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The chauffeur appeared at the window, giving James a fright, and opened the rear door,
“Be back for ten o’clock,” sniffed James, stepping out onto the cold pavement.

The chauffeur twitched a sly smile, nodded, handed James an umbrella, and a few seconds later the limousine pulled away, leaving James alone on the puddle strewn pavement. He buttoned up his coat as a chill ran down his spine. Every nerve in his body buzzed alarm calls to his brain: turn back, they buzzed, why are you doing this to yourself? Because I promised, answered James, and a Windburn never breaks a promise. He took a deep breath, blew out a narrow jet of steam, and entered the darkness.

Eyes wide open, he prodded the shadows with his umbrella and listened intently for any changes in the chorus of drips and trickles. Something scurried past his feet, the umbrella made contact with something hard, and he jumped as a security light suddenly exploded into life. James winced, blinked, and shielded himself with the umbrella. He was standing before a jet black door; a CCTV camera mounted high on the wall above it glared down at him like a one eyed gargoyle. James rubbed his eyes and read the brass plaque on the door: ‘The Club. Members Only ’. He took a deep breath and reached for the doorbell,
“Good evening!”
“Bloody hell!” yelped James, cowering beneath his umbrella.

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