The Midnight Palace

Isobel raised her head and looked around her. The station was empty except for a cloud of steam that slowly lifted, tinted dark red by the afterglow of the sun. In front of her, barely half a metre away, was a puddle of some dark sticky substance. For a moment Isobel thought she could see the reflection of a face on its surface, the luminous sad face of a woman enveloped in light who was calling to her. She stretched out a hand towards the image and found the tips of her fingers soaked in the thick warm fluid. Blood. Isobel jerked her hand away and wiped her fingers on her dress as the vision slowly vanished. Gasping for breath, she dragged herself as far as the wall and leaned against it to recover.

After a minute she stood up again and looked around the station. The evening light was fading fast and soon night would be upon her. A single thought took hold of her: she didn’t want to wait for that moment inside Jheeter’s Gate. She started to walk nervously towards the exit and only then did she spy a ghostly silhouette advancing towards her through the mist. The figure raised a hand, and Isobel saw its fingers burst into flames to light up its path. By then she had realised that she wouldn’t be able to get out of that place as easily as she had entered.

Through the collapsed roof of the Midnight Palace shone a starry sky. Evening had taken with it some of the sweltering heat that had been pounding the city since dawn, but the breeze that blew timidly through the streets of the Black Town seemed little more than a warm moist sigh from the Hooghly River.

While they waited for the remaining members of the Chowbar Society to arrive, Ian, Ben and Sheere were listlessly killing time among the ruins of the old mansion, each lost in their own thoughts.

Ben had opted to clamber up to his favourite corner, a naked beam that ran across the front pediment of the Palace. Sitting exactly in the middle, his legs dangling, Ben would often perch on his solitary lookout post to gaze out at the city lights and the silhouettes of the palaces and cemeteries that bordered the sinuous course of the Hooghly through Calcutta. He could spend hours up there without speaking, not even bothering to look down at solid ground.

From the Palace courtyard Ian kept an eye on his friend and decided to let him enjoy one of his last spiritual retreats; meanwhile, he returned to the task with which he had been occupied the last hour: trying to explain to Sheere the rudiments of chess, using a board which the Chowbar Society kept in its headquarters. The chess pieces were reserved for the annual championships that took place in December – something Isobel invariably won with a superiority that bordered on insult.

‘There are two theories regarding the strategy of chess,’ Ian explained. ‘In fact there are dozens, but only a couple really count. The first is that the key to the game lies in the second row: king, knight, castle, queen, etc. According to this theory, the pawns are just pieces to be sacrificed while you develop your tactics. The second theory, on the other hand, supports the idea that pawns can and should be the most lethal pieces you use in your attack, and it is an intelligent strategy to treat them as such. To be frank, neither of these theories has worked for me, but Isobel is a passionate defender of the second one.’

In mentioning his friend’s name, Ian was reminded of how worried he was about her. Sheere noticed his distant expression and rescued him with a new question about the game.

‘What is the difference between tactics and strategy?’ she asked. ‘Is it purely technical?’

Ian weighed up Sheere’s question although he doubted there was an answer to it.

‘It’s a linguistic difference, not a real one,’ came Ben’s voice from on high. ‘Tactics are the collection of small steps you take to reach a position; strategy, the steps you take when there’s nowhere left to go.’

Sheere looked up and smiled at Ben.

‘Do you play chess?’ she asked.

Ben didn’t reply.

‘Ben deplores chess,’ Ian explained. ‘According to him, it’s the second most useless way of wasting your intelligence.’

‘And what is the first?’

‘Philosophy,’ answered Ben from his lookout post.

‘Ben dixit,’ Ian proclaimed. ‘Why don’t you come down? The others should be arriving soon.’

‘I’ll wait,’ Ben replied, returning to his place in the clouds.

In fact he didn’t come down until half an hour later. Ian was engrossed in an explanation of the knight’s ability to jump over other pieces when Roshan and Siraj appeared at the entrance to the Midnight Palace. After a while Seth and Michael also returned, and they all gathered round a small bonfire that Ian had built with the remaining bits of dry wood, which they kept in a part of the building to the rear of the Palace that was protected from the rain. The faces of the seven friends were tinted copper by the glow of the fire as they drank from the bottle of water Ben passed round. It wasn’t cold, but at least it wasn’t potentially deadly.

‘Shouldn’t we wait for Isobel?’ asked Siraj, visibly anxious about his unrequited love.

‘She might not come,’ said Ian.

They all looked at him in bewilderment. Ian told them briefly about his conversation with Isobel that afternoon, his friends’ expressions becoming markedly gloomy. When he’d finished, he reminded them that she had wanted them to share their discoveries with or without her being present, and he offered the first turn to whoever wished to take it.

‘All right,’ said Siraj nervously. ‘I’ll tell you what we found out, but then I’m going straight in search of Isobel. Only someone as stubborn as her would have decided to go off on an expedition tonight, alone and without telling us where she was going. How could you let her do that, Ian?’

Roshan came to Ian’s rescue, placing his hand on Siraj’s shoulder.

‘You can’t argue with Isobel,’ he reminded Siraj. ‘You can only listen. Tell them about the hieroglyphics and then we’ll both go and look for her.’

‘Hieroglyphics?’ asked Sheere.

Roshan nodded.

‘We found the house, Sheere,’ Siraj explained. ‘Or rather, we know where it is.’

Sheere’s face suddenly lit up, her heart racing. The boys drew closer to the fire and Siraj pulled out a sheet of paper with a few lines of a poem copied out in his unmistakable handwriting.

‘What’s this?’ asked Seth.

‘A poem,’ Siraj replied.

‘Read it aloud,’ said Roshan.

‘The city I love is a dark, deep

house of misery, a home to evil spirits

in which no one will open a door, nor a heart.

The city I love lives in the twilight,

shadow of wickedness and forgotten glories,

of fortunes sold and souls in torment.

The city I love loves no one, it never rests; it is a

tower erected to the uncertain hell of our destiny,

of the enchantment of a curse that was written in blood,

the dance of deceit and infamy,

bazar of my sadness …’

The friends remained silent after Siraj had finished reading the poem, and for a moment there was only the whisper of the fire and the distant voice of the city whistling in the wind.

‘I know those lines,’ Sheere murmured. ‘They come from one of my father’s books. They’re at the end of my favourite story, the tale of Shiva’s tears.’

‘Exactly,’ Siraj agreed. ‘We’ve spent the whole afternoon in the Bengali Institute of Industry. It’s an incredible building, almost completely run-down, with floor after floor of archives and rooms buried in dust and rubbish. There were rats, and I bet that if we went there at night we’d find something lurking-’

‘Let’s stick to the point, Siraj,’ Ben cut in. ‘Please.’

‘All right,’ said Siraj, setting aside his enthusiasm for the mysterious building. ‘The point is that, after hours of research – which I’m not going to go into, don’t worry – we came across a file with documents that belonged to your father. It has been in the safekeeping of the Institute since 1916, the year of the accident at Jheeter’s Gate. Among the papers is a book signed by him, and although we weren’t allowed to take it away, we were able to examine it. And we were lucky.’

‘I don’t imagine how,’ Ben objected.

‘You should be the first to see it. Next to the poem someone, I suppose Sheere’s father, did an ink drawing of a house,’ Siraj explained, smiling mysteriously as he handed Ben the sheet of paper.

Ben examined the lines of the poem and shrugged his shoulders.

‘All I can see is words.’

‘You’re losing your mental powers, Ben. It’s a pity Isobel isn’t here to see it,’ Siraj joked. ‘Read it again. Pay attention.’

Ben followed Siraj’s instructions and frowned.

‘I give up. The lines have no order or structure. It’s just prose, cut up any which way.’

‘Exactly,’ Siraj agreed. ‘But what is the rule guiding this division? In other words, why does he cut the line at the point he does when he could choose any other option?’

‘To separate the words?’ Sheere ventured.

‘Or to join them…’ murmured Ben.

‘Take the first word of each line and make a sentence with them,’ said Roshan.

Ben looked at the poem again and then at his friends.

‘Read only the first word,’ said Siraj.

‘The house in the shadow of the tower of the bazaar,’ read Ben.

‘There are at least six bazaars in North Calcutta alone,’ Ian pointed out.

‘How many of them have a tower tall enough to project a shadow over the neighbouring houses?’ asked Siraj.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I do,’ said Siraj. ‘Two: the Shyambazar and the Machuabazar, to the north of the Black Town.’

‘Even so, the shadow a tower can cast during the day would spread across a minimum range of a hundred and eighty degrees, changing every minute,’ said Ben. ‘That house could be anywhere in North Calcutta, which is like saying anywhere in India.’

‘Just a moment,’ Sheere interrupted them. ‘The poem speaks of the twilight. It says, “the city I love lives in the twilight”.’

‘Have you checked that?’ asked Ben.

‘Of course we have,’ replied Roshan. ‘Siraj went to the Shyambazar and I went to the Machuabazar just a few minutes before sunset.’

‘And?’ they all pressed him.

‘The shadow of the tower at the Machuabazar falls on an abandoned warehouse,’ Siraj explained.

‘Roshan?’ asked Ian.

Roshan smiled. He plucked a half-burnt stick from the fire and drew the shape of a tower on the ashes.

‘Like the hand of a clock, the shadow of Shyambazar’s tower points to some gates flanked by tall iron railings. Behind them there’s a courtyard full of palm trees and weeds. And above the palm trees I could just make out a house with a watchtower.’

‘That’s fantastic!’ cried Sheere.

But Ben couldn’t help noticing the anxious look on Roshan’s face.

‘What’s the problem, Roshan?’ he asked.

Roshan slowly shook his head.

‘I don’t know. There was something about the house I didn’t like.’

‘Did you see anything?’ asked Seth.

Roshan shook his head again. Ian and Ben exchanged glances, but didn’t say a word.

‘Has it occurred to anyone that this might all be a trap?’ asked Roshan.

Again Ian and Ben gave each other a meaningful look. They were both thinking the same thing.

‘We’ll have to take that risk,’ said Ben, feigning as much conviction as possible.

With trembling hands Aryami Bose lit another match and reached forward to light the wick of the white candle that stood in front of her. The flickering flame cast hazy shadows across the dark room. A gentle draught caressed her hair and the back of her neck. Aryami turned round. A sudden gust of cold air, infused with an acrid stench, tugged at her shawl and blew out the candle. Darkness enveloped her again and the old lady heard two sharp knocks on the front door. She clenched her fists; a faint reddish light was filtering through the doorway. The banging was repeated, this time louder. The old woman felt a cold sweat rising through the pores on her forehead.

‘Sheere?’ she called out weakly.

Her voice echoed in the gloom of the house. There was no answer. A few seconds later the two knocks sounded again.

In the dark Aryami fumbled around on the mantelpiece. The only source of light came from the dying remains of a few coals in the fireplace below. She knocked over several objects before her fingers found the long metal sheath of the dagger she kept there, and as she drew out the weapon, the curved blade shone in the glow. A razor-sharp streak of light appeared beneath the front door. Aryami held her breath and slowly walked towards it. She stopped when she reached the door and heard the sound of the wind through the leaves of the bushes in the courtyard.

‘Sheere?’ she whispered again. There was no reply.

Holding the dagger firmly, she placed her left hand on the door handle and gently pulled it down. The rusty mechanism groaned after years of disuse. Gradually the door opened and the bluish brightness of the night sky cast a fan of light into the interior of the house. There was nobody there. The undergrowth stirred, the murmur of an ocean of small dry leaves. Aryami peered round the door and looked, first to one side, then to the other, but the courtyard was deserted. Just then, the old woman’s leg bumped against something and she looked down to discover a small basket at her feet. It was covered with a thick veil which did not block the light coming from within the basket. Aryami knelt down and cautiously removed the cloth.

Inside she found two small wax figures shaped like naked babies. From each head emerged a lit cotton wick and the two effigies were melting, like candles in a temple. A shudder ran through Aryami’s body. She threw the basket down the broken stone steps, stood up and was about to return indoors when she noticed something coming towards her along the corridor that led to the other end of her house: footsteps, invisible but aflame. The old woman felt the dagger slipping from her fingers as she slammed the front door shut.

As she stumbled down the steps, not daring to turn her back on the front door, Aryami tripped over the basket she’d thrown there a few seconds earlier. Lying helpless on the ground, she watched in astonishment as a tongue of flame licked at the base of the doorway and the old wood caught fire. She crawled a few metres until she reached the bushes, then pulled herself up and stared impotently as flames burst through the windows.

Aryami ran out into the street, and she didn’t stop to look back until she was at least a hundred metres away from what had once been her home. Now it was a blazing pyre spitting red-hot sparks and ash into the sky. Neighbours began to lean out of their windows and come into the streets to gaze in alarm at the huge fire that had spread through the house in a matter of seconds. Aryami heard the crash of the roof as it collapsed and fell, engulfed in flames. A dazzling flash, like scarlet lightning, illuminated the faces of the crowd which had gathered to watch, and people looked at one another, bemused, unable to comprehend what had happened.

Aryami Bose wept bitterly for what had once been her childhood home, the home where she had given birth to her daughter. And as she melted into the confusion of Calcutta’s streets, she bade goodbye to it for ever.

It wasn’t difficult to determine the exact location of the engineer’s house, following the cryptogram Siraj had decoded. According to the instructions, duly checked against the fieldwork Roshan had carried out, Chandra Chatterghee’s house stood in a quiet street that led from Jatindra Mohan Avenue to Acharya Profullya Road, about a kilometre and a half north of the Midnight Palace.

As soon as Siraj was satisfied that the fruits of his research had been properly digested by his friends, he expressed his urgent desire to go in search of Isobel. All his friends’ attempts at reassuring him and suggesting he should wait for her as she was certain to return fell on deaf ears, and in the end, true to his promise, Roshan offered to accompany him. The two set off into the night after agreeing they would meet the others at Chandra Chatterghee’s house as soon as they had any news of Isobel.

‘What have you two managed to find out?’ asked Ian, turning to Seth and Michael.

‘I wish our results were as spectacular as Siraj’s, but to be honest the only thing we’ve discovered is a mass of loose ends,’ Seth replied. He went on to tell them about their visit to Mr de Rozio, whom they’d left in the museum, continuing the research. They’d promised they would return in a couple of hours to help him.

‘What we’ve discovered until now only goes to confirm what Sheere’s grandmother – sorry, your grandmother – told us. At least in part.’

‘There are some gaps in the engineer’s story it won’t be easy to fill in,’ said Michael.

‘Exactly,’ Seth agreed. ‘In fact, I think that what we haven’t discovered is far more interesting than what we have …’

‘What do you mean?’ Ben asked.

‘Well,’ Seth went on, warming his hands by the fire, ‘Chandra’s story is documented from the moment he became a member of the official Institute of Industry. There are papers confirming that he refused a number of offers from the British government to work for the army building military bridges, as well as a railway line that was to join Bombay and Delhi, for the exclusive use of the navy.’

‘Aryami told us how much he loathed the British,’ Ben commented. ‘He blamed them for many of the things that have gone wrong in this country.’

‘That’s right,’ Seth continued. ‘But the curious thing is that, despite his open dislike of the British, of which there were many public displays, Chandra Chatterghee participated in a strange project for the British military between 1914 and 1915, a year before he died in the Jheeter’s Gate tragedy. It was a mysterious business with a peculiar name: the Firebird.’

