“Olly”

“I'll have a Becks, a vodka and coke, and a Malibu and pineapple, please.”

“These on you are they, mate?” Rach sidles up next to him at the bar.

“Only if you're buying the next round,” Olly replies, knowing full well that Rach is only ever likely to part with beer money if somebody puts a gun to her head.

“Sure thing, babe,” she smiles sweetly, “make sure there's plenty of ice and a straw in the voddy, will you? I'm off to the loo.”

Olly reckons the expression “rolling one's eyes” was invented for people who have met Rachel Evans. It's not that she bugs him exactly, they're good friends, but sometimes her Rachel-centric viewpoint grates a little. There are ways of getting past her princess complex, though; for instance, he and Laura will both pretend to be out of cash when it comes to the next round, forcing Rach to put her perfectly manicured hand in pocket. It's not quite a gun to the head, but she can't stand the notion of people being annoyed with her. Ironic, really.

Laura pops up on his other side and offers to help carry the drinks to their table.

“So,” she says, “I was thinking that I might introduce you to my cousin Jamie.” Olly groans, but his heart isn't quite in it. From what he's heard from Laura in the past, Jamie is something of a dish.

“What? He's lovely, Olly, really.”

“I'm sure he is, but I can meet people on my own, Laura, really.”

“I don't doubt it.” She raises an eyebrow. “I bet they're lining up to ring your bell and ask you out, ruining the lawn and knocking the garden gnomes over.”

“Alright, you've made your point,” Olly assents, adding sarky cow silently.

“So you'll let me set you up with Jamie?”

“I suppose so, yeah.”

“Brilliant!” Laura claps her hands. “'Cause he should be here any minute.”

“What?”

“Well I knew that if I asked you beforehand you'd probably just say no, and besides, I think it'll be good for you.” Olly doesn't look any less angry, so she continues: “I'm not doing this for my own entertainment. I want you to have someone, Ol. I just want you to be happy.”

She takes a sip of her rum, and he raises the Becks to his lips. Neither of them says anything; they just sit listening to the pub stereo. Britney Spears or the Pussycat Dolls or something equally sleazy and fun. After a moment, Olly mutters:

“Hard to stay angry at that.”

Rach finally returns from the toilet, flicking her freshly mussed hair and pursing her newly glossed lips.

“What's going on here then?” She asks, taking a seat and wrapping said glossy lips around the bright pink straw in her drink.

“I just brought Olly round to the idea of meeting Jamie,” Laura says, a little smugger now.

“Oh, fab!” Rach high-fives her.

“You knew?” Olly points at Rach. “Ganging up on me now, are you?”

“I thought you said you'd brought him round to the idea,” Rach says to Laura.

“Well I reckoned so,” Laura says. “I think he's just nervous because Jamie is on his way.”

“I wouldn't have agreed if I'd known you were planning to ambush me like this,” Olly tries to sound indignant, but he knows by their girly, wolfish grins that they're not buying it at all.

“He's just pissed off because if he'd had a warning he would have primped and preened in front of the mirror for an hour before coming out.” Rachel says around her straw.

Olly's hand instinctively goes to his hair. Is it vain to want to look good on a blind date? Because it's obvious that a blind date's exactly what this night is. Of course, thinking it was just going to be a few drinks with friends, Olly had left the house without showering, instead just throwing on an almost clean shirt and running a gelled hand through his hair.

“Don't listen to her,” Laura reaches across the table and squeezes his cheeks so that his lips pucker up. “You look adorable, he'll love you.”

“Shut up,” Olly says through a grin.

“Oh my God,” Rachel whispers, “is that him?”

Laura lets go of Olly's cheeks and turns to look at the entrance of the pub. The young man standing in the doorway is, to put it bluntly, fit.

“That's him alright,” Laura says, and waves to him. “Jamie, over here!”

He sees them, smiles, and walks over.

Oh, shit.

“This isn't going to work,” Olly hisses to Laura, “he's too-”

“Shut up... Hi, Jamie,” Laura stands and hugs her cousin. What Olly had intended to say was that Jamie is far too attractive. Too much so for him, anyway. And he is bound to be sorely disappointed. “Jamie, you've met Rach... and this is Olly. Ol, this is my cousin Jamie.” She says this with a forceful stare, and Olly stands up to shake his hand.

“Hi,” he says with a weak smile. Jamie's handshake is firm, strong, and it turns Olly on a little bit.

“Hello,” Jamie's smile is very white and even. He must have worn braces when he was younger, and he probably uses special toothpaste. Nobody's teeth could be Hollywood perfect otherwise.

“How’s it going?” Unoriginal, unimaginative, just un-everything... come on, Olly, you can do better than this.

“Fine thanks,” Jamie flashes those pearly whites again, “actually, really good. And you? How are you guys tonight?” He asks them as a group, which takes the pressure off Olly. Which is a good thing, because all he’s come up with so far is stupid.

“I’m going to get a drink, I’m parched,” Jamie goes on. “Can I get anyone anything?”

“I’ll have a vodka and coke if you’re buying!” Rachel smiles sweetly at him.

Olly and Laura’s eyes roll simultaneously as Jamie goes up to the bar and Rachel leans over;

“He’s cute! Olly, don’t you think he’s cute?”

