Chapter 5 Wren #2
There was only Ottis, our guitarist who regularly had girls surrounding him, so whilst the three of us lived it up on the bus, he’d get a room for the night and the band would then have his access card for the hotel gym.
It was a solid rule that no girls came on the bus, so if one of us wanted to get into a little consenting trouble, we had to get a room.
Theo, our band manager had even banned us from charging them to the accounts, which was fair because we all earned a shit load of money.
Bran was the only one spoken for, but Mavis rarely visited on tour so he’d slump it in one of the bunks, being my usual gym partner.
He thought she was pulling away recently and I had been trying to convince him that wasn’t true, but she hadn't come out for any of the tour dates. We’d finished the tour in York and she hadn't made the effort to join us, despite him being back in the country for a week now.
We'd been on the road for over four months and she'd seen him maybe twice, so maybe he was onto something.
The library door slams open, bouncing off the wall and winding back to nearly hit Phoenix in the face. His eyes are glittering with glee, his body vibrating with so much adrenaline.
“I fucking found it! I found it, I won! I fucking won!” He grips tight a little stone Nightingale, with flecks of teal and tones of sea blue.
The noise that erupts from the tiny woman, forces me to take a step back, as she whirls on him, finger pointing at the stone bird.
“Absolutely not Phoenix Matthew Claythorne, you said we have to do rock, paper, scissors!” I don't know whether to hold one of them back as they both start to slap each other's arms, Robin gunning for the Nightingale as he tries to cradle it away from her in his arms.
“Fine! No best of three though. We do it once and then I win the first clue.”
She scoffs, pushing at his forearm, as they both take a fighting stance like they're about to wrestle.
I never grew up with siblings, the closest I had to a brother was Phin, but their bond is on another level.
He is refusing to let go of the ornament, so he raises a closed fist whilst she holds her own against her flat palm.
“Wren, count to three.” He commands, his tone deadly serious, like his life depends on this outcome.
I’m hesitant but I do as he asks, their tight fists shaking with each number I count till I reach three.
Her hand forms a tight rock, but at the same time he splays his out flat, representing paper.
The air becomes thick as no one speaks. I honestly dare not move, like I’m stuck between two wild snakes.
Robin stands a little straighter as she drops her hands, taking one big step towards him till they’re toe to toe.
“Well played Claythorne. Classic paper, I should have known.” Her voice is even and low, and I’m actually terrified for him.
He doesn't back down, puffing out his chest as he stares her down. My eyeballs ping back and forth between them. “Congratulations. I hope you enjoy the first clue, because I’m going to remove your nail polish in your sleep.”
A strangled gasp escapes him as he clutches the Nightingale to his chest, spinning on the spot as she pushes past him and storms for the door.
“You sore fucking loser Rob, take that back!” He hisses as he trails after her, leaving me standing in the middle of the library with my jaw hanging on the floor. It takes me a minute to comprehend that I might as well have been invisible in their shared presence.
Calling her Rob seems to niggle at my brain, but I can't recall why. She bewitched my best friend's entire attention, like I wasn't even there and it makes me feel embarrassingly envious. It’s like I’m twelve all over again.
Retracing my steps back to the bookcase, I run my index finger along the spines until I find what I’m looking for, about chest height.
Detective Featherton: A murder sewn tight, by Robin Osbourne.
I tried to search for her on social media when I was still in the kitchen, but this house has zero signal.
I didn't even know her last name, but I did know that she'd just published a crime novel. Phin had mentioned it when I’d taken him to Cornwall, feeling bad because he didn't dare call her without giving away something was wrong.
A pang of guilt now strikes me, because I hadn't cared at all whether he checked in with his friend, I’d just needed him to get sober.
Pulling the fresh copy from the stacks, there's a number of the same book, some with different covers and at least a full row of the same as in my hand.
A sense of pride washes over me as I stare at her accomplishment.
I bet it was so much hard work to not only write a book, but get published too.
I knew Phoenix would have bought each of these copies, so that she got the money.
Before tucking the book under my arm, I dust my fingers over the sleek cover, chuckling as I read the blurb.
When Detective Featherton meets the Stitching Society of Primrose Folley, a sleepy Yorkshire village that holds centuries of secrets, he never expected to uncover them with the help of three pensioners.
Not only are they great at a cross-stitch, but they help thread together a web of lies that has Featherton truly entangled.
Thistle doesn't know what to make of the young, eccentric Detective. He dresses like her late husband and doesn't own a television. But as the leader of the Stitching Society, she needs to put her best cane forward and help unpick the lining that the village needs to be set free.
This sounds fantastic and exactly what I need in order to get to know Robin better.