Sheere raised her eyebrows and drew closer to Seth, looking concerned.

‘What was the Firebird?’

‘It’s hard to tell,’ Seth replied. ‘Mr de Rozio thinks that it might have had something to do with a military experiment. Some of the official correspondence that turned up among the engineer’s papers was signed by a colonel called Sir Arthur Llewelyn. According to de Rozio, Llewelyn held the dubious honour of heading the forces that were responsible for repressing the peaceful demonstrations for independence that took place between 1905 and 1915.’

‘Held?’ asked Ben.

‘That’s what’s so intriguing,’ Seth explained. ‘Sir Arthur Llewelyn, His Majesty’s official butcher, died in the Jheeter’s Gate fire. What he was doing there is a mystery.’

The five friends looked at one another, confused.

‘Let’s try to put some order to this,’ Ben suggested. ‘On the one hand we have a brilliant engineer who repeatedly refuses generous offers of employment from the British government due to his dislike of colonial rule. Up to there everything makes sense. But suddenly this mysterious colonel appears on the scene and involves him in an operation which, whatever way you look at it, must have made Chandra Chatterghee’s stomach turn: a secret weapon, an experimental way of controlling crowds. And he accepts. It doesn’t make sense. Unless …’

‘Unless Llewelyn had uncanny powers of persuasion,’ said Ian.

Sheere raised her hands in protest.

‘My father would never have taken part in any kind of military project, it’s impossible. Certainly not for the British, and not for the Bengalis either. My father despised the military – he thought they were nothing but brutes blindly carrying out the dirty work of corrupt governments and colonial companies. He would never have allowed his skills to be used to invent something that would massacre his own people.’

Seth watched her quietly, weighing her words.

‘And yet, Sheere, there are documents to prove that he did take part, in some way,’ he said.

‘There has to be some other reason,’ she replied. ‘My father built things and wrote books. He wasn’t a murderer.’

‘Leaving aside his ideals, there must be some other explanation,’ Ben remarked. ‘And that’s what we’re trying to discover. Let’s go back to Llewelyn and his powers of persuasion. What could he have done to force Chandra to collaborate?’

‘Perhaps his power didn’t lie in what he could do,’ Seth stated, ‘but in what he could choose not to do.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Ian.

‘This is my theory,’ Seth continued. ‘In all the engineer’s records we haven’t found a single mention of Jawahal, this childhood friend, except in a letter from Colonel Llewelyn addressed to Chandra and postmarked November 1911. In it our friend the colonel adds a postscript in which he briefly suggests that, if Chandra refuses to take part in the project, he will be forced to offer the post to his old friend Jawahal. What I think is this: Chandra had managed to conceal his relationship with Jawahal, who was by then in prison, and had developed his career without anybody knowing that he had once covered up for the man. But let’s suppose that this Llewelyn had come across Jawahal in prison and Jawahal had revealed the true nature of their relationship. This would put Llewelyn in an excellent position for blackmailing the engineer and forcing him to collaborate.’

‘How do we know that Llewelyn and Jawahal met one another?’ Ian asked.

‘It’s only a supposition,’ Seth replied. ‘Sir Arthur Llewelyn, a colonel in the British army, decides to ask for the help of an exceptional engineer. The engineer refuses. Llewelyn investigates him and discovers a murky past, a trial to which the engineer is linked. He decides to pay a visit to Jawahal, and Jawahal tells him what he wants to hear. Simple.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Sheere.

‘Sometimes the truth is the hardest thing to believe. Remember what Aryami told us,’ Ben said. ‘But let’s not rush into anything. Is de Rozio still investigating this?’

‘He is, yes,’ replied Seth. ‘The number of documents is so vast that he’d need an army of library rats to make sense of anything.’

‘You’ve made quite a good job of it,’ remarked Ian.

‘We weren’t expecting anything less,’ said Ben. ‘Why don’t you go back to the librarian, and don’t lose sight of him for a moment. I’m sure we’re missing something …’

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Michael, although he already knew the answer.

‘We’ll go to the engineer’s house,’ Ben replied. ‘Perhaps what we’re looking for is there.’

‘Or something else …’ Michael pointed out.

Ben smiled.

‘As I said, we’ll take that risk.’

Sheere, Ian and Ben arrived outside the gates that guarded Chandra Chatterghee’s house shortly before midnight. To the east, the narrow tower of the Shyambazar was silhouetted against the moon’s sphere, projecting its shadow over the garden of palm trees and bushes that hid the building.

Ben leaned on the gate of metal spears and examined their threatening sharp points.

‘We’ll have to climb over,’ he remarked. ‘It doesn’t look easy.’

‘We won’t have to,’ said Sheere next to him. ‘Our father described every inch of this house in his book before he built it, and I’ve spent years memorising every detail. If what he wrote is correct, and I have no doubt that it is, there’s a small lake behind these shrubs and the house stands further back.’

‘What about these spears?’ asked Ben. ‘Did he write about them too? I’d rather not end up skewered like a roast chicken.’

‘There’s another way of getting into the house without having to jump over them,’ said Sheere.

‘Then what are we waiting for?’ Ben and Ian asked together.

Sheere led them through what was barely an alleyway, a small gap between the railings surrounding the property and the walls of an adjacent building with Moorish features. Soon they reached a circular opening that looked as if it served as the main sewer for all the drains in the house. From it came a sour biting stench.

‘In here?’ asked Ben sceptically.

‘What did you expect?’ snapped Sheere. ‘A Persian carpet?’

Ben scanned the inside of the sewage tunnel and sniffed.

‘Divine,’ he concluded, turning to Sheere. ‘You first.’

They emerged from the tunnel beneath a small wooden bridge that arched over the lake, a dark velvety mantle of murky water stretching in front of Chandra Chatterghee’s house. Sheere led the two boys along a narrow bank, their feet sinking into the clay, until they reached the other end of the lake. There she stopped to gaze at the building she had dreamed about all her life. Ian and Ben stood quietly by her side.

The two-storey building was flanked by two towers, one on either side. It featured a mix of architectural styles, from Edwardian lines to Palladian extravaganzas and features that looked as if they belonged to some castle tucked away in the mountains of Bavaria. The overall effect, however, was elegant and serene, challenging the critical eye of the spectator. The house seemed to possess a bewitching charm, so that although the first impression was one of bewilderment you then had the feeling that the impossible jumble of styles and forms had been chosen on purpose to create a harmonious whole.

‘Is this how your father described it?’ asked Ian.

Sheere nodded in amazement and walked towards the steps leading to the front door. Ben and Ian watched her hesitantly, wondering how she thought she was going to enter such a fortress. But Sheere seemed to move about the mysterious surroundings as if they had been her childhood home. The ease with which she dodged obstacles, almost invisible in the dark, made the two boys feel like trespassers in the dream Sheere had nurtured during her nomadic years. As they watched her walk up the steps, Ben and Ian realised that this deserted place was the only real home the girl had ever had.

‘Are you going to stay there all night?’ Sheere called from the top of the stairs.

‘We were wondering how to get in,’ Ben pointed out. Ian nodded in agreement.

‘I have the key.’

‘The key?’ asked Ben. ‘Where?’

‘Here,’ Sheere replied, pointing to her head with her forefinger. ‘You don’t open the locks in this house with a normal key. There’s a code.’

Intrigued, Ben and Ian came up the steps to join her. When they reached the door, they saw that at its centre was a set of four wheels on a single axle. Each wheel was smaller than the one behind it, and different symbols were carved on the metal rim of each, like the hours on the face of a clock.

‘What do these symbols mean?’ asked Ian, trying to decipher them in the dark.

Ben pulled a match from the box he always carried with him and struck it in front of the lock mechanism. The metal shone in the light of the flame.

‘Alphabets!’ cried Ben. ‘Each wheel has an alphabet carved on it. Greek, Latin, Arab and Sanskrit.’

‘Fantastic,’ sighed Ian. ‘Piece of cake …’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Sheere. ‘The code is simple. All you have to do is make a four-letter word using the different alphabets.’

Ben looked at her intently.

‘What is the word?’

‘Dido,’ replied Sheere.

‘Dido?’ asked Ian. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s the name of a mythological Phoenician queen,’ Ben explained.

Sheere smiled approvingly and Ian was momentarily jealous of the spark that seemed to exist between the two siblings.

‘I still don’t understand,’ Ian objected. ‘What have the Phoenicians got to do with Calcutta?’

‘Queen Dido threw herself on a funeral pyre to appease the anger of the gods in Carthage,’ Sheere explained. ‘It’s the purifying power of fire. The Egyptians also had their own myth, about the phoenix.’

‘The myth of the firebird,’ Ben added.

‘Isn’t that the name of the military project Seth told us about?’ asked Ian.

His friend nodded.

‘This whole thing is starting to give me goosebumps,’ said Ian. ‘You aren’t seriously thinking of going inside? What are we going to do?’

Ben and Sheere exchanged a determined glance.

‘It’s very simple,’ Ben replied. ‘We’re going to open this door.’

The librarian’s eyelids were beginning to feel like slabs of marble as he faced the hundreds of documents in front of him. The vast sea of words and figures he had retrieved from Chandra Chatterghee’s files seemed to be performing a sinuous dance and murmuring a lullaby that was sending him to sleep.

‘I think we’d better leave this until tomorrow morning, lads,’ Mr de Rozio began.

Seth, who had been afraid he would say this for some time, surfaced immediately from his jumble of folders and gave him a pious smile.

‘Leave it, Mr de Rozio?’ he objected in a light-hearted tone. ‘Impossible! We can’t abandon this now.’

‘I’m only a few seconds away from collapsing over this table, son,’ replied Mr de Rozio. ‘And Shiva, in his infinite goodness, has granted me a weight, which, the last time I checked it, in February, was somewhere between two hundred and fifty and two hundred and sixty pounds. Do you know how much that is?’

Seth smiled jovially.

‘About a hundred and twenty kilos,’ he calculated.

‘Exactly,’ de Rozio confirmed. ‘Have you ever tried moving an adult who weighs a hundred and twenty kilos?’

Seth thought about it.

‘I have no recollection of such a thing, but-’

‘Just a minute!’ cried Michael from some invisible point behind the ring binders, boxes and piles of yellowing paper that filled the room. ‘I’ve found something.’

‘I hope it’s a pillow,’ protested de Rozio, raising his bulk.

Michael appeared from behind a column of dusty shelves carrying a box full of papers and stamped documents that had been discoloured by time. Seth raised his eyebrows, praying that the discovery would be worthwhile.

‘I think these are the court records for a murder trial,’ said Michael. ‘They were underneath a summons addressed to Chandra Chatterghee, the engineer.’

‘Jawahal’s trial?’ cried Seth excitedly.

‘Let me have a look,’ said de Rozio.

Michael deposited the box on the librarian’s desk, raising a cloud of dust that choked the cone of golden light projected by the electric lamp. The librarian’s plump fingers carefully flicked through the documents, his tiny eyes examining their contents. Seth watched de Rozio’s face, his heart in his mouth, waiting for some word or sign. De Rozio paused at a page that seemed to have a number of stamps on it and brought it closer to the light.

‘Well, well,’ he mumbled to himself.

‘What is it?’ begged Seth.

De Rozio looked up and gave a broad feline smile.

‘I have in my hands a document signed by Colonel Sir Arthur Llewelyn. In it, citing reasons of state security and military secrecy, he is ordering the discontinuance of trial number 089861/A in court number four of the Calcutta High Court, in which a citizen named Lahawaj Chandra Chatterghee, an engineer by profession, is charged with alleged involvement and withholding and/or concealment of evidence in a murder investigation, and he instructs the transfer of the case to the Supreme Military Court of His Majesty’s Armed Forces. All previous rulings are therefore overturned and all evidence provided by the defence and the prosecution during the hearing is declared null and void. It’s dated 14 September 1911.’

Michael and Seth stared at Mr de Rozio in amazement, unable to utter a single word.

‘So, you two,’ the librarian concluded, ‘which of you knows how to make coffee? This could be a very long night …’

The four-wheeled lock gave an almost inaudible click, and a few seconds later the two sides of the heavy iron door swung open, letting out a breath of air that had been trapped inside the house for years. Standing in the dark, Ian’s face went pale.

‘It opened,’ he said in a whisper.

‘How observant of you,’ Ben remarked.

‘This is no time for jokes,’ Ian replied. ‘We don’t know what’s in there yet.’

Ben pulled out his matchbox and rattled it in the air.

‘That’s only a matter of time. Would you like to go first?’

‘I’ll leave that honour to you,’ Ian said, smiling.

‘I’ll go,’ said Sheere, entering the house without waiting for a reply.

Ben quickly struck another match and followed her. Ian took one last look at the night sky, as if he feared this might be his last chance to see it, and after taking a deep breath plunged into the engineer’s house. A moment later the large door closed behind them, as gently as it had opened to let them in.

The three friends huddled together as Ben held the match up high. The spectacle that unfolded before their eyes far exceeded any of their expectations.

They were standing in a hall supported by thick Byzantine columns and crowned with a concave dome covered with a huge fresco. This depicted hundreds of figures from Hindu mythology, forming an endless illustrated chronicle set in concentric rings around a central figure sculpted in relief on top of the painting: the goddess Kali.

The walls of the hall were lined with bookshelves forming two semicircles over three metres high. The floor was covered by a mosaic of brilliant black tiles and pieces of rock crystal, creating the illusion of a night sky studded with stars and constellations. Ian looked carefully at the design and recognised various celestial figures Bankim had told them about at St Patrick’s.

‘Seth should see this,’ whispered Ben.

At the far end of the room, beyond the carpet of stars, was a spiral staircase leading up to the first floor.

Before Ben had time to react, the match had burnt down to his fingers and gone out, leaving the three in total darkness. The constellations at their feet, however, continued to shine.

‘This is incredible,’ Ian murmured to himself.

‘Wait till you see upstairs,’ said Sheere a few metres beyond him.

Ben lit another match. Sheere was already waiting for them by the spiral staircase, and without a word Ben and Ian followed her.

The spiral staircase rose in the middle of a lantern-shaped shaft, similar to structures they had studied in drawings of castles built on the banks of the Loire River. Looking up, the friends felt as if they were inside a huge kaleidoscope crowned with a cathedral-like rose window that fractured the moonlight into dozens of beams – blue, scarlet, yellow, green and amber.

When they reached the first floor, they realised that the needles of light issuing from the lantern’s crown projected moving drawings and shapes against the walls of a large hall.

‘Look at this,’ said Ben, pointing at a rectangular surface about forty metres square that stood one metre above the ground.

All three walked over to it and discovered what appeared to be an immense model of Calcutta, reproduced with such precision and detail that when you looked at it closely you felt as if you were flying over the real city. They recognised the course of the Hooghly, the Maidan, Fort William, the White Town, the temple of Kali to the south, the Black Town, and even the bazaars. For a long time Sheere, Ian and Ben stood spellbound by the extraordinary miniature, captivated by its beauty.

‘There’s the house,’ said Ben, pointing.

The other two drew closer and saw, right in the heart of the Black Town, a faithful reproduction of the house they were standing in. The multicoloured beams from the ceiling swept across the miniature streets, revealing the hidden secrets of Calcutta as they passed.

