Ben immersed himself in the tunnel of cold swirling fog, running for about a hundred metres until he came to a large open space to the north of St Patrick’s – a wasteland that housed both a scrap-metal dump and a citadel of empty shacks once belonging to the most deprived inhabitants of North Calcutta. Dodging the muddy puddles that covered the path through the twisting maze of burnt-out adobe huts, he advanced into the place Thomas Carter had always warned them against. The children’s voices came from somewhere deep inside that desolate swamp of poverty and filth.
Ben headed through a narrow gap between two derelict shacks, then suddenly stopped when he realised he’d found what he was looking for. Before him stretched an endless deserted plain filled with the remains of old huts enveloped by a blue mist wafting out of the darkness. The sound of the children seemed to be coming from the same spot, only this time it wasn’t laughter or nursery rhymes that Ben heard, but the terrible panicked shrieks of hundreds of trapped children. A cold gust of wind hurled him against the wall of one of the shacks, as out of the mist came the furious roar of a huge steel machine that made the earth tremble beneath his feet.
He blinked then looked again, thinking he must be hallucinating. A train was emerging from the fog, its metal armour red hot and enveloped in flames. He could see the agony on the faces of dozens of children who were trapped inside it as burning fragments rained down in all directions in a cascade of sparks. The engine itself, a majestic steel sculpture, seemed to be melting. In the driver’s cab, standing motionless amid the flames, was the same figure he had seen in the courtyard. The creature was watching Ben, with arms open wide as if to welcome him.
Ben could feel the heat of the fire on his face and he covered his ears to stifle the excruciating howls of the children. The blazing train tore across the deserted plain and Ben realised with horror that it was racing straight towards St Patrick’s like a guided missile. He ran after it, dodging the shower of sparks and molten iron, but was not able to keep up with the train as it accelerated towards the orphanage, tinting the sky scarlet as it flew by. Gasping for breath, he screamed with all his might to alert those who were sleeping peacefully in the building, unaware of the tragedy that was about to befall them. He watched in despair as the train homed in on St Patrick’s. Any moment now the engine would pulverise the orphanage and fling its inhabitants into the air. He fell to his knees and screamed one last time as he watched the train enter the rear courtyard and rush uncontrollably towards the large wall that formed the back of the building.
Ben prepared himself for the worst but could never have imagined what he would witness a fraction of a second later.
As the crazed locomotive, cloaked in a tornado of flames, crashed into the wall, it changed into an apparition of eerie lights, the entire train sinking into the red-brick wall like a shadowy serpent, disintegrating in the air and taking with it the dreadful howls of the children and the deafening roar of the engine.
Two seconds later total darkness returned, and the silhouette of the orphanage stood out, unscathed, against the distant lights of the White Town and the Maidan to the south. The last of the mist vanished into the cracks in the wall and soon there was no evidence of the phenomenon he had just witnessed. Slowly Ben walked up to the back of the building and placed his palm on the undamaged surface. An electric shock ran up his arm, throwing him to the ground. On the wall the imprint of his hand was black and smoking.
When he stood up his heart was racing and his hands shook. Breathing deeply, he dried the tears provoked by the fire. When he’d calmed down, at least partially, he walked round the building to the kitchen door. Using a trick Roshan had taught him for lifting the inside latch, Ben opened the door cautiously, then crossed the kitchen and the downstairs corridor until he reached the staircase. The orphanage was still sunk in the deepest of silences and Ben realised that nobody but he had heard the roar of the train.
He went back to the dormitory. His friends were still asleep and there was no sign of a cracked windowpane. He walked through the room and lay down on his bed, breathing heavily. Again he picked up his watch from the bedside table and checked the time. He could have sworn that he’d been out of the building for at least twenty minutes, but the watch showed the same time as when he’d woken earlier. He held it to his ear and heard the regular ticking of the mechanism. He set the watch back in its place, then tried to put some order to his thoughts. He was beginning to doubt what he had witnessed, or what he thought he’d seen. Perhaps he hadn’t left the room and he’d dreamed the whole episode. The regular breathing around him and the unharmed windowpane seemed to confirm that explanation. Or perhaps he was a victim of his own imagination. Feeling confused, he closed his eyes and tried to doze off, hoping he might fool his body by pretending to sleep.
