would have all left. Unfortunately, they were still going, and showed no sign of stopping. Bass thumped through the walls, and I’m amazed nobody rang the police. They hate us on this street, and I have to avoid eye contact if any of them spot me leaving the house. It’s not my fault my housemates are revolting, inconsiderate pricks.
Thankfully, the house is quiet. I push the door closed behind me and peer into the living room before heading upstairs. On the windowsill, candles flicker dangerously close to the curtains. A couple I’ve never seen in my life are fast asleep on the sofa, with more people on the floor. I tiptoe over them, navigating crushed beer cans and laughing gas canisters, to blow out the candles before they cause any more damage.
This place is disgusting. I’d vow not to clean it up, but I already know nobody else will. I shouldn’t have to live in squalor just because everyone else has no respect for themselves. I’m twenty-three for fuck's sake, and as far as I’m aware, everyone here has jobs, and they all pay their rent. They’re just happy living like pigs.
On the middle floor, I pass the open door where the landlord whacked up a cheap partition wall to turn one bedroom into two. There’s no way it’s legal, but nobody cares about that.
There are five bedrooms, but it seems like several girlfriends live here too, and on weekends an ever rotating list of friends get invited back for parties after a night out. I’m not sure why the girls don’t make them go to their flats. I would never bring a woman back here, which is the main reason I don’t bother to meet anyone.
This house could be so nice in the right hands. I’d love to buy a place like this one day, gut it and renovate it exactly to my tastes, but it looks like the van is as far as I’ll be getting any time soon.
My bedroom is at the top of the house, at the end of the corridor, away from most of the noise. A thin coat of white paint does little to hide the deep purple the small room once was, but it’s warm, dry, and cheap. Cheap means I can spend most of my wages on my van build and save enough money to travel for a year without working.
That’s the real dream. So I keep my head down, go to work, come home, sleep early, and keep a clean bowl and spoon in my bedroom so I can always eat breakfast. If someone hasn’t finished the milk, that is.
Outside my bedroom, a half-naked man is fast asleep on the floor, and he fucking stinks. Someone probably told him he could crash in my bed, which makes me doubly glad I left the house, and fitted a lock on my door the day after I moved in.
I nudge the guy with my foot when it becomes clear I won’t be able to open my door wide enough to get in unless he moves. He rolls over, stretching his body out and blocking it even more.
Fuck this.
There’s barely any battery left on my phone, so I quickly fire off a text and get a reply right away.
Me: Any work I can do today boss?
Danny Porter: You know we’re off until Monday. Have a proper break lad.
I know nobody’s working, but I spent yesterday afternoon nursing a pint in a pub full of old guys, and I can’t face another day doing that.
Me: Could really do with keeping busy
My boss owns a local construction company. He takes our work seriously, but he’s always looked out for me, and takes a genuine interest in what’s going on in my life. He doesn’t know everything that went down when I left home, but he knows enough.
My father, an investment banker, looked at me like I’d asked if I could take a shit on his prized Aston Martin when I said I wanted to work outdoors with my hands, but I'm not built for a desk job. Keeping my body busy keeps my brain occupied, then there’s no time to feel shit about life.
I’m wracking my brains for an alternative plan when my phone buzzes. I just catch the message before it finally dies.
Danny Porter: The Mrs says bring your van over and we’ll work on it together.