‘What is that behind the house?’ asked Sheere.

‘It looks like a railway track,’ said Ian.

‘It is.’ Ben followed the outline of the track until it came to the sharp, majestic silhouette of Jheeter’s Gate, on the other side of a metal bridge spanning the Hooghly.

‘This track leads to the station where the fire happened,’ said Ben. ‘It’s a siding.’

‘There’s a train on the bridge,’ Sheere observed.

Ben walked round the model to get closer to the reproduction of the train. As he examined it, an uncomfortable tingling ran down his spine. He recognised the train. He’d seen it the previous night, although he’d thought it was only the product of a nightmare. Sheere walked over to him and Ben saw there were tears in her eyes.

‘This is our father’s house, Ben,’ she murmured. ‘He built it for us.’

Ben put his arms round Sheere and hugged her. At the other end of the room Ian looked away. Ben stroked Sheere’s face and kissed her on the forehead.

‘From now on,’ he said, ‘it will always be our home.’

At that moment the lights on the little train standing on the bridge lit up and, slowly, its wheels began to roll along the rails.

Silent as the grave, Mr de Rozio was devoting all his archivist’s cunning to the reports on the trial which Colonel Llewelyn had been so determined to bury. Seth and Michael were doing the same with a folder full of plans and notes in Chandra’s handwriting. Seth had found it at the bottom of one of the boxes containing the engineer’s personal effects. After his death, because no relative or institution had claimed them and he had been an important public figure, they had ended up lost in the museum’s archives. The library was shared by various scientific and academic institutions, among them the Higher Institute of Engineering, of which Chandra Chatterghee had been one of the most illustrious and controversial members. The folder was plainly bound and its cover bore a single inscription, handwritten in blue ink: The Firebird.

Seth and Michael had hidden their discovery so as not to distract the plump librarian from his task and had moved over to the other end of the room.

‘These drawings are fantastic,’ whispered Michael, admiring various illustrations of mechanical objects whose specific function he couldn’t quite fathom.

‘Let’s concentrate,’ Seth reminded him. ‘What does it say about the Firebird?’

‘Science isn’t my forte,’ Michael began, ‘but if I’m right, this is a plan for an enormous flame-thrower.’

Seth examined the plans without understanding them in the slightest. Michael anticipated his queries.

‘This is a tank for oil or some sort of fuel,’ Michael said, pointing to the document. ‘This suction mechanism is joined to it. It’s a feeding pump, like the pump in a well, and it provides the fuel to keep this circle of flames alight. A sort of pilot light.’

‘But the flames can’t be more than a few centimetres high,’ Seth objected. ‘I don’t see how there can be any real power there.’

‘Look at this pipe.’

Seth saw what his friend was referring to: a sort of tube, rather like the barrel of a cannon or rifle.

‘The flames emerge round the rim of the cannon.’

‘And?’

‘Look at this other end,’ said Michael. ‘It’s a tank, an oxygen tank.’

‘Simple chemistry,’ murmured Seth, putting two and two together.

‘Imagine what would happen if this oxygen were ejected under pressure through the pipe and passed through the circle of flames.’

‘A flame-thrower,’ Seth agreed.

Michael closed the folder and looked at his friend.

‘What kind of secret could make Chandra design a toy like this for a butcher like Llewelyn? It’s like giving the Emperor Nero a shipment of gunpowder …’

‘That’s what we need to find out,’ said Seth, ‘and quickly.’

Sheere, Ben and Ian followed the train’s journey through the model until the tiny locomotive came to a halt just behind the miniature reproduction of the engineer’s house. Slowly the lights went out and the three friends stood there, motionless and expectant.

‘How the hell does the train move?’ asked Ben. ‘It must get its power supply from somewhere. Is there an electricity generator in the house, Sheere?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘There must be,’ said Ian. ‘Let’s look for it.’

Ben shook his head.

‘That’s not what’s bothering me,’ he said. ‘Even supposing there is one, I’ve never heard of a generator that starts up by itself. Much less after years of not working.’

‘Perhaps this model works on some other sort of mechanism,’ Sheere suggested, although she didn’t sound convinced.

‘Perhaps there’s someone else in the house,’ replied Ben.

Ian cursed his luck.

‘I knew it,’ he murmured.

‘Wait!’ cried Ben.

Ian looked at his friend: he was pointing at the model. The train was moving again, this time in the opposite direction.

‘It’s going back to the station,’ Sheere observed.

Slowly, Ben drew closer to the model, stopping by the section of railway track along which the train had started to roll.

‘What’s the plan?’ asked Ian.

His friend didn’t reply. Taking great care, Ben stretched out an arm towards the track. The engine was approaching fast, and as it passed in front of him he snatched it, unhooking it from the carriages. Little by little, the rest of the train reduced speed until it came to a halt. Ben held the engine up to the light from the rose window and examined it. Its minute wheels were gradually slowing down.

‘Someone has a strange sense of humour,’ he remarked.

‘Why?’ asked Sheere.

‘There are three lead figures inside the engine, and they look too much like us for it to be a coincidence.’

Sheere moved over to where Ben was standing and took the little engine in her hands. The dancing lines of light cast a rainbow over her face and she gave a resigned smile.

‘He knows we’re here,’ she said. ‘There’s no point in hiding any more.’

‘Who knows?’ asked Ian.

‘Jawahal,’ answered Ben. ‘He’s waiting. But I don’t know what he’s waiting for.’

When they reached the bridge that seemed to vanish into the haze over the Hooghly, Siraj and Roshan collapsed against a wall, exhausted after combing the city in search of Isobel. Far ahead the tips of Jheeter’s Gate’s towers peeped over the mist like the crest of a sleeping dragon.

‘It will soon be dawn,’ said Roshan. ‘We should go back. Maybe Isobel has been waiting for us there.’

‘I don’t think so,’ replied Siraj.

Roshan could tell from his friend’s voice that their nocturnal adventure had taken its toll on him, but for the first time in years he hadn’t heard Siraj complain once about his asthma.

‘We’ve looked everywhere,’ Roshan replied. ‘We can’t do any more. Let’s at least go and get help.’

‘There’s one place we haven’t visited …’

Roshan gazed through the mist at the sinister structure of Jheeter’s Gate.

‘Isobel wouldn’t be crazy enough to go in there.’ He sighed. ‘Nor would I.’

‘I’ll go by myself then,’ said Siraj, standing up.

Roshan heard him wheezing. He closed his eyes despondently.

‘Sit down,’ he said, but he could already hear Siraj heading towards the bridge.

When he opened his eyes, the boy’s skinny silhouette was plunging into the mist.

‘Damn it,’ Roshan muttered to himself, but he got up to follow his friend.

Siraj paused when he reached the end of the bridge and stared at the entrance to Jheeter’s Gate looming ahead. Roshan joined him and they both stood there, examining the building. A gust of cold air issued from the station’s tunnels carrying the stench of burnt wood and filth. The two friends tried to discern what might lie beyond the well of blackness that opened up inside the entrance.

‘It looks like the gateway to hell,’ said Roshan. ‘Let’s get out of here while we still can.’

‘It’s all in the mind,’ said Siraj. ‘Don’t forget, it’s only an abandoned station. There’s nobody there. Only us.’

‘If there isn’t anyone there, why do we have to go in?’

‘You don’t have to go in if you don’t want to,’ replied Siraj. There was no reproach in his voice.

‘Of course,’ snapped Roshan. ‘And leave you to go in alone? Forget it. Let’s go.’

The two members of the Chowbar Society entered the station, following the track that led in from the bridge towards the central platform. The darkness inside the building was much denser that it had seemed from the outside and they could only make out a few shapes in the watery grey light. Roshan and Siraj walked slowly, barely a metre apart. Their footsteps seemed to form a repetitive litany against the sighing of the breeze that echoed from somewhere deep inside the tunnels.

‘We’d better climb onto the platform,’ said Roshan.

‘No train has come through here for years – what does it matter?’

‘It matters to me, all right?’ Roshan replied. He couldn’t get out of his mind the image of a train appearing through the mouth of the tunnel and crushing them under its wheels.

Siraj muttered something unintelligible but placatory, and was about to walk back to the platform end and clamber onto it when something drifted from the tunnels towards the two boys.

‘What’s that?’ said Roshan in alarm.

‘It looks like a piece of paper,’ Siraj guessed. ‘A bit of rubbish blown by the wind, that’s all.’

The white paper twirled along the ground and stopped by Roshan’s feet. The boy knelt down and picked it up. Siraj saw his friend’s face crumble.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. Roshan’s fear was starting to feel contagious.

Without replying his friend handed him the sheet of paper. Siraj recognised it instantly. It was the picture Michael had drawn of them by the pond, which Isobel had taken with her. Siraj gave it back, and, for the first time since they’d begun their search, he considered the very real possibility that Isobel might be in danger.

‘Isobel …’ Siraj called into the tunnels.

The echo of his voice faded into the depths of the station. He tried to concentrate on controlling his breathing, which was becoming more difficult by the moment. He waited for the echo to die away and, steadying his nerves, called again: ‘Isobel?’

A loud metallic crash resounded from some distant corner of the station. Roshan gave a start and looked around him. The wind from the tunnels now whipped at their faces and the two boys took a few steps back.

‘There’s something in there,’ whispered Siraj, pointing towards one of the tunnels. He seemed strangely calm.

Roshan stared at the black mouth of the tunnel and then he too could see it. The faraway lights of a train were approaching. He could feel the rails vibrating beneath his feet and he looked at Siraj in panic. Siraj seemed to be smiling.

‘I’m not going to be able to run as fast as you, Roshan,’ he said. ‘We both know that. Don’t wait for me. Go for help.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ cried Roshan, perfectly aware of what his friend was implying.

The train’s headlights pierced the station like a burst of lightning in a storm.

‘Run,’ Siraj ordered him. ‘Now.’

Roshan looked frantically into his friend’s eyes as he heard the thunderous roar of the engine. Siraj gave a nod. Then Roshan gathered all his strength and ran desperately towards the platform end, looking for a place where he could jump up, out of the train’s path. He ran as fast as he could, not stopping to look behind him. He was sure that if he dared to look, he would be confronted with the metal front of the engine centimetres from his face. The fifteen metres that separated him from the end of the platform seemed like a hundred and fifty, and in his panic he thought he could see the railway tracks receding before his eyes at a dizzying speed. He threw himself to the ground, rolling over the rubble, and the train sped past him only a hair’s breadth away. He heard the deafening screams of the children and felt the flames tearing at his skin for ten terrible seconds, during which he imagined that the whole structure of the station was going to collapse on top of him.

Then, all of a sudden, there was silence. Roshan stood up and opened his eyes. The station was deserted once more and the only trace of the train was two rows of flames gradually disappearing along the rails. He ran back to the point where he’d last seen Siraj. Cursing his cowardice, he cried out in anger – he realised he was alone.

In the distance dawn pointed the way to the exit.

The first light of day seeped through the closed shutters of the library in the Indian Museum. Seth and Michael were dozing, their heads resting on the table, exhausted. Mr de Rozio heaved a deep sigh and pushed his chair away from the desk, rubbing his eyes. He had spent hours engrossed in the mountain of documents, trying to unravel those lengthy court records. His stomach was now begging for attention, and he had placed a moratorium on his consumption of coffee, which was necessary if he was to go on performing his duties with any degree of dignity.

‘I give up, sleeping beauties,’ he thundered.

Seth and Michael looked up with a start and noticed that the day had begun without them.

‘Did you find anything?’ asked Seth, suppressing a yawn.

His stomach was rumbling and his head felt as if it was full of puree.

‘Is that a joke?’ asked the librarian. ‘I think you’ve been pulling my leg all along.’

‘I don’t understand, sir,’ said Michael.

De Rozio gave a vast yawn, revealing cavernous jaws, which reminded the boys of a hippopotamus wallowing in a river.

‘It’s very simple,’ he said. ‘You came here with a tale of murder and crime and that absurd business about someone called Jawahal.’

‘But it’s all true. We have first-hand information.’

De Rozio laughed, his tone mocking.

‘Maybe you’re the ones who’ve been tricked,’ he replied. ‘In this entire pile of papers I haven’t found a single mention of your friend Jawahal. Not one word. Zero.’

Seth felt his stomach fall to his feet.

‘But that’s impossible. Jawahal was sentenced and went to prison and then escaped years later. Perhaps we could start again from that point. From the escape. It must be documented somewhere …’

De Rozio’s astute eyes gave him a sceptical look. His expression clearly indicated that there would be no second chance.

‘If I were you, boys, I’d return to the person who gave me this information and this time I’d make quite sure I was told the whole story. As for this Jawahal, who according to your mysterious informer was in prison, I think he’s far more slippery than either you or I can handle.’

De Rozio studied the two boys. They were as pale as marble. The plump scholar smiled in commiseration.

‘My condolences,’ he murmured. ‘You’ve been sniffing down the wrong hole …’

Shortly afterwards, Seth and Michael were sitting on the stairs of the main entrance to the Indian Museum, watching the sunrise. A light rain had glazed the streets and they shone like sheets of liquid gold. Seth looked at his companion and showed him a coin.

‘Heads, I go and visit Aryami and you go to the prison. Tails, it’s the other way round.’

Michael nodded, his eyes half-closed. Seth tossed the coin and the circle of bronze spun in the air, catching the light, until it landed on the boy’s hand. Michael leaned over to check the result.

‘Give my regards to Aryami,’ Seth mumbled.

The night had seemed endless but finally daylight arrived at the engineer’s house. For once in his life Ian blessed the Calcutta sun, as its rays erased the shroud of darkness that had enveloped them for hours. In the dawn the house seemed less threatening. Ben and Sheere were also visibly relieved to see the morning come.

‘If there’s one good thing about this house, it’s that it’s safe,’ said Ben. ‘If our friend Jawahal had been able to get in, he would have done so already. Our father might have had some strange inclinations, but he knew how to protect a home. I suggest we try to get some sleep. The way things are looking right now, I’d rather sleep during the day and stay awake at night.’

‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ said Ian. ‘Where shall we sleep?’

‘There are several bedrooms in the towers,’ Sheere explained. ‘We can choose.’

‘I suggest we find rooms next to each other,’ said Ben.

‘Fine,’ said Ian. ‘And it wouldn’t be a bad idea to eat something either.’

‘That can wait,’ Ben replied. ‘Later on we’ll go out and find something.’

‘How can you two be hungry?’ asked Sheere.

Ben and Ian shrugged their shoulders.

‘Elemental physiology,’ replied Ben. ‘Ask Ian. He’s the doctor.’

‘As the teacher in a Bombay school once told me,’ said Sheere, ‘the main difference between a man and a woman is that the man always puts his stomach before his heart and a woman does the opposite.’

Ben considered the theory.

‘Let me quote our favourite misogynist and professional bachelor, Mr Thomas Carter: “The real difference is that, while men’s stomachs are much larger than their brains and their hearts, women’s hearts are so small they keep leaping out of their mouths.”’

Ian seemed bemused by the exchange of such illustrious quotes.

‘Cheap philosophy,’ pronounced Sheere.

‘The cheap sort, my dear Sheere, is the only philosophy worth having,’ declared Ben.