“He’s alright, yeah.”

“Alright? Alright?” Laura prods him. “I saw your face when he walked in, Oliver. He’s more than just alright and you know it.”

“Okay, he’s fit. Very fit. But what’s he actually like?”

“I suppose you’ll have to find out for yourself.” Laura and Rach exchange looks (never a good sign), and when Jamie returns to the table a moment later, they both stand.

“We’re just popping over to the jukebox,” Rachel says, gracefully taking her free vodka and coke. “Back in a minute, boys.” They walk away, stifling giggles. Olly feels like a marooned sailor, watching his ship sail further and further into the distance.

“So...” he says, smiling at Jamie.

“So,” he agrees. This is beyond awkward. What did Laura tell Jamie, in order to get him to come? Come meet Olly, he is articulate and ever so witty. And a stunner. False, false, false.

“So what kind of music are you into?”

Oh, God. This is a huge question. What does he look like he's into? Is he a pop or a rock guy? Or does he listen to gangster rap or heavy metal...

“At the moment I'm listening to...” Just answer truthfully, man. Say something at least! “Kate Nash.” Shit, that was probably the wrong answer.

“Cool. I really like Lily Allen.” What? Relief floods over Olly and he hides a giddy smile with a swig of beer. Well at least he doesn't look like a knob music-wise, although he is dreading the same question about films.

The girls finally make a selection at the jukebox and a suitably camp song begins to play. Five lasses sing about how they can’t speak French, so they’ll let the funky music do the talkin’, talkin’ now. Jamie smirks at the choice, although Olly suspects that he probably secretly likes the song.

Jamie asks him about his course, what he wants to do when he finishes studying. Olly’s never been able to give a solid answer to that question, so he answers truthfully, says he has no idea but he’s looking forward to finding something he loves doing, something he can make a life out of. Emboldened by the beer and conversation, he says to Jamie:

“You made me very uncomfortable when you first came in here.”

“I did? Why’s that then?”

“Well, y’see, I thought you were out of my league. And I was right. But now I know for sure, I can relax and stop trying to look cool or impress you.”

Jamie laughs.

“You don’t half talk bollocks, Olly. Laura never told me you were so...”

“So what?”

“So oblivious.”

“Eh?”

“You’re quite a catch too, you know. Believe it or not, I couldn’t believe my luck when I walked in here tonight. Laura’s great and everything, but she’s tried to set me up with some right freaks in the past. I almost didn’t come tonight.” He reaches across the table to place his hand over Olly’s. “Imagine what a mistake that would have been.”

Olly can’t hide his grin this time, and it widens even more when he hears the next song coming from the jukebox – a much better choice this time, from what other band but Queen.

“Tonight, I’m gonna have myself a real good time... I feel ali-i-i-ive...”

“I love this song.”

“Me too.”

They both smile, while Laura and Rachel make faux smooching noises from across the bar.

***

Later, when they leave the pub, each with the other’s number in his phone, Jamie stops Olly in the doorway.

“Goodnight,” he whispers in his ear, and Olly beats him to the kiss, stepping forward and pressing his lips to Jamie’s. He tastes of lip balm. The girls continue to giggle, then say their goodbyes to the boys and walk off in search of chips and a taxi.

Olly kisses Jamie again. And again. They kiss for quite a while, to cut a long story short. Then they finally step down from the pub doorway into the street, say goodnight, and walk in opposite directions, each promising to text the other when he gets home.

There aren’t many people around, but then it’s a weeknight. Olly walks in a daze, not even noticing the group of chavs that he passes until he hears one of them shout out:

“Oi, fag!”

Olly walks on. He's not going to let some ignorant dickhead ruin his night. The gang shout more things at him; hateful words that would usually make his chest tighten and his eyes sting. But tonight they fall on deaf ears, because he is remembering what Jamie said about him being quite a catch, and he can hear Freddy's eternal words: don't stop me now... Under his breath he is singing.

When he first feels the pain on the back of his head, he doesn't understand what it is. When he falls forward onto the pavement and hears the tinkle of broken glass, he realises it was a beer bottle. He can still feel the Becks on his tongue, under the taste of chewing gum and Jamie. Then somebody kicks him in the head and all he can taste is the hot tang of iron.

He tries to remember the words he was just mumbling along to, but they escape him. Another kick. And another. He tries to latch onto another sound that he can keep in his head; Rachel laughing at one of her own little puns, or Laura's mobile phone ring tone, which is really fucking annoying, anything at all, but every time he manages to grasp one, another kick jolts it out of his mind.

He brings his arms up to protect his face, but they just kick his body instead. When he looks up and sees the knife, he squeezes his eyes shut and hopes it will be over quickly.

Author's Note:

I was on the verge of tears when I wrote this. It's based on real life events that took place in London earlier this year. I fictionalised most of the evening, but sadly it has a very true ending.

On August 28th, a young man who has been identified only as “Olly” was set upon by a gang of five youths while walking to a gay pub in Shoreditch. He was struck over the head with a glass bottle, and then stabbed seven times in the back and torso. “Olly” went through surgery on his brain and lungs, and endured wounds to his spinal cord which have left him permanently paralysed. He is twenty one years old, the same age as me.