The Ability (Ability, The) (22 page)

“Careful!” Chris heard Clarissa say. “Richard?”

The young man turned his head, and a look of recognition spread across his face.

“Clarissa! Wow! How are you?”

“Yeah, really good. Oh, my goodness, it’s been, what, ten years? How are you?”

“I’m a real estate agent—getting a bit bored of it, to be honest; think I’m ready to go it alone. What about you?”

“I’m a waitress back home in Bournemouth.”

“What are you doing here in London?”

“Actually, I’m going to meet an agent; they’re interested in my book,” said Clarissa, holding up the folder in her hands.

“That’s great—so I’m going to see your name in print?”

Clarissa blushed. “Maybe . . . fingers crossed. Look, I’d better be going; I don’t want to be late. It was great seeing you.”

“And you,” said Richard. “Good luck with your meeting. Just keep telling yourself, ‘I’m a winner, I’m a winner.’ ”

Clarissa laughed. “I’ll try that. Take care, Richard,” she said, and with that the image froze.

So that was the last time they saw each other,
thought Chris, closing the folder and placing it back in the drawer. He
walked back over to the front door and opened it. He was about to step out into the road when a small black dot appeared in the distance. Chris quickly stepped back into the room and peered round the door, watching the black dot speed forward, growing larger until it became a figure running toward him. Chris froze, unsure what to do next. He watched as the figure ran up the street in his direction. It wasn’t until it crossed the junction of People Street and Arts Avenue that he saw the figure was Rex. Unlike Rex in real life, however, this Rex wasn’t out of breath.

“Hey, wow! I didn’t realize we’d be able to see each other in here!” said Rex, as Chris stepped out of the doorway to greet him. “Are you going in?”

“No,” said Chris, “I already looked. She hasn’t seen Richard Baxter in years. Where have you been?”

Rex looked annoyed. “All right, Mystic Mike, no need to show off. I reckon I should see for myself, even if you’ve already done it. I’ll see you on the outside.”

Chris nodded. “Yeah, I think Sir Bentley wants us both to do it, to be sure. I’ll see you back in the cottage.”

Rex walked past him, toward the line of filing cabinets, and Chris walked back out, turned down the street, and ran off. He reached the junction of Arts Avenue and decided to take a detour, curious to see what the skyscraper was. Walking slowly, he noticed that all the buildings on this road were much taller than the others. He stopped at the double doors that marked the entrance to the tower and looked up to see the word
LITERATURE
emblazoned in gold letters above the doorway.

Ahh, that makes sense,
thought Chris, thinking back to the
piles of books in the cottage. The doors opened, and for a moment he considered entering and finding out more about
The Rat Catcher’s Revenge
, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it and, instead, turned away and walked off back toward Reception.

“That was quick,” said Clarissa, as the blinding light faded and he was brought back into the room. Next to him, Rex had a blank expression on his face and was still staring intently at Clarissa.

Chris looked over at Sir Bentley, who raised his eyebrows in question.

Chris shook his head. “Nothing—the last time she—I mean you,” he said, looking at Clarissa, “saw Richard Baxter was in the street years ago, when you were a waitress.”

“Really?” asked Clarissa, looking confused.

“Umm, yeah, I think so. You were in London to meet an agent.”

Clarissa thought about this, and then her eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness, yes! I remember, we bumped into each other on Oxford Street.” She looked at Chris and smiled. “Amazing,” she said.

Chris smiled proudly. “And yesterday at midday you were sitting at your desk, writing.”

Sir Bentley gave a sigh of relief. “Well, thank goodness,” he said. “I couldn’t have imagined you having anything to do with this.”

“Did you read what I wrote?” Clarissa asked Chris, teasing him.

Chris looked embarrassed. “I only saw a sentence, that was it. And I won’t say anything, I promise.”

Clarissa smiled. “That’s okay—I would have done the same myself, I’m sure.”

“What have I missed?” said Rex, suddenly waking up from his trance.

“Welcome back, Rex. Chris was just telling us what he saw.”

“Waitress, going to a meeting, writing yesterday lunchtime?” asked Rex, despondent.

Sir Bentley nodded. “Yes, well done.”

“Guess you didn’t need me. Psychic Sam already did all the work.”

“You did well,” said Sir Bentley, reassuring him. “We needed you both to make sure the details were correct.”