Ian raised a hand to signal a truce.

‘Goodnight to both of you,’ he said, then headed straight for one of the towers.

Ten minutes later all three had fallen into a deep sleep from which nobody could have roused them. In the end tiredness conquered fear.

Setting off from the Indian Museum in Chowringhee Road, Seth walked south almost a kilometre downhill. He then turned east along Park Street, heading for the Beniapukur area, where the ruins of the old Curzon Fort prison stood next to the Scottish cemetery. The dilapidated graveyard had been built on what was once the official limit of the city. In those days a high mortality rate and the speed with which bodies decomposed meant that all burial grounds had to be situated outside Calcutta for reasons of public health. Ironically, although the Scots had been in control of Calcutta’s commercial activity for decades, they discovered that they couldn’t afford a place among the graves of their English neighbours, and were therefore forced to build their own cemetery. In Calcutta the wealthy refused to yield their land to anyone poorer, even after death.

As he approached what remained of the Curzon Fort prison, Seth understood why the building had not yet become another victim of the city’s cruel demolition programme. There was no need – its structure already seemed to be hanging by an invisible string, ready to topple over the crowds at the slightest attempt to alter its balance. A fire had devoured the building, carving out gaps and destroying beams and props in its fury.

Seth approached the prison entrance, wondering how on earth he was going to discover anything among the heap of charred timber and bricks. Surely the only mementos of its past would be the metal bars and cells that had been transformed in their final hours into lethal ovens from which there was no escape.

‘Have you come on a visit, boy?’ whispered a voice behind him.

Seth spun around in alarm and realised that the words had come from the lips of a ragged old man whose feet and hands were covered in large infected sores. Dark eyes watched him nervously, and the man’s face was caked in grime, his sparse white beard evidently trimmed with a knife.

‘Is this the Curzon Fort prison, sir?’ asked Seth.

The beggar’s eyes widened when he heard the polite way the boy was addressing him, and his leathery lips broke into a toothless smile.

‘What’s left of it,’ he replied. ‘Looking for accommodation?’

‘I’m looking for information,’ replied Seth, trying to smile back at the beggar in a friendly manner.

‘This world is full of ignoramuses: nobody is looking for information. Except you. So what do you want to find out, young man?’

‘Do you know this place?’

‘I live in it,’ answered the beggar. ‘Once it was my prison; today it’s my home. Providence has been generous to me.’

‘You were imprisoned in Curzon Fort?’ asked Seth, incredulous.

‘Once upon a time I made some big mistakes … and I had to pay for them.’

‘How long were you in prison, sir?’ asked Seth.

‘Right to the end.’

‘So you were here the night of the fire?’

The beggar drew aside the rags draped over his body and Seth stared in horror at the purple scars covering his chest and neck.

‘Maybe you could help me,’ continued Seth. ‘Two friends of mine are in danger. Do you remember a prisoner called Jawahal?’

The beggar closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.

‘None of us called each other by our real names,’ he explained. ‘Our name, like our freedom, was something we left by the entrance when we came here. We hoped that if we managed to keep our name separate from the horror of this place, we might be able to recover it when we left, clean and untouched by memories. It didn’t turn out that way of course …’

‘The man I’m referring to was convicted of murder,’ Seth replied. ‘He was young. He was the one who started the fire that destroyed the prison and then escaped.’

The beggar stared at him in surprise.

‘The one who started the fire? The fire started in the boiler room. An oil valve exploded. I was outside my cell, doing my work shift. That was what saved me.’

‘But he set it all up,’ Seth insisted. ‘And now he’s trying to kill my friends.’

The beggar tilted his head to one side but then nodded.

‘That may be so, son. But what does it matter any more? I wouldn’t worry about your friends. There’s not much this man, Jawahal, can do to them now.’

Seth frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’

The beggar laughed.

‘The night of the fire I was even younger than you are now. In fact, I was the youngest in the prison. This man, whoever he was, must be well over a hundred by now.’

Seth rubbed his temples, totally confused.

‘Just a moment,’ he said. ‘Didn’t the prison burn down in 1916?’

‘1916?’ The beggar laughed again. ‘Dear boy, what are you going on about? Curzon Fort burnt down in the early hours of 26 April 1857. Seventy-five years ago.’

Seth stared open-mouthed at the beggar, who was studying him with curiosity and some concern at his evident dismay.

‘What’s your name?’ the man asked.

‘Seth, sir,’ replied the boy, whose face had gone pale.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help you, Seth.’

‘You have,’ replied Seth. ‘Now how can I help you?’

The beggar’s eyes shone and he smiled bitterly.

‘Can you make time go backwards, Seth?’ The beggar stared at the palms of his hands.

Seth shook his head.

‘Then you can’t help me … Go back to your friends, Seth. But don’t forget me.’

‘I won’t, sir.’

Michael stopped by the entrance to the street that led to Aryami Bose’s house and stared in shock at the smoking ruins of what had once been the old lady’s home. People had drifted in from the streets and were standing in the courtyard, watching in silence as the police searched the debris and questioned the neighbours. Michael hurried over and pushed through the circle of onlookers. A police officer stopped him.

‘I’m sorry, lad. You can’t come through.’

Michael looked over the policeman’s shoulder and saw two of the man’s colleagues lifting a fallen beam that was still glowing.

‘What about the woman who lives in the house?’ asked Michael.

The policeman seemed suspicious. ‘You knew her?’

‘She’s my friends’ grandmother,’ Michael replied. ‘Where is she? Is she dead?’

The officer observed him impassively for a few seconds then shook his head.

‘We can’t find any trace of her,’ he said. ‘One of the neighbours says he saw someone running down the street shortly after the flames burst through the roof. But I’ve already told you more than I should. Off you go now.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Michael. He made his way back through the mass that was gathering in the hope of some gruesome discovery.

Once he was free of the crowd, Michael examined the adjacent buildings, trying to guess where the old lady might have fled. Both ends of the street merged into the Black Town, with its tangle of buildings, bazaars and palaces. Aryami Bose could be anywhere.

For a few moments Michael considered the options, then finally decided to head for the banks of the Hooghly River, to the west. There thousands of pilgrims immersed themselves in the sacred waters of the Ganges, hoping heaven might purify them, although mostly they received only fevers and diseases in return.

With the sun beating down on him, Michael wove his way through the throng that flooded the streets, a constant gabble of merchants, quarrels and unheeded prayers. The voice of Calcutta. Some twenty metres behind him a figure wrapped in a dark shawl peered out from an alleyway and began to follow him through the crowd.

Ian opened his eyes with the absolute certainty that his persistent insomnia would allow him no more than a few hours’ respite, despite the exhaustion brought about by recent events. Judging from the quality of the light bathing the room in the western tower of the engineer’s house, he calculated that it must be somewhere around mid-afternoon. The hunger pangs that had assaulted him at dawn had returned with a vengeance, making him grit his teeth. As Ben used to joke, parodying the words of the writer Tagore, whose castle was only a short distance away: when the stomach speaks, the wise man listens.

As Ian slipped quietly from the room, he noticed with some envy that Ben and Sheere were still enjoying the sleep of the righteous. He suspected that when they woke up even Sheere would be prepared to swallow the first edible object within reach, and as far as Ben was concerned, there was no doubt whatsoever. Ian imagined his best friend was probably busy dreaming about a tray of gastronomic delights and a sumptuous dessert of chhena sweets – a mixture of lime juice and boiled milk that all sweet-toothed Bengalis adored.

Aware that he had already been granted more sleep than expected, he decided to venture out in search of provisions with which to placate his hunger and that of his friends. With a bit of luck he’d be back before either of them had even had time to yawn.

As he crossed the large hall containing the model town and made for the spiral staircase, he was pleased to see that in daylight the house looked considerably less menacing and that nothing else had changed. Ian noticed that the building was remarkably efficient at insulating them from the soaring temperatures outside. It wasn’t hard to imagine the stifling heat beyond those walls, yet the engineer’s house felt almost spring-like. Downstairs, he walked through some of the galaxies on the floor mosaic then opened the door to the outside world, hoping he wouldn’t forget the combination of the eccentric lock that sealed Chandra Chatterghee’s sanctuary.

The sun beat down mercilessly on the dense vegetation of the garden. The lake, which the night before had resembled a sheet of polished ebony, now threw bright reflections against the front of the house. Ian walked towards the secret tunnel beneath the wooden bridge and entered the passageway. Before its pungent stench could fill his lungs, he was out again, passing through the entry that led to the street. There, he threw an imaginary coin in the air and decided to begin his search for food by heading west.

As he walked along, humming to himself, he could never have imagined that behind him the four circles of the combination lock had slowly started to turn again, and that this time the four-letter word they would form when set in a vertical line was not Dido, but the name of a goddess much closer to home: Kali.

In his dreams Ben thought he heard a crash. He woke to find the room in total darkness. His first thought, in his initial daze after waking abruptly from a long deep sleep, was that night must have fallen and they had slept for over twelve hours. But a moment later he heard the dry thud again and realised that the room wasn’t dark because it was night-time; something was happening in the house. The shutters were slamming shut like the tightly sealed sluice gates of a canal. Ben jumped out of bed and ran to the door in search of his friends.

‘Ben!’ he heard Sheere yelling.

He raced over to her room and opened the door. His sister was standing behind it, trembling and unable to move. Ben hugged her and led her out of the room, watching in horror as, one by one, the windows of the house were blocked out.

‘Ben,’ Sheere whispered. ‘Something came into my room while I was sleeping and touched me.’

Ben felt a shudder run through his body. He led Sheere to the middle of the room containing the model of the city. Seconds later they were surrounded by nothing but darkness. Ben put his arms round Sheere and told her to remain silent as he scanned the room for any hint of movement. He couldn’t make anything out in the dark, but they could both hear a murmur that seemed to be invading the structure of the house, a sound like tiny animals scuttling under the floors and between the walls.

‘What’s that, Ben?’ whispered Sheere.

Before her brother could find an answer, something else stole the words from his lips. Little by little the lights in the model city were coming on, and the two siblings witnessed the birth of a nocturnal Calcutta. Ben gulped and Sheere clung on to him tightly. In the middle of the model the headlights of the little train flashed and its wheels slowly began to turn.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ hissed Ben, guiding Sheere frantically towards the staircase that led to the ground floor. ‘Now!’

They had only taken a few steps when they saw a circle of fire boring a hole through the door of the room where Sheere had been sleeping. In an instant the flames had consumed the wood, like a red-hot coal passing through a sheet of paper. Ben’s feet were rooted to the floor as he watched blazing footsteps coming towards them from the doorway.

‘Run!’ he shouted, pushing his sister towards the staircase. ‘Go on!’

Sheere hurled herself down the stairs while Ben remained glued to the spot, right in the path of the fiery footsteps. He felt a breath of hot air impregnated with the stench of burnt paraffin against his face as a footstep fell only centimetres from his feet. Two red pupils glowed in the dark like red-hot irons, and Ben felt a fiery claw clamping his right arm. In an instant it had burnt right through his shirt-sleeve and scorched his skin.

‘It is not yet time for us to meet,’ whispered a piercing cavernous voice. ‘Get out of my way.’

Before Ben could react, the iron grip had shoved him aside and sent him sprawling to the floor. Ben touched his wounded arm then looked up to see an incandescent vision descending the spiral staircase, destroying it as it went.

Sheere’s screams of terror gave Ben the strength to get back on his feet again. He ran towards the staircase, which was now scarcely more than a skeleton of metal bars cloaked in flames. Realising that the steps had disappeared, Ben threw himself through the gap. His body struck the mosaic on the ground floor and a wave of pain raced up his burnt arm.

‘Ben!’ shouted Sheere. ‘Help me!’

Ben looked up and saw Sheere being dragged across the floor of shining stars, cocooned in fire, like the chrysalis of some infernal butterfly. He jumped up and ran after her, following her abductor’s trail towards the rear of the house and trying to dodge the furious impact of hundreds of books that were cascading off the shelves of the circular library. Suddenly he felt a blow to the head and fell flat on his face.

His sight began to cloud over but he could see the fiery visitor stop and turn to look at him. Sheere’s face was distorted by panic, though her screams were no longer audible. Ben tried to claw his way along the floor, which was now covered in glowing coals, fighting against the drowsiness that was urging him to give up. A cruel wolfish smile appeared before him, and through his blurred vision he recognised the man he had seen in the ghostly train that travelled through the night. Jawahal.

‘When you’re ready, come and find me,’ the fiery spirit whispered. ‘You know where I am …’

A second later Jawahal grabbed Sheere again, pulling her through the wall of the house as if it were merely a curtain of smoke. Before he passed out, Ben heard the echo of the train as it rode away into the distance.

‘He’s coming round,’ murmured a voice hundreds of miles away.

Ben tried to make out the fuzzy shapes moving in front of him and soon recognised some familiar faces. Hands made him comfortable and placed a soft object under his head. Ben blinked repeatedly. Ian’s eyes were red and despairing – he was watching his friend anxiously. Next to him were Seth and Roshan.

‘Ben, can you hear us?’ asked Seth. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week.

Ben suddenly remembered and abruptly tried to sit up. The three boys made him lie down again.

‘Where’s Sheere?’

Ian, Seth and Roshan looked at one another.

‘She’s not here, Ben,’ Ian replied at last.

Ben felt the sky falling on top of him and closed his eyes.

‘What happened?’ he asked after a moment.

‘I woke up before you two,’ Ian explained, ‘so I decided to go out and find something to eat. On the way I met Seth, who was coming over to the house. When we returned we saw that all the windows were closed and there was smoke coming from inside. We found you unconscious. Sheere wasn’t here.’

‘Jawahal has taken her.’

Ian and Seth exchanged a look.

‘What’s the matter? What have you found out?’

Seth ran both hands through his thick shock of hair, pushing it away from his forehead.

‘I’m not sure that this Jawahal exists, Ben,’ he declared. ‘I think Aryami lied to us.’

‘What are you talking about? Why would she lie to us?’

Seth summarised the discoveries they’d made at the museum and explained that there was no mention of Jawahal in any of the documents relating to the trial, except for that one letter addressed to the engineer and signed by Colonel Llewelyn, who had covered up the matter for some reason. Ben listened to their revelations in amazement.

‘That doesn’t prove a thing,’ he objected. ‘Jawahal was sentenced and imprisoned. He escaped sixteen years ago and that was when his crimes began.’

Seth sighed, shaking his head.

‘I went to the Curzon Fort prison, Ben,’ he said glumly. ‘There was no escape and no fire sixteen years ago. The jail burnt down in 1857. Jawahal could never have escaped from a prison that had ceased to exist for decades before his trial took place. A trial in which he isn’t even mentioned. It just doesn’t add up.’

Ben stared at him open-mouthed.

‘She lied to us, Ben,’ said Seth. ‘Your grandmother lied to us.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘Michael is out looking for her,’ Ian explained. ‘When he finds her he’ll bring her here.’

‘And where are the others?’

Roshan looked hesitantly at Ian. Ian nodded gravely.

‘Tell him,’ he said.

Michael stopped to watch the evening haze spread over the eastern bank of the Hooghly. Dozens of human figures, partly covered in white threadbare robes, were dipping into the river, the sum of their voices lost in the murmur of the current. The sound of doves flapping their wings, rising above the jungle of palaces and faded domes along the luminous river, made him think of a shadowy Venice.

