‘Am I invisible,’ Ham calls from the back of the group as we hurry down the path. ‘Hennie, pinch me to check.’
I hear his high-pitched shriek shortly after.
Elliot and I reach the door first to find a regular golden knocker attached to the centre with a message scribbled next to it. He leans closer to read it.
‘What does it say?’ Owen asks.
‘‘Entry to noteworthy guests and esteemed colleagues,’’ Elliot reads with a question mark in his tone.
‘Noteworthy?’ Hennie scoffs. ‘Does that mean you’re on some kind of press list, or what?’
Ham shrugs. ‘Perhaps. At least I’m not the only one who cares about Ransom for once. Even though we still won’t get in, it’s very refreshing.’
Without another word, Elliot reaches for the door handle and tries to open it, to no avail. It doesn’t even budge.
I try the door knocker next, picking it up and tapping it down firmly twice.
After a few moments, to my shock, the door opens. A tall man in a grey suit holds the door ajar and his eyes flick over us in silence. He takes in my nervous grin, Elliot’s crossed arms, Hennie’s unimpressed scowl. Owen and Josh’s eyes wide with anticipation.
And then, without a word, he shuts the door.
I think I hear something along the lines of ‘fucking joke’ uttered under Owen’s breath, and Elliot just looks at me with a helpless shrug.
‘Nice,’ Hennie announces. ‘Yeah, very cool venue, Ham.’
Josh responds with an indignant glare.
‘It’s okay,’ I say brightly. ‘We knew it was a long shot.’
But my eyes catch on the door for a second, and I find it hard to step away from it. There’s an undeniable pull toward it to see what’s inside – to follow our hunt through to the very end. And I cannot argue with the voice that tells me that this isit. The answer to our latest clue is behind this door. What we have been seeking is just within reach; if only we knew how to access it.
‘We tried,’ Elliot murmurs, bumping my shoulder lightly.
I shoot him a quick smile. ‘It was nice to hope for a minute.’
The others have already started to retreat back up the path in a flurry of excited conversation about Route 16. I avoid Elliot’s probing eyes.
‘Come on, lovebirds! No dawdling!’ Josh calls back to us.
Thatgets me moving.
I turn on my heel and make my way up the small trail with Elliot on my heels and a prickling heat on my cheeks.
We make our way through Route 16, and it’s clear that it truly comes to life during the daytime. In the middle of the hammocks, a small bandstand has been erected and a wrinkled man with a long, plaited beard is playing a cello on it. People surround him sitting cross-legged, the hammocks all full with content nappers and dozers.
The theming in Route 16 is minimal compared to the other areas, perhaps due to its promise of sanctuary and lack of stimulation for the more anxious festival-dweller. But there’s a simple charm to it; everyone lounging in the shadows of the trees, eating ice cream and relaxing in the sofas outside the Mumble Motel. It all makes me breathe a little easier.
‘So, one of our traditions,’ Josh begins, spinning to face Hennie and I (who I have been stuck to since the lovebird comment). ‘Every year we check out what game people are playing in the Mumble Motel.’
Hennie and I just look at him. She looks very wary.
‘They have a Playstation One in the living room,’ Owen explains with a grin. ‘And there’s one game in the drive; it changes every year.’
Hennie shoots me a sour look. She doesn’t care much for video games as she never had access to them growing up, but it was my first method of bonding with my brother.
Elliot pulls the front door of the Mumble Motel open and holds it for each of us, and I avoid his eyes as I make my way in. The lighting is murky inside, revealing a long hallway lined with wood and dangling chandeliers covered in spiderwebs and dust. The wordreceptionin neon lettering hangs in the doorway of a room on the left, but we go past it and down the busy hallway. Owen guides me towards the doorway on my right, and I poke my head inside to see what looks like a stuffy living room. Awarm, dim light seeps through the room as the only window has been covered with thick velvet curtains, and the walls have been adorned with endless paintings: still lives of fruit, horses standing in lush greenery and portraits of pretty women in waistcoats. Bookshelves line the walls and hanging in the centre of the space is a glowing light fixture, made out of what looks like old tea towels cut into diamond shapes. People have gathered around an ancient-looking, grainy television, a couple sitting close together in front of it with game controllers in their hands. They both lean from side to side in tandem with the movements of the racing cars on the screen.
‘Happy with the choice this year?’ I prompt Owen.
