Chapter 3
Chapter Three
My eyes slowly adjust to the change of light inside the garage. The place is musty and damp.
On a positive note, it’s slightly bigger than a standard garage.
On a negative note, the roof is probably asbestos, and there’s a puddle on the floor from last night’s rain.
The brick walls are solid enough, although the crumbling mortar looks like it’s being held up by cobwebs.
The whole place is full of dust, and with each breath it tickles the back of my throat, and the concrete floor only adds to the problem.
The old surface is disintegrating, leaving craters of dust and loose stones.
It’s not a palace, that’s for sure. No electricity. No water. But heck, it will have to do.
My already-fatigued body aches as I eye the enormous pile of stuff dumped in the centre of the room, a mound of furniture and clothing. I shake my head.
Gah, my life in bin bags and boxes. I drop my car bin bag onto the pile to deal with later and spin in a circle.
“What the f— Look at that.” I shake my head again, this time in disbelief as I spot the old garden shed that once had pride of place in my grandad’s garden. Now in pieces, carelessly ripped apart and propped up against the far wall.
I rub my forehead as I take it all in—it isn’t my things that upset me. Not really. What bothers me is I can pick out my grandad’s things thrown on top of each other, dumped haphazardly.
Why would Uncle Phillip do that? They’re his dad’s things.
It’s as if what Grandad left of his life, the things important to him, are truly meaningless. My heart hurts. I swallow to get rid of the tightness of grief that’s now blocking my throat.
Keep going. I just need to keep going.
I roll my shoulders and twist my wrist to look at my watch. It’s three o’clock—I worked the early shift today. My eyes drift to the open door as the welcome sunlight spills into the dank space. I have at least six hours of daylight left to get this place shipshape. Yay for British summer.
As carefully as I can, I search through the haphazard piles. “Please be here, please, please, please,” I mumble. Bingo. Yes. Oh, thank God. That’s one thing, one thing out of all this shit, that’s gone right. I grab the old red toolbox.
At first glance, it looks like a piece of junk. But inside it holds so many treasures the toolbox is pure magic.
I’ve also never been more grateful that Grandad has so many little bits and pieces. Hinges, bolts, nails, and screws. The man never threw anything useful away.
I lug the heavy thing towards the wooden side door and get to work.
I hum. I wish I could play music with my phone, but I don’t want to run the battery down needlessly.
There’s enough battery until I get to work tomorrow.
My incessant humming used to drive my grandad crazy.
He’d say, Use your inner voice, Tru. I snort at the memory.
His moaning only encouraged me to hum more.
He also didn’t like the sound of chewing, so whenever I came across a video online where someone was obnoxiously chewing, I’d send him the link. I giggle. God, he’d get so mad.
I grab a screwdriver and attack the hinges on the door.
Lefty loosey. In his day, my grandad was a badass fae warrior.
He wasn’t full fae, but he still had amazing magic.
Grandad was an assassin. He was one of the best. A screw drops into my waiting palm, and I rap it against the door.
Let’s just say I didn’t have a normal childhood, and my grandad taught me everything he could.
He was the bomb. I don’t care what creepy not–Uncle Phillip says.
He was my grandad. I ignore the stinging behind my eyes.
It doesn’t matter that my mum never came back.
It doesn’t matter that Grandad found me on the side of the road.
So I guess she’s dead… I guess all my biological family is dead.
Or… or they didn’t want me.
I grind my teeth so hard my jaw aches. It’s been a long time, eleven years, so it shouldn’t hurt. Hell, I can’t even remember them, even when I close my eyes. No, that’s not quite right. Sometimes I have flashes of my mum’s face, if that’s even real. It could be from a film for all I know.
I grunt as I pull the door away from its frame and try to ignore the bleeding wounds reopened by the death of my grandad.
At least he wanted me. I’m not a kid. I might be only seventeen, but I’ve been looking after Grandad and myself for years.