‘Are you looking for me?’ said the old woman. She was sitting a few metres away, her face hidden by a veil.

Michael looked at her and she lifted the veil. Aryami Bose’s deep eyes were pale in the evening light.

‘We don’t have much time,’ said Michael. ‘Not any more.’

Aryami nodded and slowly rose to her feet. Michael offered her his arm and the two set off under cover of dusk towards the house of Chandra Chatterghee.

The five friends gathered around Aryami Bose. Patiently, they waited for the old lady to get comfortable and to honour the debt she owed them by offering up the truth. Nobody dared speak before she did. The dreadful urgency that was gnawing at their insides became a momentary calm as they began to worry that the secret Aryami had hidden from them so carefully might prove to be insurmountable.

Aryami looked at the faces of the youngsters with deep sadness and gave them a faint smile. She cast her eyes down and sighed, examining the palms of her small nervous hands as she began to speak. This time her voice seemed to lack the authority and determination they had learned to expect from her. At the end of her journey fear had undermined her resilience; she was now just an old woman, frail and frightened, a girl who had lived too long.

‘Before I begin, let me tell you that if I have lied, and I have been obliged to do so on numerous occasions, it has always been in order to protect someone. And if I lied to you, it was because I was certain that in doing so I would protect you, Ben, and your sister Sheere from something that might hurt you even more than the actions of a maddened criminal. Nobody can know how much I’ve suffered, having to carry this burden on my own from the day you were born. Listen carefully and rest assured that whatever I say will be the truth, as far as I know it, although there is nothing as terrible and difficult to believe as the stark reality of facts.

‘It feels like years have passed since I told you the story of my daughter Kylian. I told you about her, about her extraordinary radiance and how, among all her suitors, the one she chose to be her husband was a man of humble origins and great talent, a young engineer with a promising future. But I also told you that since childhood this man had borne a heavy load on his shoulders, a secret that would lead to his death and to the death of many others. Although this may seem contradictory, let me start this tale at the end, not the beginning, in response to the findings you have so cleverly disentangled.

‘Chandra Chatterghee was always a dreamer, a man possessed by a vision of a better and fairer future for his people, whom he could see dying in poverty in the streets. Meanwhile, behind the walls of their sumptuous homes, those whom he considered to be invaders, exploiters of our people’s natural legacy, were living a life of luxury at the expense of the millions of wretched souls inhabiting the great roofless orphanage that is India.

‘His dream was to provide the nation with an instrument for progress and the creation of wealth, as he believed this would eventually break the oppressive yoke of the Crown. It would be an instrument that would open up new routes between cities, new enclaves, ensuring a future for Indian families. He dreamed of an invention made of iron and fire: the railway. For Chandra, railway tracks were the arteries that would carry the new blood of progress throughout the land, and he conceived a heart from which all this energy would flow: his masterpiece, Jheeter’s Gate Station.

‘But the line separating dreams from nightmares is as fine as a needle, and very soon the shadows of the past returned. A high-ranking officer in the British army, Colonel Arthur Llewelyn, had enjoyed a meteoric career built on his exploits and the slaughter of innocent people – old and young, unarmed men and terrified women – in towns and villages throughout the whole Bengali Peninsula. Wherever the message of peace and a united India arrived, so too did his rifles and bayonets. A very gifted man with a promising future, as his superiors claimed with pride, but also a murderer hiding behind the Crown’s flag and the power of its army.

‘It didn’t take long for Llewelyn to notice Chandra’s talent and, without too many problems, he managed to draw a black ring around him, blocking his projects. A few weeks later not a single door in Calcutta, indeed in the entire province, was open to him. Except, of course, Llewelyn’s. He proposed a series of jobs for the army – bridges, railway lines … Every offer he made was rejected by your father; he preferred to support himself with the paltry sums he received from Bombay publishers in exchange for his manuscripts. In time, Llewelyn’s noose slackened and Chandra began to work once more on his grand plan.

‘After some years had gone by, Llewelyn’s anger was rekindled. His own career was floundering and he urgently needed some dramatic incident, a new bloodbath, with which to recapture the attention of the London authorities and restore his reputation as the panther of Bengal. His solution was clear: to put pressure on Chandra but this time using different weapons.

‘For years Llewelyn had been investigating the engineer, and finally his henchmen sniffed out the series of crimes linked to Jawahal. Llewelyn almost let the case come to light. Then, just at the point when your father was more enmeshed than ever in his Jheeter’s Gate project, he intervened, closing down the case but threatening to reveal the truth unless your father created a new weapon for him, a deadly instrument of repression that would put an end to the riots that the pacifists and pro-independence campaigners kept strewing in Llewelyn’s path. Chandra had to comply, therefore the Firebird was born, a machine that could turn a city or a village into an ocean of flames in a matter of seconds.

‘Chandra developed the railway and the Firebird side by side, under constant pressure from Llewelyn, whose greed, together with the suspicions he was starting to arouse among his superiors, threatened to expose him. A man who until then had been considered calm, even-tempered and dutiful was now showing himself to be an obsessive maniac whose desire for success and recognition blocked his own chances of survival.

‘Chandra realised that Llewelyn’s downfall was only a matter of time, so he played along with him and made him believe that he would hand over the finished project sooner than planned. This only increased Llewelyn’s mania and tore apart what little sanity he had left.

‘In 1915, a year before the opening of Jheeter’s Gate and the railway line extending from it, Llewelyn ordered the slaughter of a defenceless crowd, with no possible justification, and was thrown out of the British army in a scandal that even reached the House of Commons. His star would never shine again.

‘His madness now took on new dimensions. Llewelyn gathered a group of officers who were loyal to him – like Llewelyn, they had been stripped of their rank and instructed to give up their weapons. With this horde of butchers he set up a sinister paramilitary squad that operated in secret. They sported their old uniforms and medals in a grotesque parody, congregating in Llewelyn’s former residence so that they could maintain the fiction that they were a secret elite unit and that it would not be long before they would force out the very men who had signed their expulsion orders. Needless to say, Llewelyn never admitted that he’d been downgraded and disciplined. According to him and his collaborators, they had all resigned in order to found a new military order.

‘Soon your father received death threats against himself and his pregnant wife if he did not deliver the Firebird. As the project was clandestine, Chandra had to handle it with great care. If he asked the army for help, his past would eventually come out. His only option was to make a pact with Llewelyn and his men.

‘Amid all that tension, two days before the projected opening of Jheeter’s Gate – and not afterwards, as I told you before – Kylian gave birth to twins. A boy and a girl. Your sister Sheere and you, Ben.

‘A symbolic journey had been planned for the inauguration of Jheeter’s Gate. The first train would transport three hundred and sixty-five orphaned children – one for each day of the year – from Calcutta to the orphanages of Bombay. What Chandra proposed to Llewelyn and his men was this: he would load the Firebird onto the train and, taking advantage of a technical stop that he would arrange about a hundred and fifty kilometres after departure, in the vicinity of Bishnupur, the soldiers would be able to unload the device and make off with it. Llewelyn accepted. Chandra was planning to disable the machine and get rid of Llewelyn and his men before the train had even sounded its whistle. But Llewelyn was secretly suspicious of the arrangement and ordered his men to get to the station early.

‘Your father had arranged to meet the soldiers inside Jheeter’s Gate, a labyrinth that only he knew, and under the pretext of showing them the Firebird, he led them into the tunnels. Llewelyn, however, had taken his own precautions, and before going to meet the engineer he had kidnapped your mother, and both of you with her. Just as Chandra was about to eliminate his blackmailers, Llewelyn revealed that he was holding you and your mother, and he threatened to kill all of you unless your father handed over the Firebird. Chandra was forced to surrender. But this wasn’t enough for Llewelyn. He ordered his men to chain your father to the engine, planning to cut him to pieces when the train began its journey, and then, right in front of your father, he cold-bloodedly plunged a knife into Kylian’s throat. He let her bleed to death slowly, hanging her from a noose in the central vault of the station. He told her he would leave you, Ben and Sheere, in the tunnels to be devoured by rats.

‘Leaving Chandra chained to the engine, Llewelyn ordered his men to start the train and take the Firebird with them. Meanwhile he was going to hide the babies in a tunnel where nobody would ever be able to find you. But things did not go according to plan. That idiot Llewelyn was overconfident and had supposed that Chandra Chatterghee would simply hand over a machine with the exterminating capability of the Firebird to an assassin like him. But Chandra had taken every precaution imaginable and had fitted the Firebird with a secret timer, known only to himself, that would release all the destructive power of the machine after a few seconds if anybody but him tried to use it.

‘As Llewelyn and his cohort of thugs boarded the train, the gang leader made a decision: as a parting gift and a prelude to the revenge he was planning to exact on the city once he had mastered the deadly invention, he would destroy the station, letting the fire raze Chandra’s work and the lives of all those who had gathered to witness its launch. However the moment Llewelyn ignited the Firebird, he also signed the death sentence of every single person on that train, including himself. Five minutes later an inferno was unleashed, taking with it the bodies and souls of both the innocent and the guilty.

‘You will be wondering why I lied to you about the prison where Jawahal was held or why his name was never mentioned in the records. Before I continue, and this is the most important thing, I want you to understand that, whatever you may hear, Chandra was a great man. A man who loved his wife and who would have loved his children if he’d had the opportunity to be a father to them. Now that I’ve said that, I will reveal the truth …

‘When your father was young and fell ill with fever, he did not end up in a shack by the river where a boy looked after him until he was better, as I told you. Your father was brought up in an institution called Grant House that still exists in South Calcutta. You’re too young to have heard the name, but there was a time when it was infamous. Your father arrived at Grant House after witnessing a terrible event when he was barely six years old. His mother, who was unwell and earned her living by selling her body for a pittance, set fire to herself in front of him, offering herself up as a sacrifice to the goddess Kali. Grant House, where Chandra grew up, was a home for the mentally ill – what you’d call a lunatic asylum.

‘For years he was confined to the corridors of that place, with no parents or friends other than people whose lives were defined by delirium and suffering. People who cried out that they were devils, gods or angels only to forget their own names the following day. By the time he was old enough to leave the institution, Chandra’s entire childhood had been coloured by the most profound horror and human misery Calcutta had ever witnessed.

‘I don’t need to tell you that there never was a sinister friend who committed those crimes. The only shadow in your father’s life was that of the parasite that had penetrated his mind. His own hands committed the crimes, and the guilt and shame of it pursued him like a curse.

‘Only Kylian’s kindness and her radiant nature cured him, giving him back the ability to shape his destiny. At her side he wrote the books you’ve heard about, he planned the works that would make him immortal and dispelled the ghost of his double life. But human greed denied him his chance, and what could have been a happy and prosperous life was plunged once more into darkness. This time for ever.

‘On the night Lahawaj Chandra Chatterghee watched his wife being murdered before his very eyes the years of childhood horror turned on him, catapulting him straight back into his own private hell. He had built a whole new life on a pedestal which was now toppling over, and as the flames devoured him, he became convinced that the only culprit in the tragedy was himself and that he deserved to be punished.

‘That is why, when Llewelyn ignited the Firebird and the flames engulfed the tunnels and the station, a dark shadow in Chandra’s soul swore he would return after his death. He would return as an angel of fire. An angel of destruction, the bringer of vengeance. An angel that would embody the darker side of his soul. It’s not a murderer who is after you. Or a man. It’s a ghost. A spirit. Or, if you prefer, a demon.

‘Your father always loved puzzles, right to the end. You told me about a drawing done by your friend Michael, the picture in which your faces are reflected in a pond. The image that appears on the water is inverted. It’s as if the prophecy guided Michael’s pencil. If you were to write the name that Chandra’s mother gave him when he was born, Lahawaj, on the drawing, the reflection on the pond would give you a different word: Jawahal.

‘Ever since that day, Jawahal’s tormented spirit has been tied to the infernal machine he created, a machine that, in death, gave him eternal life as a spectre of darkness. He and the Firebird are one and the same. That is his curse: a union between an angry spirit and a machine built for destruction. A fiery soul trapped inside the furnace of that blazing train. Now that soul is searching for a new home.

‘That is why Jawahal is looking for you, because the moment you reach adulthood, his spirit needs one of his children so that he can go on living: it needs to inhabit a body and thus extend its power to the world of the living. Only one of you can survive. The other, the one whose soul is not occupied by Jawahal’s spirit, must die. Sixteen years ago he swore he would look for you and make you his, and he has always kept his promises – in this life and the next. You must realise that Jawahal has already chosen which child will harbour his accursed soul. But only he knows which.

‘Providence granted you a chance sixteen years ago when Lieutenant Peake entered the labyrinth of tunnels at Jheeter’s Gate and discovered the lifeless body of Kylian hanging in the void over her own spilt blood. Your cries reached his ears, and the lieutenant, swallowing his grief, searched for you and snatched you from the hands of your father’s spirit. But he wasn’t able to get very far. His feet led him to my door; he handed you over and then fled.

‘When you tell your sister Sheere this story, never, ever forget that the avenging spirit that emerged that night from the flames of Jheeter’s Gate and killed Lieutenant Peake when he was trying to save you both is not your father. Your father died in the fire, along with the innocent souls of the children. The figure who arose from the inferno to destroy himself, the fruit of his marriage and his own work is nothing more than a phantom. A spirit consumed by the bitterness, hatred and horror that humans had sown in his heart. That is the truth and nothing and no one can ever change it.

‘If there is a god, or hundreds of them, I hope they will forgive me for the harm I may have inflicted on you by telling you exactly what happened.’

What can I say? W hat words can express the sadness I saw in the eyes of my best friend, Ben, that evening? Delving into the past had unveiled a cruel lesson – that in the book of life it is perhaps best not to turn back pages; it was a path on which, whatever direction we took, we’d never be able to choose our own destiny. I wished I had already boarded that ship that would take me far away and was due to leave the following day. Inside me cowardice mingled with the pain I felt for my friend and the bitter taste of truth.

We had all listened to Aryami’s story in silence and none of us dared ask a question, although hundreds of them were bubbling over in our minds. We knew that at last all the strands of fate were converging on one particular place: an appointment we could not escape at nightfall amid the shadows of Jheeter’s Gate.

When we stepped outside, the last rays of the sun formed a scarlet ribbon in the sky that stretched across the deep bluish hue of the Bengali clouds. A light drizzle moistened our faces as we set off down the siding that led from the back of Lahawaj Chandra Chatterghee’s house to the large station on the other side of the Hooghly River, passing through the western quarter of the Black Town.

I remember that shortly before crossing the metal bridge that led straight into the jaws of Jheeter’s Gate, Ben made us promise, with tears in his eyes, that never, under any circumstance, would we reveal what we’d heard that evening. He swore that if he ever learned that Sheere had discovered the truth about her father, about the image that had nourished her since childhood, he’d kill whoever told her with his bare hands. We all promised to keep the secret.

There was now only one thing left to complete our story: war …

Calcutta, 27 May 1932

The shadow of the storm heralded the arrival of midnight as a vast leaden blanket spread over Calcutta, lighting up with every burst of electric fury it unleashed. The power of the north wind swept the mist from the Hooghly River, revealing the ravaged skeleton of the metal bridge.