Rex shrugged, annoyed.

“Clarissa, we’re going to have to go,” said Sir Bentley, placing the mug back on top of one of the stacks of books on the coffee table. “Are you sure you won’t come with us? You’ll be much safer on the mainland—we don’t know what we’re up against.”

Clarissa shook her head. “Thank you, but you know I only leave the island for the Antarctic Ball, and that’s only because I’m patron to the Children’s Welfare Charity. If it wasn’t for that, I’d be quite happy to never leave. I’ll take my chances here.”

“Very well,” said Sir Bentley. “I know how stubborn you are, so I won’t try to change your mind, but please be vigilant. If you see anything suspicious at all, no matter how small, call me immediately and I’ll get people over to you straight away. And I’m going to send a team over to install cameras, which we’ll keep an eye on.”

“Very well, thank you,” said Clarissa, showing them all to the front door. “It’s been lovely to meet you both,” she said, turning to Chris and Rex, “and please, take care of yourselves.”

“I won’t let anything happen to them,” said Sir Bentley, guiding the boys out in front of him. “I learned my lesson a long time ago.”

•  •  •

An hour and a half later, the helicopter carrying the boys and Sir Bentley landed gently back on the tarmac of the Battersea heliport. Sir Bentley stepped out and down the stairs that had been wheeled up to the door. The boys followed him into the waiting car.

“Hungry?”

The boys nodded eagerly.

“Good, me too,” said Sir Bentley. “Napoli, John.”

“Yes, sir,” said John, starting up the engine.

•  •  •

The line of cars pulled up outside an unassuming white-fronted restaurant in a small cobbled plaza, and Chris, Rex, and Sir Bentley waited as Ron jumped out, followed by a group of guards from the car behind them, and went inside to make inquiries. After a couple of minutes Ron reappeared and, after a quick scan of the street, motioned that the coast was clear. Chris and Rex stepped out of the car and followed Sir Bentley in to find a short, white-haired man in a chef’s suit waiting for them.

“Signor Bentley, welcome!” he said in a strong Italian accent. “We have your room ready for you at the back.”

“Thank you, Giovanni,” said Sir Bentley, motioning for
the boys to follow him toward the back of the restaurant.

They entered the room and took a seat at a long table covered in a red-and-white-checked tablecloth. Giovanni handed each of them a menu.

“I recommend the Giovanni special,” he said to the boys. “Best pizza outside of Italy.”

The boys nodded eagerly, their mouths watering at the thought.

“Excellent work, boys,” said Sir Bentley, as Giovanni left the room. “You did very well with Clarissa. After we’ve eaten, we’ll go to Lady Magenta’s, and then you can head back to Myers Holt and relax.”

“Does she live near here?” asked Chris.

“Not far, just off Park Lane. I’ll warn you now, she’s a rather—how shall I put it?—eccentric woman. Quite different from Clarissa.”

“Eccentric?” asked Rex.

“Yes, you’ll see what I mean. She’s also rather less agreeable to us turning up. Lady Magenta is known for her dinner parties, and apparently we’re interrupting her preparations for one she’s hosting tomorrow night.”

“Was she a pupil at Myers Holt too?” asked Chris.

“No, a teacher. And a very good one, though not too popular with the students, I’ll admit. . . . Ahhh, Giovanni!”

“I hope you’re hungry!” said Giovanni, carrying in the three most enormous pizzas the boys had ever seen.

•  •  •

After lunch, stuffed full of pizza and cheesecake, they drove to Lady Magenta’s home in the prestigious neighborhood of Mayfair. Sir Bentley stopped the boys on the steps of
the grand apartment building and gave Rex a warning look.

“No comedy this time, please, Rex. You both need to be on your best behavior.”

“Moi?”
said Rex, pretending to look insulted. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Hmmm,” said Sir Bentley, tutting gently. He led them through the revolving door, across the foyer, and into the elevator.

The doors of the elevator opened out onto the penthouse floor, and Chris walked into the marble entrance hall behind the line of security guards led by Ron and John. The men divided themselves into two groups, flanking the doorway, and Sir Bentley stepped forward between them and pressed the doorbell. A few moments later a butler, distinguished-looking and in full uniform, opened the door and tipped his head in greeting.

