blackberries and tigerteeth grew up to flourish like living barbed wire around the property's perimeter, guaranteeing privacy without the tedium of having to regularly renew unfriendly incantations.
Now, nearly six hundred years later, all that could be said of the club was that it was still there, defiant in its grimy and time-twisted old age like an ancient relative who refuses to be decently shuffled off to the Sunshine Home for Old Wizards.
Dusk was dragging slow fingers through the tops of the ornamental amber trees as Gerald dawdled his disconsolate, chilly and blistered way along the quiet street. Even the starlings settling in for the night sounded derisive as they commented on his reluctant progress towards the club's now rusty and slightly mangled front gates.
His heart sank as he scanned the visitors' car park. Errol Haythwaite's gleaming silver Orion. James Kirkby- Hackett's scarlet Chariot. Edward Cobcroft Minor's black Zephyr. Oh lord. They were all here? So soon?
Well, of course they were. Haythwaite and Co had probably rushed right over as soon as the news about Stuttley's hit the streets.
He perused the residents' car park, hoping to see Monk Markham's battered blue Invincible, but it wasn't there. Hardly surprising. Monk's current secret project for the Department's Research and Development division had swallowed him alive, metaphorically speaking. He hadn't been home for three days.
Gerald sighed. A pity. Monk was his best friend, and such a genius not even the likes of Haythwaite and Co dared to offend him. What he was doing renting rooms at the club and slaving away as a civil servant when he could name his price anywhere in the world and have his pick of palaces to live in was a mystery.
The lowering sun sank a little further behind the trees. He shivered. Come on, Dunwoody, you gutless worm. You can't loiter out here on the footpath all night. Might as well get it over with.
He stared at the gates. They were shut. To open them, all he had to do was wave his hand and say the word. Except…
What if it didn't work? Walking home he'd steadfastly refused to let himself dwell on that heartstopping moment in Scunthorpe's office when the thaumatic ether wouldn't obey him. But now he had to think of it. What if he really was finished? What if that insane stunt with the First Grade staffs had burned out his meagre talent? What if the only thing in the world he was good for now was tailoring?
Please, no. No. Heart thumping, he scrabbled for his cherrywood staff and waved it at the closed club gates.'Open! OpenV
A spurting fizzle of power. A momentary pause that lasted forever. Then, with a complaining groan and a flaking of rust, the wrought iron gates dragged sluggishly apart. He fell against them, panting. Thank you, thank you, thank you. His abilities, such as they were, had returned.
Straight ahead, at the end of a long brickwork path, squatted six wide stone steps. Above them loomed the club's ancient, imposing front doors. And behind those doors waited Haythwaite and Co, doubtless primed with Bellringer's best brandy and salivating at the thought of dragging that upstart nobody Dunwoody down a peg or two. Because the idea of discretion or sympathy was as foreign to them as a delegation of ambassadors from Katzwandaland. Errol and his friends had tongues like well-sharpened knives and there was nothing they enjoyed more than carving up their social inferiors. Especially when those inferiors made spectacularly public blunders.
On the other hand, perhaps loitering isn't such a bad idea after all.
'Bloody hell,' he said to the fading sky. 'When did I turn into such a coward?'
Heart colliding painfully with his ribs, he walked through the gates.
The club's parquet reception area was blessedly deserted. Blinking in the carefully cultivated gloom Gerald checked his pigeonhole and found a letter from his globe-trotting parents. This one was postmarked Darsheppe. He had to think for a moment where that was. Oh, yes. Capital city of Hortopia. Half-way round the world. Suddenly that seemed even further away than it actually was.
As he stared at his mother's sprawling scrawl he found himself torn between relief that they weren't here to witness his latest disaster, and sharp sorrow-that he'd disappointed them again. That was the trouble with being the only offspring: no sibling shoulders to help carry the burden of familial expectations.
Mr Pinchgut, the club's retainer and general factotum, emerged from his tiny office set underneath the grand staircase that led up to the private apartments. He saw Gerald and stopped. From the angle of his bushy eyebrows and the particular stiffness of his tail-coated spine it was clear he'd heard all about Stuttley's. Gerald tucked the letter into his pocket and nodded at him. 'Mr Pinchgut.'
The retainer favoured him with a frosty bow. 'Mr Dunwoody.'
He sighed. 'Would it help if I said it wasn't my fault?' Mr Pinchgut thawed, ever so slightly. 'I'm sure it's not for me to comment, sir.' 'Even so. It wasn't.'
Another bow. 'Yes, sir. May I say I hope that's a comforting thought?'
'You may,' he said, heading for the stairs. 'But we both know you'd be wasting your breath.'
The staircase stopped being grand after the first two flights because all the posh apartments were on the first and second floors. For the next two flights it was plain but serviceable, just like the rooms it led to. After that the stairs became narrow, uneven and downright higgledy-piggledy, which was also a fair description of the cheap rooms crammed beneath the roof of the building. Puffing, Gerald staggered on up to his bedsit.
It was tucked away at the rear of the club's top floor. Squashed cheek-to-jowl inside were a saggy- mattressed single bed, a lopsided wardrobe, a narrow cupboard, a three-legged card table, a rickety chair, a very skinny bookcase and a single temperamental gas ring. Mysterious plumbing groaned and gurgled at all hours of the day and night. The bathroom he shared with six other wizards was on the next floor down. This meant a chamber-pot, which added a certain piquancy to the atmosphere. There was one miserly window with a fine view of the noisome compost heap and only two places where he could stand completely upright without cracking his head on an exposed roof beam.
'Reg?' he called softly as he kicked the bedsit door unstuck and shoehorned himself inside. 'Reg, are you here?'
A resounding silence was the only reply. He flicked on the light-switch and looked around, but the room was empty.
Dammit. Where the hell was she? He'd left the window open, just in case. She should be here, all broody and complaining on the tacky, revolting old ram skull she insisted on using for a perch. Eating a mouse and leaving the tail on the floor because tails always get stuck halfway down. Why wasn't she here? They'd quarrelled before. Hell, they quarrelled practically every day. Just because he'd lost his temper and called her a moulting feather duster with the manners of a brain-damaged hen, was that any reason to fly off in high dudgeon and not come back? Had she gone for good?
Scrunching down to avoid the rafters, he crossed to the window and stuck his head out. The last of the daylight was almost gone and the first faint stars were starting to sparkle. A thin rind of moon teetered low on the distant horizon. All in all, it was a beautiful evening. He couldn't have cared less. 'Reg!' he called in the loudest stage whisper he could manage. 'Reg, are you out here?' Nothing.
'Don't be an idiot,' he told himself sternly. 'She's fine. She's only a bird on the outside. Anybody who tries to mess with Reg is making their last mistake. She'll be back. She's just trying to wind you up.' And it was working, dammit.
Defeated, Gerald pulled his head back into the room and slumped on the edge of his horrible bed. Two more springs died, noisily.
His stomach grumbled. Lunch had been hours ago and he'd been a bit busy since then, one way and another. But steak and chips in the club's dining room was an expense he could no longer afford and anyway… Errol Haythwaite and his ghastly friends were downstairs.
He didn't have the heart to face them. Not without Monk Markham as back up, at least. And if that made him a coward then fine. He was a coward.
There was a tin of baked beans in the cupboard, and a can opener, and a spoon, for emergencies. If this didn't qualify as an emergency he didn't know what did. Bloody hell. I hate baked beans.
Morose, disconsolate and feeling more alone than he'd ever felt in his life, he went about eating his pathetic, solitary supper.