The silhouette of Jheeter’s Gate rose up through the retreating haze. A fork of lightning flashed from the sky, striking the needle of the central dome and fracturing into an ivy of blue light that travelled along the mesh of arches and steel beams before plunging down to the foundations.

The five friends stopped at the threshold of the bridge; only Ben and Roshan took a few steps forward. The rails formed a path edged by two silvery lines that led straight into the mouth of Jheeter’s Gate. With the moon hidden behind the clouds, the city was sunk in an eerie gloom.

Ben looked carefully along the bridge in search of gaps or cracks that might send them tumbling down into the turbulent current of the river, but all he could make out was the line of the tracks shining between weeds and rubble. The wind brought a muffled murmur from the opposite bank. Ben looked at Roshan, who was nervously watching the dark maw of the station. He saw his friend approach the tracks and crouch down next to them, his eyes still riveted on Jheeter’s Gate. Roshan placed his palm on the surface of one of the rails but quickly removed it as if he’d had an electric shock.

‘It’s vibrating,’ he said, sounding frightened. ‘As if a train were approaching.’

Ben went over and touched the metal. Roshan looked at him anxiously.

‘It’s the vibration caused by the river hitting the bridge,’ he reassured him. ‘There’s no train.’

Seth and Michael came over. Ian knelt down to tie his shoelaces in a double knot, a ritual he reserved for situations when his nerves were as tense as steel cables.

Ian looked up and smiled shyly without displaying a shred of the fear Ben knew was coursing inside him – just as it was in the others, and in himself.

‘Tonight I’d give it a triple knot,’ said Seth.

Ben smiled and the members of the Chowbar Society exchanged an expectant look then proceeded to imitate Ian and reinforce the knots of their shoes, calling on the lucky ritual that had worked so well for their friend in other predicaments.

A short while later they formed a single line, headed by Ben with Roshan in the rearguard, and began to walk cautiously over the bridge. Following Seth’s advice, Ben stayed close to the track, where the structure of the bridge was more solid. In broad daylight it was easy to avoid broken sleepers and see in advance areas that had given way with the passage of time and were now dangling down into the river, but at night, cloaked by the storm, the route was like a forest strewn with traps, and they had to advance a step at a time, feeling their way.

They’d only covered some fifty metres, a quarter of the length of the bridge, when Ben stopped and raised a hand. His friends stared ahead, bewildered. For a moment they stood motionless on the girders that trembled like jelly under the continual pounding of the river.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Roshan from the back of the line. ‘Why are we stopping?’

Ben pointed in the direction of Jheeter’s Gate: two arteries of fire were speeding along the rails towards them.

‘Get to one side!’ shouted Ben.

All five threw themselves to the ground as the two walls of fire sliced through the air next to them. As the fire passed it sucked away bits of the track and left a trail of flames along the bridge.

‘Is everyone all right?’ asked Ian, standing up. He realised there was smoke and steam coming from his clothing.

The others nodded mutely.

‘Let’s take advantage of the light from the flames and cross over before they go out,’ Ben suggested.

‘Ben, I think there’s something under the bridge,’ whispered Michael.

A strange drumming sound could be heard coming from the other side of the sheet of metal beneath their feet. A vision of steel claws scratching at the surface flashed through Ben’s mind.

‘Well, we’re not staying here to find out,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

The members of the Chowbar Society pressed ahead, zigzagging along the bridge until they reached the end, not stopping to look behind them. Once they were on firm ground, just metres away from the station’s entrance, Ben turned and told his friends to keep away from the metal framework.

‘What was that?’ asked Ian.

Ben shrugged his shoulders.

‘Look!’ cried Seth. ‘In the middle of the bridge!’

All eyes focused on that point. The tracks were glowing red, the heat radiating in all directions and giving off a light halo of smoke. After a few seconds both rails began to bend. The entire structure of the bridge started to drip huge tears of molten metal into the Hooghly, producing violent explosions as they hit the cold water.

Paralysed with fear, the five boys witnessed the steel structure, over two hundred metres long, melting before their very eyes like a lump of butter in a hot frying pan. The liquid metal sank into the river, its intense amber glow reflected on the faces of the five friends. Finally, the incandescent red faded into a dull metallic tone, and the two ends of the bridge collapsed over the Hooghly like weeping willows caught staring at their own reflection.

The sound of the steel hissing in the water slowly abated. Then, behind them, the five friends heard the voice of the old Jheeter’s Gate’s siren cutting through the Calcutta night for the first time in sixteen years. Without uttering a single word, they turned round and crossed the frontier into the ghostly setting for the game they were about to play.

Isobel opened her eyes as she heard the siren shriek through the tunnels like an air-raid warning. Her feet and hands were firmly pinned to two long rusty metal bars, and the only light she could see filtered through the grille of a ventilation shaft just above her. The echo of the siren slowly died away.

Suddenly she heard something creeping towards the grille. She looked up at the slivers of light and noticed that the bright rectangle was darkening and the grille was opening. She closed her eyes and held her breath. The metallic hooks that immobilised her feet and hands snapped open and she felt long fingers grab her by the nape of her neck and pull her up through the gap. She screamed in terror as her captor flung her onto the floor of the tunnel.

When Isobel opened her eyes, she saw a tall black silhouette standing in front of her, a figure without a face.

‘Someone has come for you,’ the invisible face whispered. ‘Let’s not keep him waiting.’

Immediately two burning pupils lit up, flaring in the dark. Grabbing her arm, the figure dragged her through the tunnel. After what seemed like hours of an agonising walk through total darkness, Isobel at last made out the ghostly shape of a train. She was hauled towards the guard’s van and didn’t have the strength to resist when she was flung inside and heard the door being locked.

As Isobel fell onto the charred floor of the carriage, a sharp pain seared through her belly. Something had gashed her badly. She groaned. She was seized by panic as a pair of hands took hold of her and tried to turn her over. She shouted out and came face to face with a dirty exhausted boy who seemed even more frightened than she was.

‘It’s me, Isobel,’ whispered Siraj. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

For the first time in her life Isobel let her tears flow freely as she hugged the bony, frail body of her friend.

Ben and his comrades stopped under the clock with the drooping hands on the main platform of Jheeter’s Gate. All around them was a vast landscape of shadows and faint slanting light that filtered through the steel and glass dome.

From where they stood, the five youngsters could envisage what Jheeter’s Gate must have looked like before the tragedy: a majestic luminous vault held up by invisible arches that seemed to be suspended from heaven, above rows and rows of platforms arranged in curves, like ripples on a pond. Large noticeboards announcing departure and arrival times. Elaborate newspaper kiosks made of carved metal with Victorian reliefs. Palatial staircases rising through steel and glass shafts to the upper levels, with corridors seemingly hanging in mid-air. Crowds strolling about its halls and boarding long express trains that would take them to the furthest reaches of the country … Nothing remained of all that splendour, only a dark broken shell.

Ian noticed the hands of the clock, distorted by the flames, and tried to imagine the magnitude of the fire. Seth had the same thought; they both avoided making any comment.

‘We should separate into groups of two. This place is immense,’ said Ben.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ replied Seth, who couldn’t get the image of the collapsing bridge out of his head.

‘Even if we did split up, there are only five of us,’ said Ian. ‘Who would go alone?’

‘I would,’ replied Ben.

The others looked at him with a mixture of relief and anxiety.

‘I still don’t think it’s a good idea,’ Seth insisted.

‘Ben’s right,’ said Michael. ‘From what we’ve seen so far, it will make little difference whether we’re five or fifty.’

‘A man of few words, but always so encouraging,’ Roshan remarked.

‘Michael, you and Roshan could search the upper levels,’ Ben suggested. ‘Ian and Seth can check this floor.’

Nobody seemed prepared to dispute the assignment of locations. One area seemed as unattractive as the next.

‘What about you?’ asked Ian, already guessing the answer. ‘Where are you going to search?’

‘In the tunnels.’

‘On one condition,’ said Seth, trying to impose a modicum of common sense.

Ben nodded, listening.

‘No heroics or any other such nonsense. The first person to notice something must stop, mark the place and return to look for the others.’

‘Sounds reasonable,’ Ian agreed.

Michael and Roshan also nodded.

‘Ben?’ Ian asked.

‘All right,’ Ben murmured.

‘We didn’t hear you,’ Seth insisted.

‘I promise,’ said Ben. ‘We’ll meet back here in half an hour.’

‘Let’s just pray you’re right,’ said Seth.

She woke into a nightmare. As she opened her eyes, Sheere vaguely remembered her vain attempts to free herself from the relentless grip of the fiery shape that had pulled her through a maze of narrow passageways. She also remembered Ben’s face as he lay writhing on the floor of a familiar-looking house, although she didn’t know how long ago that had been. It could have been an hour, a week or a month.

As she regained consciousness and felt the bruises the struggle had left on her body, Sheere realised that what she could see around her was not part of a dream. She was inside a long deep room, flanked on either side by rows of windows which let in enough murky light for her to be able to make out the wreckage of what seemed to be a narrow lounge. The broken skeletons of three glass lamps hung from the ceiling like withered branches. The remains of a cracked mirror shone in the half-light behind a counter that once might have been part of an elegant bar.

She tried to sit up. She worked out that the chains binding her wrists behind her back were fastened to a narrow pipe, and instinctively understood where she was: inside a train stuck in the underground galleries of Jheeter’s Gate.

Straining her eyes, she scanned the mass of fallen tables and burnt debris in search of a tool that might help her free herself from the chains. The interior of the carriage didn’t seem to contain anything but the useless remains of scorched objects that had miraculously survived. She struggled, but only managed to make the chains tighter.

Two metres in front of her a black shape that she had taken to be a pile of rubble suddenly turned towards her. A luminous smile on an invisible face lit up in the darkness. Sheere’s heart skipped a beat as the figure came within a breath of her face. Jawahal’s eyes shone like embers in the wind and Sheere detected the acrid penetrating stench of burnt petrol.

‘Welcome to what remains of my home, Sheere,’ he murmured coldly. ‘That is your name, isn’t it?’

Sheere nodded, paralysed with terror at the presence before her.

‘You don’t have anything to fear from me,’ said Jawahal.

The girl held back the tears that were fighting to escape; she wasn’t going to give up that easily. She closed her eyes tight and breathed deeply.

‘Look at me when I’m talking to you,’ said Jawahal in a tone that froze her blood.

Slowly Sheere opened her eyes and realised with horror that Jawahal’s hand was getting closer to her face. His long fingers, protected by a black glove, stroked her cheek and delicately pushed away a lock of hair that had fallen over her forehead. Her captor’s eyes seemed to turn pale for an instant.

‘You look so much like her …’

Abruptly the hand withdrew like a frightened animal, and Jawahal stood up. Sheere noticed that the chains at her back were loosening and suddenly her hands were free.

‘Get up and follow me,’ he ordered.

Sheere obeyed meekly and let Jawahal lead the way. But as soon as the dark figure was a few metres away amid the wreckage, she turned and began to run in the opposite direction as fast as her stiff muscles would carry her. She stumbled through the carriage towards the door that led to a small open-air platform connecting to the next coach, then placed her hand on the blackened steel handle and pushed hard. The metal went as soft as potter’s clay and Sheere watched in astonishment as it transformed itself into five sharp fingers that grabbed her wrist. Slowly the door panel folded in on itself until it took the form of a shining statue on whose smooth surface Jawahal’s features emerged. Sheere’s knees buckled and she keeled over in front of him. As Jawahal lifted her in the air she could see the fury in his eyes.

‘Don’t try to escape from me, Sheere; very soon you and I will be one being. I am not your enemy. I am your future. Come over to my side, otherwise this is what will happen to you.’

Jawahal plucked a broken wineglass from the floor, put his fingers round it and squeezed hard. It melted in his fist, dripping through his fingers in globules of liquid glass that fell onto the carriage floor, creating a blazing mirror among the debris. Jawahal let go of Sheere and she fell only centimetres away from the smoking mirror.

‘Now do as I say.’

Seth knelt down to examine what appeared to be a shiny puddle in the central section of the station and touched it with his fingertips. The liquid was thick and lukewarm, and had a texture similar to spilt oil.

‘Ian, come and see this,’ he called.

Ian walked over and knelt down beside his friend. Seth showed him his fingers, which were covered in a glutinous substance. Ian dampened the tip of his forefinger and rubbed it against his thumb, checking the consistency, then sniffed at it.

‘It’s blood,’ the aspiring doctor concluded.

Seth went pale and wiped his fingers on his trouser leg.

‘Isobel?’ he asked, drawing away from the liquid and trying to stem the nausea rising from the pit of his stomach.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Ian. ‘It’s recent, or at least it appears to be.’

He stood up and looked to each side of the wide dark stain.

‘There aren’t any marks around it. Or footprints,’ he murmured.

Seth stared at him, not grasping the full significance of Ian’s remark.

‘Whoever lost all this blood couldn’t have gone far without leaving a trail,’ Ian explained. ‘Even if the person was being dragged. It makes no sense.’

Seth considered Ian’s theory and walked around the spilt blood, checking that there were no footprints or other tracks within a radius of several metres. The two friends exchanged puzzled looks. All of a sudden Seth noticed a shadow of uncertainty in Ian’s eyes and he instantly understood what his friend was thinking. Slowly they both raised their heads and looked up at the vaulted ceiling that rose high above them in the dark.

As they scanned the shadows of the enormous dome their eyes paused on a large glass chandelier hanging from its centre. From one of its branches, tied to a white rope and wrapped in a glittering shawl, was a body, swaying gently over the void.

‘Is that a dead body?’ Seth asked timidly.

His eyes fixated on the gruesome discovery, Ian shrugged his shoulders.

‘Shouldn’t we let the others know?’

‘As soon as we discover who it is,’ replied Ian. ‘If the blood is coming from the body, and everything seems to indicate that it is, the person might still be alive. Let’s take it down.’

Seth closed his eyes. He’d been expecting something like this ever since they’d crossed the bridge, but knowing that his instinct had been correct only increased the nausea building in his throat. The boy took a deep breath and decided not to wait any longer.

‘Fine,’ he agreed, his tone resigned. ‘How?’

Ian examined the upper reaches of the hall and noticed a metal walkway running around it, about fifteen metres above the ground. From this a narrow gangway connected to the glass chandelier – just a small footbridge, probably intended for the maintenance and cleaning of the structure.

‘We’ll go up there and take the person down,’ Ian explained.

‘One of us should wait here, to attend to their wounds,’ Seth said. ‘I think it should be you.’

Ian studied his friend carefully.

‘Are you sure you want to go up there alone?’

‘I’m dying to do it …’ replied Seth. ‘Wait here. And don’t move.’

Ian watched his friend approach the staircase that led to the upper levels of Jheeter’s Gate. As soon as the shadows had engulfed him and the sound of his footsteps had grown fainter, he scanned the surrounding darkness.

Gusts of wind from the tunnels whistled in his ears and sent fragments of debris tumbling across the ground. Ian looked up again and tried in vain to recognise the figure hanging in the air. He couldn’t bear the thought that it might be Isobel, Siraj or Sheere … Suddenly a fleeting reflection seemed to appear on the surface of the puddle at his feet, but when Ian looked down, there was nothing.