“Lady Magenta is expecting you; please follow me,” said the butler, leading them across a corridor and into an enormous room, bigger than the whole of Chris’s house.

“I wish I brought my sunglasses,” whispered Rex to Chris, as they both looked round at the gold curtains, gold wallpaper, and grand oil paintings that hung in ornate gold frames. Gold urns, filled with flowers and cascading ivy, stood between the heavy gold curtains that covered the floor-to-ceiling windows, and hanging from the center ceiling was a gold (in keeping with the theme) chandelier, bigger than a car and lit with hundreds of lights that danced over the marble floor.

At the far end of the room was a long dining table, covered in swaths of fabric, and two figures standing on
either side of a tall, thronelike chair, their backs to the arriving guests.

“This looks cheap,” said a clipped voice coming from the other side of the chair. A piece of dark blue fabric was thrown onto the floor. “This is unbearably tacky,” continued the voice, and another piece of fabric was discarded. “And this . . . monstrosity of a dress . . . I wouldn’t even wipe my floors with it,” said the voice, throwing the fabric at the sheepish-looking woman on the right.

“I’m terribly sorry, ma’am,” said the lady. “If you give us five minutes, I’ll bring in some other samples we have.”

“You’ve wasted enough of my time as it is,” said the voice. “Get out.”

“But—” said the woman.

“I said, get out!”

A hand appeared from the other side of the chair, shooing the woman away. The woman, looking as if she was about to cry, knelt down and gathered the dresses from the floor as her companion scooped up the ones on the table. They turned and rushed out with their heads down.

The butler turned to Sir Bentley and motioned for him to stay where he was. He approached the throne slowly.

“Lady Magenta?”

“What is it, Alfred?” said the voice, irritated.

“Sir Bentley and guests are here to see you as arranged.”

“I’ve changed my mind; I’m far too busy. Tell them I’m out. Make something up—a charity function or something,” she said.

“They’re standing behind you,” whispered Alfred, leaning over.

“For goodness’ sake, Alfred,” she said, showing no signs of embarrassment. The chair was pushed backward and from it emerged a tiny woman with an elaborate red beehive that added some two feet to her petite frame. The hair had been pinned so tightly that it looked like she was standing in a wind tunnel, her skin taut and her eyes pulled back so far that they looked like two cat’s eyes.

“Arabella, how are you?” said Sir Bentley, stepping forward.

“Busy, Bentley, terribly busy. I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel our meeting today—I still have nothing to wear for tomorrow’s dinner.”

“This won’t take long,” said Sir Bentley firmly.

“I don’t think you understand,” she said. “The Duke of Belfry will be attending, and everything must be perfect. We can do this another time. Alfred, call Dior and ask them to come round immediately with some options for my dress tomorrow.” Lady Magenta walked over to an armchair and took a seat beside a pot of tea. She poured herself a cup without offering one to anybody else, and took a sip.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Alfred, hurrying out of the room.

“Arabella, I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation,” said Sir Bentley.

“No, Bentley, I don’t think
you
understand the gravity of
my
situation. I have less than twenty-four hours before I host one of the most talked-about social functions of the year, and I have nothing to wear.”

“Perhaps I didn’t make it clear enough when we spoke,” said Sir Bentley, a note of irritation creeping into his voice.
“Your life may be in danger, not to mention Clarissa’s, my own, and the prime minister’s.”

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” said Lady Magenta calmly, taking another sip of her tea. “And besides,” she said, looking up, “I don’t think I need to remind you that I am well versed with all the techniques of the Ability. I could block a thousand little brats trying to use it on me at the same time. They wouldn’t get far.” She looked over at Chris and Rex for the first time and gave them what might have been a frown, though her face, pulled back as far as it was, barely moved.

Chris, however, didn’t react, his face blank as he stared intently at the woman.

Sir Bentley sighed. “I can see we’re getting nowhere. Perhaps we can visit at another time that’s more convenient.”

“Perhaps,” said Lady Magenta dismissively. “Call Clara and she’ll see if I can fit you in.”

“Very well. Good day, Arabella. Come on, boys,” said Sir Bentley, leading Chris and Rex out of the room. He pressed the button for the elevator.

“Honestly, that woman is infuriating,” said Sir Bentley, mostly to himself. “It’s enough to make me wonder whether she could have something to do with this whole mess.”