At daybreak, just as the sun was reaching the Grey Town – the Muslim sector in the east of Calcutta – he jumped out of bed and ran out to the rear courtyard to examine the back wall once more. There were still no traces of the train. Ben was about to conclude that it had indeed all been a dream, an unusually intense one but still a dream, when out of the corner of his eye he noticed a dark stain on the wall. He drew closer and recognised the shape of his palm clearly imprinted on the bricks. He gave a deep sigh and hurried back to the dormitory to wake Ian, who for the first time in weeks had managed to fall into the arms of Morpheus, free for once of his persistent insomnia.
IN THE DAYLIGHT THE Midnight Palace lost some of its magical aura and became just a sprawling old ruin of a house that had seen better times. Viewing their favourite setting without the embellishment and mystery of the Calcutta nights could have had a stark effect on the members of the Chowbar Society, but fortunately Ben’s words softened the impact. They all listened to him in respectful silence, their expressions going from amazement to disbelief.
‘And it vanished into the wall, as if it were air?’ Seth asked.
Ben nodded.
‘That’s the strangest story you’ve told this month, Ben,’ Isobel stated.
‘It’s not a story. It’s what I saw.’
‘Nobody is doubting you, Ben,’ said Ian, ‘but we were all asleep and didn’t hear a thing. Not even me.’
‘That really is incredible,’ said Roshan. ‘Perhaps Bankim put something in the lemonade.’
‘Is nobody going to take me seriously?’ said Ben. ‘You’ve seen the handprint.’
No one replied. Ben focused on his small asthmatic comrade, the most gullible when it came to spooky stories.
‘Siraj?’
The boy looked up and gazed at the rest of the group, assessing the situation.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time something like this has been seen in Calcutta … There’s the story of Hastings House, for example.’
‘I don’t see what one thing has to do with the other,’ Isobel objected.
The story of Hastings House – formerly the governor’s residence in the province south of Calcutta – was one of Siraj’s favourite tales and probably the most emblematic of all the ghost stories that packed the annals of the city. According to local legend, on nights when there was a full moon the phantom of Warren Hastings, the first governor of Bengal, drove a ghostly carriage up to the porch of his old mansion in Alipore, where he would then search frantically for some documents that had disappeared during his chaotic rule of the city.
‘The people of Calcutta have been seeing him for decades,’ Siraj protested. ‘It’s as much a fact as the monsoon flooding the streets.’
The members of the Chowbar Society became embroiled in a heated discussion about what Ben had seen, during which only the person concerned did not intervene. A few minutes later, when all reason seemed to have flown out of the window, those taking part in the argument turned their heads to look at the figure in white that was standing in the doorway to the roofless hall, watching them in silence. One by one, they stopped talking.
‘I don’t want to interrupt …’ said Sheere shyly.
‘An interruption is most welcome,’ said Ben. ‘We were only arguing. For a change.’
‘I heard the last bit,’ Sheere admitted. ‘Did you see something last night, Ben?’
‘I don’t know any more,’ he admitted. ‘How about you? Have you managed to escape from your grandmother? I think we got you into trouble last night.’
Sheere smiled and shook her head.
‘My grandmother is a good woman, but sometimes she gets obsessed and thinks there’s danger lurking round every corner,’ Sheere explained. ‘She doesn’t know I’m here, so I can’t stay long.’
‘Why not? We were thinking of going down to the docks; you could come with us,’ said Ben, much to the surprise of the others, as this was the first they’d heard of the plan.
‘I can’t go with you, Ben. I came to say goodbye.’
‘What!’ cried various voices at once.