Jawahal dragged Sheere through the corridor of the stationary train until he reached the front car, which preceded the engine. An intense orange light shone through the cracks in the heavy door, and Sheere could hear the furious sound of a boiler raging inside. She felt the temperature rise steeply around her and all her pores opened at the touch of the scorching air.

‘What’s in there?’ she asked in alarm.

Jawahal closed his fingers round her arm and pulled her towards him.

‘The fire machine,’ he replied, opening the door and pushing the girl inside. ‘This is my home and my prison. But very soon all that will change, thanks to you, Sheere. After all these years we have found each other again. Isn’t this what you have always wanted?’

Sheere had to protect her face from the blast of heat as she peered at the engine through her fingers. In front of her a gigantic machine made up of large metal boilers joined together by an endless coil of pipes and valves was roaring as if it were about to explode. From the joints of the monstrous device came clouds of steam and gas. On an iron panel bearing a set of pressure valves and gauges Sheere recognised the carved figure of an eagle rising majestically from the flames. Beneath the bird were a few words carved in an alphabet she didn’t recognise.

‘The Firebird,’ said Jawahal, next to her. ‘My alter ego.’

‘My father built this machine,’ murmured Sheere. ‘You have no right to use it. You’re nothing but a thief and a murderer.’

Jawahal observed her thoughtfully then licked his lips.

‘What kind of a world have we built when not even the ignorant can be happy?’ he asked. ‘Wake up, Sheere.’

The girl turned to look at Jawahal with disdain.

‘You killed him,’ she said, hatred burning in her eyes. Jawahal distorted his features into a grotesque grimace. Seconds later Sheere realised that he was laughing. Jawahal pushed her gently against the scorching wall of the car and pointed an accusing finger at her.

‘Stay there and don’t move.’

Sheere watched Jawahal approach the throbbing machinery and place his palms on the burning metal of the boilers. His hands adhered to the metal and there was the stench of charred skin and a ghastly hissing sound as the flesh burnt. Jawahal slowly opened his mouth and seemed to imbibe the clouds of steam floating in the locomotive. Then he turned and smiled at the horrified girl.

‘Are you scared of playing with fire? Let’s play something else then. We can’t disappoint your friends.’

Without waiting for a reply, Jawahal left the machine and moved towards the back of the car, where he picked up a large wicker basket. He drew close to Sheere, a disturbing smile on his lips.

‘Do you know which animal is most like man?’

Sheere shook her head.

‘I see that the education your grandmother has given you is poorer than I expected. A father simply can’t be replaced …’

He opened the basket and plunged his fist inside, his eyes glittering maliciously. When his hand emerged, it was holding the sinuous shining body of a snake. An asp.

‘This is the animal that most resembles humans. It crawls and sheds its skin when it needs to. It will steal the young of other species from their own nests and eat them but is incapable of confronting them in a clean battle. Its speciality, however, is to seize every possible opportunity to deliver its lethal bite. The asp has only enough poison for one bite and it needs hours to recover, but whoever is bitten is condemned to a slow and certain death. As the poison penetrates the veins, the heart of the victim beats slower and slower, until eventually it stop: even in its vicious nature, this small beast has a certain fondness for poetry, just like human beings, although the asp, unlike man, would never attack its own kind. That’s a mistake, don’t you think? Maybe that’s why they’ve ended up as street entertainment for fakirs and spectators – they aren’t quite on a par with the king of creation.’

Jawahal held the snake in front of Sheere and the girl pressed herself against the wall. He smiled with satisfaction as soon as he saw the look of terror in her eyes.

‘We always fear what resembles us most. But don’t worry,’ Jawahal reassured her. ‘This one’s not for you.’

He picked up a red wooden box and put the snake inside it. Sheere breathed more easily once the reptile was out of sight.

‘What are you going to do with it?’

‘We’re going to play a little game,’ Jawahal explained. ‘We have guests tonight and we have to provide them with entertainment.’

‘Which guests?’ asked Sheere, praying that Jawahal wouldn’t confirm her fears.

‘Your question is superfluous, dear Sheere. Please reserve your queries for matters you really don’t understand. For example, will our friends see the light of day? Or how long does it take for a kiss from my little friend to slow down the heart of a healthy sixteen-year-old? Rhetoric teaches us that these are questions with meaning and structure. If you don’t know how to express yourself, Sheere, you don’t know how to think. And if you don’t know how to think, you’re lost.’

‘Those are my father’s words,’ Sheere said accusingly. ‘He wrote them.’

‘Then I see we’ve both read the same books. What better way of starting an eternal friendship, dear Sheere?’

Sheere listened to Jawahal’s little speech, never taking her eyes off the red wooden box that held the asp, imagining its scaly body writhing about inside. Jawahal raised his eyebrows.

‘Now, you must excuse me if I leave you for a few moments. I need to add the final touches to the welcome for our guests. Please be patient and wait for me. It will be worth your while.’

Jawahal grabbed Sheere again and led her to a tiny cubicle with a narrow door set into one of the tunnel walls which at one time had been used to house a lever frame for the points. He pushed the girl inside and left the wooden box by her feet. Sheere gave him a desperate look, but Jawahal closed the door in her face, leaving her in the pitch dark.

‘Let me out of here, please,’ she begged.

‘I’ll let you out very soon, Sheere,’ murmured Jawahal from the other side of the door. ‘And then nobody will part us.’

‘What are you going to do with me?’

‘I’m going to live inside you, Sheere. In your mind, in your soul and in your body. Before day breaks your lips will be mine, I will see through your eyes. Tomorrow you’ll be immortal, Sheere. Who could ask for more?’

‘Why are you doing all this?’ Sheere pleaded.

Jawahal was silent for a few moments.

‘Because I love you, Sheere … And you know the saying: we always kill what we love the most.’

After what seemed like an endless wait, Seth appeared on the walkway that ran around the hall far above the ground. Ian sighed with relief.

‘What happened to you?’ he demanded.

His voice echoed around the vast space. The chances of them being able to carry out their search without being noticed were rapidly diminishing.

‘It wasn’t easy to get up here,’ Seth called out. ‘I can’t imagine a worse network of corridors and passageways – except perhaps in the Egyptian pyramids. Just be grateful that I’m not lost.’

Ian nodded and told Seth to go towards the gangway leading to the glass chandelier. Seth went along the walkway but paused after he’d taken the first few steps.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Ian, watching his friend some fifteen metres above him.

Seth shook his head and continued walking along the narrow gangway until he stopped two metres away from the body suspended by the rope. Very slowly he moved closer to the edge and bent over to examine it. Ian noticed the shock on his friend’s face.

‘Seth? What’s the matter, Seth?’

Visibly agitated, Seth knelt down to untie the rope holding the body, but when he caught hold of it, the rope wound itself round one of his legs and the suspended body plummeted into the void. The rope then gave a violent jolt and started dragging Seth up into the shadows of the vaulted ceiling like a puppet. He struggled to free his leg and cried for help but his body was now being hauled upwards at a frightening pace and soon he disappeared completely.

In the meantime, the corpse that had been hanging overhead had dropped straight into the pool of blood. All Ian could see beneath the shawl wrapped around it were the remains of a skeleton whose bones cracked as they hit the floor, dissolving into dust. The fabric floated down and slowly became soaked in the dark liquid. When Ian examined it he recognised the shawl he’d seen so many times in the orphanage during his sleepless nights, worn across the shoulders of the luminous woman who visited Ben as he slept.

He looked up again, hoping to see some trace of his friend, but the impenetrable darkness had taken Seth and there was no sign of his presence other than the dying echo of his screams.

‘Did you hear that?’ asked Roshan, stopping to listen to the shouts that seemed to be coming from the very bowels of the building.

Michael nodded. The screams gradually faded and soon they were enveloped once again in the sound of the drizzle pattering against the roof of the dome above them. They’d climbed to the top floor of Jheeter’s Gate and were looking down at the amazing sight of the immense station from on high. The platforms and tracks seemed very distant and the elaborate structure of arches and multiple levels could be seen much more clearly from that point.

Michael stopped by the edge of a metal balustrade that jutted out over the void, vertically above the large clock under which they had passed when they entered the station. His artist’s eye appreciated the mesmerising effect created by the hundreds of curved beams issuing from the geometric centre of the dome. They seemed to vanish in an endless arc, never touching the floor. Viewed from that privileged position, the station seemed to rise towards the sky, spiralling into a vault of steel and glass that merged into the clouds above. Roshan joined Michael and took a brief look at the sight that was bewitching his friend.

‘We’re going to get dizzy. Come on, let’s go.’

Michael raised a hand in protest.

‘No, wait. Look down.’

Roshan took a quick peep over the balustrade.

‘If I look again, I’ll fall over.’

A mysterious smile appeared on Michael’s lips. Roshan stared at his friend, wondering what he had discovered.

‘Don’t you realise, Roshan?’

Roshan shook his head. ‘Explain it to me.’

‘This structure,’ Michael said. ‘If you look towards the vanishing point from this position in the dome, you’ll understand.’

Roshan tried to follow Michael’s instructions, but he didn’t have a clue what he was supposed to see.

‘What are you trying to tell me?’

‘It’s very simple. This station, the whole structure of Jheeter’s Gate, is an immense sphere. We can only see the part that emerges above ground. The clock tower is situated at the very centre of the dome, like a sort of radius.’

Roshan took in Michael’s words.

‘OK, it’s a stupid ball,’ he said. ‘So what?’

‘Do you realise the technical difficulties involved in building a structure like this?’ asked Michael.

Again his friend shook his head.

‘I assume they’d be considerable.’

‘Radical,’ Michael asserted, deploying an adjective he used in only the most extreme cases. ‘Why would anyone design a structure like this one?’

‘I’m not sure I want to know the answer,’ said Roshan. ‘Let’s go down a level. There’s nothing here.’

Michael gave a distracted nod and followed Roshan to the staircase.

Beneath the dome’s observation balcony was a kind of mezzanine level barely a metre and a half high flooded by the rainwater that had been falling over Calcutta since the beginning of May. The floor lay under about twenty centimetres of stagnant water, which gave off a nauseating stench, and was covered by a mass of mud and rubble that had been decomposing for more than a decade due to the continual seepage. After crouching down to enter the mezzanine, Michael and Roshan found themselves wading through the mud, which came up to their ankles.

‘This place is worse than the catacombs,’ said Roshan. ‘Why the hell is this ceiling so hellishly low? People haven’t been this small for centuries.’

‘It was probably a restricted area,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps it houses part of the counterweight system that supports the dome. Mind you don’t trip over anything. The whole place could collapse.’

‘Is that a joke?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael dryly.

‘Then it’s the third joke I’ve heard from you in six years,’ said Roshan. ‘And it’s the worst.’

Michael didn’t bother to reply and continued to make his way slowly through the swamp. The stench of stagnant water was beginning to fog his brain, and he started to think that perhaps they should turn back and descend one more level. Besides, he doubted that anything or anybody could be hidden in the impregnable quagmire.

‘Michael?’ Roshan’s voice was a few metres behind him.

The boy turned and saw Roshan’s figure bent over a large metal beam.

‘Michael,’ Roshan said again. He sounded bewildered. ‘Is it possible that this beam is moving or is it just my imagination?’

Michael thought his friend had also been inhaling the putrid vapours for too long and was about to abandon the area altogether when he heard a loud crash at the other end of the section. They turned to look at one another. The crash sounded again, only this time the boys felt a movement and then saw something speeding towards them under the mud, raising a wake of rubbish and dirty water. Without wasting a second, Roshan and Michael rushed towards the exit, crouching down as they negotiated their way through the mud and water.

They had only gone a few metres when the submerged object passed them at high speed, then doubled back and headed straight towards them. Roshan and Michael separated, running in opposite directions, trying to distract the attention of whatever was intent on hunting them down. The creature hidden beneath the mud divided into two halves, each half hurling itself after one of the boys.

Gasping for breath, Michael had turned to check if he was still being followed when his foot hit a step concealed under the sludge and he fell headlong into the mud. When he emerged and opened his eyes, which were stinging, a figure of mud was rising in front of him. Michael tried to pull himself up – but his hands skidded, leaving him stretched out in the slush.

The mud figure spread out two long arms, on the end of which were long fingers curved into large metal hooks. Michael watched in horror as the creature took form, a head emerging from the trunk, then a face with large jaws lined with fangs that were as long and sharp as hunting knives. Suddenly the figure solidified, the dry mud letting off a hiss of steam. When Michael stood up, he could hear the mud crackling as dozens of small fissures spread over it. The cracks on the face slowly expanded revealing Jawahal’s fiery eyes. The dry mud fractured into a mosaic of scales that quickly fell away. Jawahal grabbed Michael by the throat and pulled him in close.

‘Are you the artist?’ he asked, lifting Michael in the air.

Michael nodded.

‘Good,’ said Jawahal. ‘You’re in luck, my boy. Today you’ll see things that will keep your pencil busy for the rest of your life. Supposing, of course, you live long enough to draw them.’

As this was happening, Roshan ran towards the door, a rush of adrenalin burning through his veins. When he was only a couple of metres from the exit he jumped and landed on the clean, mudless surface of the outer gallery. Standing up, his first impulse was to keep running – the instincts acquired during the years of street thieving before he joined St Patrick’s were still there. But something stopped him. He’d lost sight of Michael when they separated inside the mezzanine and now he couldn’t even hear his friend shouting as he desperately tried to save himself. Ignoring his instincts, Roshan returned to the entrance of the low-ceilinged floor. There was no sign of Michael or of the creature that had pursued them. Roshan realised that his pursuer had gone after his friend.

‘Michael!’ he shouted at the top of his lungs.

His call received no reply.

Roshan gave a dejected sigh, wondering what his next step should be: should he go and look for the others, abandoning Michael to that place, or should he go back in and search for him? Neither option seemed to offer much hope of success, but before he could make the decision two long arms of mud emerged from the ground behind the door, aiming for his feet. Claws closed round his ankles. Roshan tried to free himself from their grip, but the arms tugged at him with such force they knocked him over and started to pull him back inside the mezzanine.

Of the five boys who had promised to meet under the clock, only Ian turned up at the appointed time. The station had never seemed so deserted, and he could hardly breathe from the anguish he felt, not knowing what had become of Seth and his friends. Alone in that ghostly cavern, it wasn’t hard to imagine that he was the only one who hadn’t fallen into the clutches of their sinister host.

He scanned the station nervously, wondering what he should do: wait here and not move, or leave in search of help out there in the night? Small leaks in the roof allowed the drizzle to filter through and drops of water splattered down from a great height. Ian made an effort to keep calm and tried to stop himself thinking that the drops he saw splashing onto the railway tracks were in fact the blood of his friend Seth, dangling somewhere in the darkness above.

He looked up at the vaulted ceiling for the umpteenth time in the vain hope of discovering Seth’s whereabouts. The raindrops slid in shining rivulets over the limp smile formed by the hands of the clock. Ian sighed. His nerves were starting to get the better of him and he supposed that, if he didn’t get some indication of his friends’ presence very soon, he would have to enter the underground network, following the path Ben had taken. He didn’t think it was a particularly brilliant idea, but he held fewer alternative aces than ever. It was then that he heard the sound of something approaching from one of the tunnels and he began to breathe more easily, realising he wasn’t alone after all.