Using my grandad’s tools with care, I plane the door down, shave off bits of the damaged wood, and reposition brand-new hinges so it now sits perfectly in its frame.
I smile with satisfaction when the door opens and closes smoothly without an issue.
I also take a leaf out of Mr Gregson’s book and install three solid bolts so when I’m here, I can lock the door from the inside.
Mental note: buy wood to secure the main rusty garage door when I get some cash.
I roll my shoulders, and with a scowl and a tired huff, I turn my attention to the leaky roof.
After hours of hard work and racing the slowly fading sunlight, I finish.
The now re-erected six-foot-by-eight-foot shed takes up a sizeable chunk of room, but it’s an added layer of protection around my single bed.
Using the plastic boxes that we already had, my clothing is now safely tucked away underneath.
Battery-powered fairy lights wrap around the low beams, creating perfect lighting.
A thick rug cushions the wooden floor, and I’ve nailed it so it reaches halfway up the walls.
It’s August now, but winter is fast approaching.
It’s going to be unbearably cold in here, so I’ve used whatever I could find to insulate.
My eye twitches as I glare at my grim emergency toilet that sits in the far corner… It’s a bucket, a squished loo roll, and an old bottle of antibacterial handwash. Go me.
I’ve installed shelves, and the old living room furniture is now the right way up and squished together in the corner—most of Grandad’s important things are now off the dirty floor. A small space carved out within the mountains of things. It turns the garage into an odd space. But it works.
My hands throb and my back aches. I can no longer feel my feet. I’ve forgotten about eating, and I haven’t any water to drink or to brush my teeth. So my gnashers are going to have to wait till I go to the gym in the morning. At least no one is around to smell my breath.
At least I have four months left of the gym, somewhere nice to get cleaned up. I’m a bit of a fitness fanatic—exercise helps with the whole grrr side of me. It looks like I’ll be putting it to good use.
Plus the local launderette is only around the corner for my clothes.
“Yep, this is all gonna work out perfectly,” I mumble.
Yeah, I’m Miss Positivity.
I have four solid walls—well, three out of four anyway; I’m going to ignore the entire wall of rotten garage door—a roof over my head, and a door that locks. If you add in the cheap rent, no utility bills, and the bucket—let’s not forget my bucket—I’m living the dream.
Time for bed. I toe my boots off and leave them outside the shed.
Like a paranoid weirdo when I set the shed up, I put the door so that it opens against the garage wall.
I positioned it, thinking that if it’s harder for me to get in, it’s harder for anybody else to get in.
Also, at first glance, it looks abandoned.
No one in their right mind would think there was a bed in there.
So with some fancy manoeuvring, I hold my breath, suck in my already-flat tummy, and shimmy. I have to scrape myself against the walls to get inside.
Although if any creature wants in here, they will not come through the door. Oh no. They will just rip the shed to bits. Little pig, little pig let me in. Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.
I duck and squeeze through the small gap—being tall sucks.
When I’m settled underneath the covers—God, I feel grotty—I look around the small space and take in the warm glow of the fairy lights.
This isn’t so bad.
If I squint, I can almost imagine I’m in a log cabin.
I roll over and groan. My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, and I can’t even work up enough spit. My mouth is as dry as a bone. It’s pathetic that I can’t afford a bottle of water. Dehydration makes my head throb, and on an alternate beat, my stomach aches with hunger pains.
Thumping and fluffing my pillow, I silently berate myself for spending all my money on bills without setting some aside for emergencies. What was I thinking? Such a silly, naive mistake and not something I’m ever going to repeat.
I was so focused on struggling to get the bills up to date, so focused on patting myself on the back and telling myself how smart I was, how grown-up. I didn’t even contemplate the consequences if something went wrong. Never again. I’m going to hoard my money like a squirrel hoards nuts for winter.
Exhaustion hits me like a wave. The lights become hazy and my eyes heavy, so with the last of my energy, I lift my hand and switch off the lights.
Tomorrow will be better.