Free Ollie Always by John Wiltshire

staring out over the lake then turned back and focused directly on Ollie, his eyes narrowed and determined. “I had a posting a couple of years ago to Headley Court in Leatherhead. Have you heard of it? I don’t suppose you have. It’s the army’s rehab unit. Can you imagine what it’s like relearning how to swim with no legs? How to run with no arms? Wanting to move in a straight line, but your brain, crushed, blown up, shot, isn’t working properly anymore? And what happens when those poor guys have finished rehab? They probably go home to their mums and dads in a tiny council house and live on measly benefits for the rest of their lives, turning out bravely for remembrance parades with their medals carefully polished. And then there’s you. No, don’t you dare leave. You Ollie-Always. You have everything. You’re wealthy. You’re young. You have an exceptional brain. You have a face that makes people turn in the street and stare after you. And what do you do with all these gifts? Yes, gifts . You bundle them up and try to throw them away. Jesus, watching you puking up your guts yesterday, too hung-over to drive, shaking…I bloody wanted to…” It must have been hard, Ollie reflected, to talk with a jaw so furiously rigid. Skint appeared to need to take a break, for he once more resumed his angry glaring at the sunlit water.
    “You’ve known me approximately seventy-two hours. I think it’s a little early in our acquaintance for such intimate observations.” Maybe if Ollie pushed hard enough, he could find out exactly what Skint had wanted to do to him.
    Skint didn’t rise to the provocation and merely said in a flat voice, “I’m a quick judge of character.”
    Something in this last word made Ollie take in a sharp breath as though he’d been punched, and his bravado, which he cultivated so carefully, slewed sideward with an almost audible crump, just like the sand bank collapsing beneath him on their first meeting. The pain that shot through him was similarly intense. If he spoke, he knew his jaw would wobble, so he clenched it for a while and then said in a very quiet tone, “I’m not a character.”
    “Hey, Ollie—Ollie? Breathe.” Skint pressed gently on the back of Ollie’s head, lowering his face to his knees. A thumb brushed lightly over the short hair at the back of his neck. A waitress came over to see if she could help, and Skint asked for some water. Ollie was too embarrassed to raise his head. What the hell would everyone think? What would Skint think? What a dumb thing for him to say. But how could this man ever understand what his life had been like?
    An arm slid around his shoulders, so strong that it pulsed a little power into him, and he nodded and accepted the water, lifting up enough to drink it. When they were alone again, Skint tightened his hold, pulling Ollie’s head a little closer to his own. Planning to resist, afraid he’d break down even more if he heard one syllable more of disapprobation, Ollie felt lips pressed against his ear, and Skint murmured, “He’s sucking the life out of you.”
    Ollie turned, his eyes wide with surprise. They were very close indeed. Ollie could see the individual dark eyelashes framing Skint’s brown eyes. It was an eye colour that could never be anything else but warm—the warmth and reassurance of the good strong earth beneath your feet. That maddening sense of familiarity came over him once more, and Ollie wondered for one incredible moment if he was aware of something not from his past, but from his future. He felt more than saw a movement and tore his gaze away from the beckoning sanctuary to find a hand had been extended. “Hello, I’m Tom Collins. Nice to meet you.”
    Ollie blinked then smiled deeply and took the offered hand. “Ollie Fitzroy. Nice to meet you…Tom.”
    They stood at the same time, and it seemed as if they hugged at the same time too, but it was Tom who drew him in and Ollie who relaxed into the friendship