Free Yours Truly by Kirsty Greenwood Page B

Hellooo, yoohoooo, Amazing Brian? We need yooooou! ”
    Still no answer.
    We approach the window and peer inside the house, but our view is blocked by curtains .
    “ Our investigation is being thwarted by soft furnishings! ”
    “ He’s definitely not here, ” declares Meg.
    “ Let’s knock again. Just in case. We shouldn't give up so easily. ”
    “ He really isn’t there. The telly’s not on. ”
    “ So? ”
    “ So… when people are at home, they watch the telly. No telly. No one home. That’s the rule. ”
    How do you argue with logic like that?
    “ He might be in the pub, ” Meg suggests.
    “ You know what, I bet he is, ” I sniff. “ Drinking local bitter and laughing about destroying my life. Come on. ”
    You wouldn’t think it, but walking downhill on an icy path is actually tougher than walking uphill on an icy path. I grab onto Meg again, sweating as I tense up my whole body in order to keep balance. It doesn’t seem to be working. We’re round about number twenty when I take a tumble.
    “ Aaaaargh! ” I screech, as I fall and start to slide down the hill. On my knees.
    “ Bollocks! ” Meg cries, tottering after me, trying her best to stop my descent. But it’s no use. I keep on sl ithering down like an eightie s rocker doing an air guitar knee skid. Only I’m not on a stage and this really, really hurts.
    “ Oooooooooow! Help, I’m going to die! My time is up! ” I cry, tears stinging my eyes, teeny bastard stones stinging my legs.
    And then, as I’m pondering whether you really need a priest to do your last rites or whether you could just do it yourself, I stop sliding. Just as suddenly as I started.
    I cease all the yelling and look up. And there at the bottom of the hill is a small group of pensioners stood by the pond, looking at me like I’ve just declared a law against bingo.
    “ You want to get some walking boots, love, ” says one elderly woman, helpfully. She’s clutching a bottle of milk to her bosom and shaking her head. “ Slippery buggers these icy roads. ”
    “ Yes. Yes, you’re right. Thanks. ”
    I’m still on my knees in the middle of the road. Oh God.
    Meg catches up.
    “ Christ , are you okay? Can you move? Are you maimed? ”
    “ I’m okay, I can move, I’m not maimed. But I think my knees are scraped pretty badly. Look. There’s a hole in my trousers. ” I point down towards the tear in my jogging pants, flapping open to reveal a dirty, stone embedded grazed knee. “ My legs look like a twelve year old boy’s! This is a horrible, horrible day. ”
    I’m sobbing now.
    “ Oh Natty, you poor thing. Come on. Let’s get inside the pub. Hopefully they’ll have some plasters and disinfectant so you don’t get gangrene and die. ”

CHAPTER NINE
    As we enter the pub, the first thing I notice is how cosy it feels. There are open fires crackling away on each side of the main room. If I wasn’t in such pain, I’d be marvelling at how lovely it is to be in a pub with a real fire, how festive. The pub, which is much larger than it looks from the outside, is painted in rich claret. It’s kind of kooky; there’s an eclectic mix of dusky pink velvet covered benches, battered looking chesterfield sofas and even a couple of rocking chairs. The walls are dotted with photographs and vivid abstract oil paintings in gilt frames and in the corner of the room is a chubby Christmas tree, lavishly decorated with traditional red and gold ornaments.
    The second thing I notice is that in spite of the relative quiet on the village green, The Old Whimsy is busy. The place is bustling with people drinking pints and having a natter. All of them are wearing wellington boots. Most of them are old.
    The third thing I notice is a boy. A very tall, very crumpled looking boy, stood behind the bar, wearing a soft white shirt and with flour in his hay coloured hair.
    I definitely don’t notice his danger stubble, broad, masculine shoulders and glittering slate grey