‘We’re leaving for Bombay tomorrow. My grandmother says this city isn’t safe and we must leave. She forbade me from seeing you again, but I didn’t want to go without saying goodbye. You’re the only friends I’ve had in ten years, even if that was just for a night.’
Ben looked at her in astonishment.
‘You’re going to Bombay?’ he exploded. ‘Why? Does your grandmother want to be a film star? This is absurd!’
‘I’m afraid it isn’t,’ Sheere said sadly. ‘I’ll only be in Calcutta for a few more hours. I hope you don’t mind if I spend some of that time with you.’
‘We’d love you to stay, Sheere,’ said Ian, speaking for all of them.
‘Just a minute,’ Ben protested. ‘What’s all this business about saying goodbye? A few more hours in Calcutta? That’s nonsense. You could spend a hundred years in this city and not understand half of what goes on here. You can’t just leave like that. Even less now that you’re a full member of the Chowbar Society.’
‘You’ll have to talk to my grandmother,’ Sheere sighed.
‘That’s exactly what I plan to do.’
‘Great idea,’ Roshan said. ‘You made a wonderful impression on her yesterday.’
‘Oh ye of little faith!’ Ben retorted. ‘What happened to our vow? As members of the society, we have to help Sheere find her father’s house. Nobody leaves this city until we’ve found it and unravelled its mysteries. And that’s that.’
‘Count me in,’ said Siraj. ‘But how are you going to do it? Are you going to threaten Sheere’s grandmother?’
‘Sometimes the word is mightier than the sword,’ Ben declared. ‘I wonder, who said that?’
‘Voltaire?’ suggested Isobel.
Ben ignored her sarcasm.
‘And which powerful words might you be using?’ asked Ian.
‘Not my own, that’s for sure,’ Ben explained. ‘The words of Mr Carter. We’ll get him to speak to your grandmother.’
Sheere looked down and shook her head despondently.
‘It won’t work, Ben. You don’t know Aryami Bose. There’s nobody as stubborn as her. It’s in her blood.’
Ben gave a feline smile, his eyes shining.
‘I’m even more stubborn. Wait till you see me in action, then you’ll change your mind.’
‘Ben, you’re going to get us into trouble again,’ said Seth.
Ben raised an eyebrow and looked at each of them in turn, crushing any hint of rebellion.
‘If anyone has anything else to say, speak now or for ever hold your peace,’ he said solemnly.
Nobody protested.
‘Good. Motion approved. Let’s go.’
CARTER INSERTED HIS KEY in the hole and turned it twice. The lock clicked open and Carter entered the room, closing the door behind him. He didn’t feel like seeing or speaking to anyone for at least an hour. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and walked over to his armchair. It was then that he noticed a figure seated in the chair opposite and realised he was not alone. The key slipped from Carter’s fingers but didn’t hit the floor; an agile hand, sheathed in a black glove, caught it as it fell. A sharp face peered around the wing of the armchair, its lips twisted in a doglike snarl.
‘Who are you and how did you get in here?’ Carter demanded, unable to hide the tremor in his voice.
The intruder stood up and Carter felt the blood drain from his cheeks as he recognised the man who had paid him a visit sixteen years earlier. His face hadn’t aged a single day and his eyes still blazed with the ferocity the headmaster remembered. Jawahal. Clutching the key in his hand, the visitor walked over to the door and locked it. Carter gulped. The warnings Aryami Bose had given him the night before raced through his mind. Jawahal squeezed the key between his fingers and the metal bent as if it were a hairpin.
‘You don’t seem very happy to see me, Mr Carter,’ said Jawahal. ‘Don’t you remember the meeting we arranged sixteen years ago? I’ve come to make my donation.’
‘Leave this place immediately or I’ll call the police,’ Carter threatened.
‘Let’s not worry about the police for the time being. I’ll call them when I leave. Sit down and grant me the pleasure of your conversation.’
Carter sat in his armchair struggling to keep his emotions in check and appear calm and in control. Jawahal gave him a friendly smile.
‘I imagine you know why I’m here.’
‘I don’t know what you’re looking for, but you won’t find it here,’ replied Carter.
‘Maybe I will, maybe I won’t,’ said Jawahal casually. ‘I’m looking for a child who has now become a man. You know which child I mean. I’d hate to feel obliged to hurt you.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
Jawahal laughed. ‘Yes,’ he replied coldly. ‘And when I threaten someone, I mean it.’
For the first time, Carter considered the possibility of crying out for help.
‘If you’re thinking about screaming,’ said Jawahal. ‘Let me at least give you a reason to do so.’
As soon as he’d uttered those words, Jawahal spread his right hand in front of his face and calmly began to pull off the glove.
SHEERE AND THE OTHER members of the Chowbar Society had only just stepped into the courtyard when the windows of Thomas Carter’s office on the first floor exploded with a thunderous blast, and fragments of glass, wood and brick cascaded over the garden. For a moment the young people froze in their tracks, then they immediately rushed towards the building, ignoring the smoke and the flames issuing from the gaping hole that had opened in the facade.
When the explosion took place, Bankim was at the other end of the corridor, looking through a pile of documents he was preparing to take to Carter for his signature. The shock wave knocked him down; when he looked up through the cloud of smoke that filled the corridor, he saw that the door of the headmaster’s office had been blown off its hinges and smashed against the wall. Bankim jumped up and ran towards the source of the explosion, but as he approached he saw a black silhouette emerge, wreathed in flames. It spread its dark cloak and swooped down the corridor like a huge bat, moving at incredible speed, before it disappeared leaving behind it a trail of ash and with a sound that reminded Bankim of the furious hiss of a cobra.
Bankim found Carter lying on the floor inside the office. His face was covered in burns and his clothes were smouldering. Bankim crouched beside his mentor and tried to sit him up. The headmaster’s hands were shaking and Bankim noticed with relief that he was still breathing, albeit with difficulty. Bankim shouted for help and soon the faces of some of the boys appeared round the doorway. Ben, Ian and Seth helped him lift Carter off the floor, while the others moved rubble out of the way and prepared a space in the corridor.
‘What the hell happened?’ asked Ben.
Bankim shook his head, unable to answer, clearly still in shock. Between them they managed to carry the wounded man into the corridor while Vendela, her face as white as porcelain and a desperate look in her eyes, ran to alert the nearest hospital.
Gradually the remaining members of St Patrick’s began to
appear. Nobody understood what had caused the blast and they did not recognise the body that lay scorched on the floor. Ian and Roshan formed a cordon round Mr Carter and told everyone who approached that they needed to keep the way clear.
The wait seemed infinite.
THE AMBULANCE FROM CALCUTTA General Hospital seemed to take for ever to negotiate the labyrinth of city streets and reach St Patrick’s. For another half an hour everyone waited restlessly, but just as they were beginning to give up hope, one of the doctors from the medical team came over to Bankim and the group of friends while three other medics continued to assist the victim.
When they saw the doctor approaching, they all crowded round him anxiously. He was a young man with red hair and intense eyes, and seemed decidedly competent. Or maybe they just hoped, and prayed, he would be.
‘Mr Carter has suffered serious burns and there seem to be a few broken bones, but he’s out of danger. What worries me most now are his eyes. We can’t guarantee that he’ll recover his eyesight completely, although it’s still too early to know for certain. He’ll have to be taken to the hospital so that we can sedate him properly before treating his wounds. He’ll certainly have to undergo surgery. I need someone who can authorise his admission papers.’
‘Vendela can do that,’ said Bankim.
The doctor nodded.
‘Good. There’s something else. Which of you is Ben?’
They all stared at him in surprise. Ben looked up, confused.
‘I’m Ben,’ he replied. ‘Why?’
‘He wants to speak to you,’ said the doctor, his tone implying that he’d tried to dissuade Carter and that he disapproved of his request.
Ben nodded and hurried off towards the ambulance.
‘Just one minute,’ warned the doctor. ‘Not a second longer.’