He walked over to the end of the platform and watched as an indistinct shape emerged from one of the arches. A shiver ran down the back of his neck. A small open wagon was approaching at a snail’s pace, and on it he could see a chair and on the chair was a motionless figure with a black hood over its head. Ian gulped. The wagon passed slowly in front of him then came to a dead stop. Ian remained glued to the spot, staring at the cart, and caught himself voicing his worst suspicions.

‘Seth?’

The body on the chair didn’t move a muscle. Ian went over to the front of the wagon and jumped inside, but there was still no sign of movement from its occupant. With agonising slowness he crept towards the hooded shape until he was only centimetres from the chair.

‘Seth?’ he murmured again.

A strange sound emerged from under the hood, like someone grinding their teeth. Ian felt his stomach turn. The muffled sound came again. He grabbed hold of the material and mentally counted to three, then he closed his eyes and tugged.

When he opened his eyes again, a manic smiling face with popping eyes was staring up at him. The hood fell from Ian’s hands. The doll’s face was as white as china and two large black diamonds had been painted over the eyes, the lower tips turning into black tears of tar running down its cheeks.

The doll ground its teeth mechanically. Ian examined the grotesque harlequin and tried to work out what lay behind such an eccentric trick. He carefully put out a hand to touch the figure’s face, searching for the mechanism that produced the movement.

Quick as a cat, the robot’s right arm grabbed Ian, and before the boy could react, his wrist had been clamped by a handcuff, the other end of which was attached to the doll. The boy pulled hard, but the mannequin was tied to the wagon and all it did was grind its teeth again. Ian struggled desperately but by the time he understood that he wouldn’t be able to free himself on his own, the wagon had started to move; this time, however, it was going back into the mouth of the tunnel.

Ben stopped at the intersection of two tunnels and for a moment considered the possibility that he’d been past the same place twice already. From the moment he’d entered the tunnels of Jheeter’s Gate, this had become a recurrent and unsettling feeling. He pulled out one of the matches he was using sparingly and lit it by gently scratching it against the wall. The half-light around him took on the warm glow of the flame and he was able to examine the junction between the railway tunnel and the broad ventilation shaft that cut through it at right angles.

Suddenly a gust of dusty air blew out the flame and Ben was returned to the shadows – a landscape in which, however far he walked in one direction or another, he never seemed to arrive anywhere. He was beginning to suspect that he was lost and that if he persisted in going any further into the complex underworld, it might be hours before he emerged. Common sense told him he should retrace his steps and head back towards the main section of the station. However much he tried to visualise the labyrinth of tunnels in his mind, with its complicated system of ventilation shafts and interconnecting passages, he couldn’t rid himself of the strange suspicion that the entire structure was moving around him; if he tried to work out a new route in the dark he would probably only end up back where he started.

Having decided not to be overwhelmed by the confusing web of galleries, he turned round and quickened his pace, wondering whether he was already late for the meeting they’d arranged under the clock. As he wandered through the interminable passageways of Jheeter’s Gate, it occurred to him that perhaps there was some secret law of physics by which time moved faster in the absence of light. He was beginning to feel he’d covered whole kilometres in the dark when, at the far end of a gallery, he noticed a brighter area that marked the open space beneath the large cupola of Jheeter’s Gate. He heaved a sigh of relief and rushed towards the light, hoping he had come to the end of his interminable pilgrimage through the labyrinth.

But as he reached the mouth of the tunnel and started to walk up the narrow channel between two platforms, he realised his surge of optimism had been short-lived. The station was deserted; there was no sign of any of his friends.

With a jump he pulled himself up onto the platform and covered the fifty metres that separated him from the clock tower with no other company than the echo of his footsteps. He walked round the tower and stood beneath the large face with its deformed hands. He didn’t need a clock to guess that the time his friends had agreed on for their meeting had long passed.

Leaning against the blackened wall of the tower Ben had to admit that his idea of splitting up the group to spread their search more widely didn’t seem to have produced the expected results. The only difference between the moment he’d first entered Jheeter’s Gate and now was that he was alone. He’d lost his friends just as he’d lost Sheere.

Ben decided to start looking. Little did he care if it was going to take him a week, or a month, to find them. He walked along the central platform towards the rear wing of Jheeter’s Gate, where the former offices and waiting rooms were situated together with a small citadel of bazaars, cafes and restaurants – all reduced to cinders. It was then that he noticed the glittering shawl lying on the floor in one of the waiting areas. He seemed to remember that the last time he’d been in that place, before he entered the tunnels, the piece of smooth shiny fabric hadn’t been there. He hurried forward.

Ben knelt down and reached out a hesitant hand. The shawl was soaked in a dark tepid liquid that seemed vaguely familiar but instinctively repelled him. Beneath the material he thought he could see the random pieces of some kind of object. He pulled out his matchbox and was about to strike a match so that he could examine the discovery but realised he had only one left. Resigned to saving it for a better occasion, Ben strained his eyes in pursuit of a clue that might shed light on the whereabouts of his friends. A shadow spread across the dark puddle and he knew he wasn’t alone.

‘What an experience, to stare at your own spilt blood, don’t you agree, Ben?’ said Jawahal behind his back. ‘Like me, your mother’s blood can find no rest.’

Ben’s hands started to shake, but slowly he turned round. Jawahal was sitting calmly on the end of a metal bench.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me where your friends are, Ben?’ he offered. ‘Perhaps you’re afraid of getting a discouraging answer.’

‘Would you reply if I asked you?’ said Ben, standing motionless by the bloodstained shawl.

‘Perhaps.’ Jawahal smiled.

Ben tried to avoid his hypnotic eyes, and above all he tried to rid himself of the idea that the grim apparition he was speaking to was his father, or what was left of him.

‘Having some doubts, are you, Ben?’ Jawahal appeared to be enjoying the conversation.

‘You’re not my father. He would never hurt Sheere,’ Ben blurted out nervously.

‘Who said I was going to hurt her?’

Ben raised his eyebrows and watched as Jawahal stretched out a gloved hand and dipped it in the blood lying at his feet. Then he touched his face with his fingers, smearing the blood over his angular features.

‘One night many years ago, Ben,’ said Jawahal, ‘the woman whose blood was shed on this spot was my wife and the mother of my children. It’s funny to think how memories can sometimes turn into nightmares. I still miss her. Are you surprised? Who do you think your father is, the man who lives in my memory or this lifeless shadow you see in front of you?’

‘My father was a good man. You’re nothing but a murderer.’

Jawahal looked down and nodded slowly. Ben turned away from him.

‘Our time is coming to an end,’ said Jawahal. ‘We must now confront our destiny. Each to his own. We’re all adults now, aren’t we? Do you know what maturity means, Ben? Let your father explain. Maturity is simply the process of discovering that everything you believed in when you were young is false and that all the things you refused to believe in turn out to be true. When are you going to mature, son?’

Ben turned and looked at Jawahal.

‘What is it you want?’ he demanded.

‘I want to keep a promise, the promise that keeps my flame alive.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Ben. ‘To commit a crime? Is that your farewell deed?’

Jawahal rolled his eyes patiently.

‘The difference between a crime and a deed usually depends on the point of view, Ben. My promise is quite simply to find a new home for my soul. And that home will be provided for me by you two. By my children.’

Ben clenched his teeth and felt the blood throbbing in his temples.

‘You are not my father,’ he said calmly. ‘And if you ever were, I am ashamed of that.’

Jawahal gave a paternal smile.

‘There are two things in life you cannot choose, Ben. The first is your enemies; the second your family. Sometimes the difference between them is hard to see, but in the end time will show you that the cards you have been dealt could always have been worse. Life, dear son, is like that first game of chess. By the time you begin to understand how the pieces move, you’ve already lost.’

Ben hurled himself at Jawahal with all the force of his anger. Jawahal remained seated on the end of the bench as the boy passed straight through him, the image vanishing into the air in a swirl of smoke. Ben crashed to the floor and felt his forehead being ripped open by one of the rusty screws that jutted out from the bench.

‘One of the things you’ll learn soon enough,’ said Jawahal’s voice behind him, ‘is that before fighting your enemy, you must know how his mind works.’

Ben wiped away the blood trickling down his face and turned to look for the voice in the shadows. Jawahal was clearly outlined, sitting on the opposite end of the same bench.

‘Nothing is as it seems,’ Jawahal continued. ‘You should have realised that in the tunnels. When I designed this place, I kept a few surprises up my sleeve. Do you enjoy maths, Ben? Maths is the faith of those with a brain, that is why it has so few followers. It’s a shame that neither you nor your gullible friends are ever going to escape from here. You could have told the whole world about some of the mysteries hidden in this building. With a bit of luck, you’d have been repaid with the same mockery, envy and scorn as the inventor himself received.’

‘Hatred has blinded you.’

‘The only thing hatred has done to me,’ replied Jawahal, ‘is open my eyes. And you’d better open yours wide because, even if you do take me for a murderer, you’re going to discover that you’ve been given the chance to save yourself and your friends. An opportunity I never had.’

Jawahal rose and walked over to Ben. The boy swallowed hard and was about to run, but Jawahal stopped about two metres away then clasped his hands together and gave a small bow.

‘I’ve enjoyed our conversation, Ben,’ he said politely. ‘When you’ve got your breath back, come and find me. It’s going to be fun. I promise.’

Before Ben could utter a word, Jawahal’s silhouette transformed into a whirlwind of fire that shot across the station at prodigious speed before diving into the tunnels, leaving a garland of flames in its wake.

Ben gave one last look at the bloodstained shawl, then entered the tunnels once more, knowing that this time, whatever route he took, all the passageways would lead to the same point.

The shape of the train emerged from the shadows. Ben gazed at the endless line of carriages, all of them scarred by fire, and for a moment it was as if he was looking at the skeleton of a giant mechanical snake. As he drew closer he recognised the train he thought he’d seen passing through the walls of the orphanage a few nights before, enveloped in flames and transporting the trapped souls of hundreds of children. The train now sat immobile in the dark, and nothing seemed to indicate that his friends were inside. Yet a hunch led him to believe they were. He went past the engine and slowly walked along the row of carriages, searching for them.

Halfway along, he stopped to look back and saw that the head of the train was already lost in shadow. As he was about to resume his walk, he noticed a face pale as death staring at him from one of the windows of the nearest carriage.

He turned his head abruptly and his heart skipped a beat. A boy of about seven was watching him attentively with penetrating dark eyes. Ben took a step in his direction. The boy opened his lips and flames issued forth, setting fire to the image which then crumbled in front of Ben like a piece of dry paper. Ben felt an icy cold settle on the nape of his neck as he continued walking, ignoring the horrific murmur of voices that seemed to be coming from some hidden place within the train.

When he finally reached the guard’s van he walked up to the door and pushed the handle. Inside, hundreds of candles were burning. Ben stepped inside and the faces of Isobel, Ian, Seth, Michael, Roshan and Siraj lit up with hope. Ben gave a sigh of relief.

‘Now we’re all here, maybe we can start the game,’ said a familiar voice next to him.

Ben turned and saw Jawahal’s arms locked round his sister. The door of the van slid shut, like an armour-plated hatch, and Jawahal let go of Sheere, who ran over to Ben.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, hugging her.

‘Of course she’s all right,’ Jawahal snapped.

‘Are all of you all right?’ Ben asked the members of the Chowbar Society, who were handcuffed on the floor.

‘Perfectly fine,’ Ian confirmed.

They exchanged a look that spoke volumes. Ben nodded.

‘If any of you has the slightest scratch,’ Jawahal said, ‘it’s only due to your own clumsiness.’

Ben turned to Jawahal, moving Sheere to one side.

‘Tell us what you want.’

Jawahal looked surprised.

‘Nervous, Ben? In a hurry to get it over with? I’ve waited sixteen years for this moment; I can wait a little longer. Especially now that Sheere and I are enjoying our new relationship.’

The possibility that Jawahal had revealed his identity to Sheere was gnawing at Ben. Jawahal seemed to read his mind.

‘Don’t listen to him, Ben,’ said Sheere. ‘This man killed our father. Whatever he says is as worthless as the dirt covering this dump.’

‘Harsh words to say about a friend,’ Jawahal remarked.

‘I’d rather die than be your friend.’

‘Our friendship, Sheere, is only a matter of time,’ Jawahal whispered.

His smile suddenly disappeared, and at a signal from his hand, Sheere was sent flying towards the other end of the van, as if she’d been hit by an invisible battering ram.

‘Now get some rest. Soon we’ll be together for ever …’

Sheere crashed against the metal wall and fell unconscious to the ground. Ben rushed towards her, but the iron pressure of Jawahal’s hand restrained him.

‘You’re not going anywhere,’ he said. Then, throwing an icy glance at the others, he added, ‘The next person to say anything will have his lips sealed by fire.’

‘Let go of me,’ groaned Ben. He felt as if the hand holding him by the scruff of the neck was about to dislocate his vertebrae.

Suddenly Jawahal let go, and Ben collapsed on the floor.

‘Get up and listen to me,’ Jawahal ordered. ‘I hear you have some kind of secret fraternity in which you’ve sworn to protect one another until death. Is that right?’

‘It is,’ said Siraj from the floor.

An invisible fist hit the boy hard, knocking him over like a rag doll.

‘I didn’t ask you, boy. Ben, are you going to reply, or shall we play a little game with your friend’s asthma?’

‘Leave him alone. It’s true,’ replied Ben.

‘Good. Then allow me to congratulate you on the fabulous job you’ve done so far by bringing your friends here. First-class protection.’

‘You said you’d give us a chance,’ Ben reminded him.

‘I know what I said. How much do you value the life of your friends, Ben?’

The boy turned pale.

‘Do you not understand the question, or do you want me to discover the answer in some other way?’

‘I value their lives as I value my own.’

Jawahal gave a fiendish grin.

‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘I don’t care what you believe.’

‘Then let’s see if your fine words tally with reality,’ said Jawahal. ‘I promised this was going to be fun, so here’s the deal. There are seven of you, not counting Sheere. She’s out of the game. For each one of you, there’s a closed box containing … a mystery.’

Jawahal pointed to a row of wooden boxes painted different colours that resembled a set of small letter boxes.

‘Each one has a hole in the front that allows you to stick your hand in, but you can’t remove it for a few seconds. It’s like a trap for inquisitive people. Imagine that each one of these boxes contains the life of one of your friends, Ben. In fact, that’s true, for in each one there’s a small wooden board bearing a name. You can put your hand in and remove it. Every time you pull out someone’s name, I will free them. But, of course, there’s a risk. One of the boxes, instead of life, holds death.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Ben.

‘Have you ever seen an asp, Ben? A small beast with a volatile temper. Do you know anything about snakes?’

‘I know what an asp is,’ replied Ben, feeling weak.

‘Then I’ll spare you the details. All you need to know is that one of the boxes contains an asp.’

‘Don’t do it, Ben,’ said Ian.

Jawahal gave him an evil stare.

‘Ben, I’m waiting. I don’t think anyone in the whole of Calcutta could make you a more generous offer. Seven lives and only one possibility for error.’

‘How do I know you’re not lying?’ asked Ben.

Jawahal raised a long forefinger and slowly shook his head.

‘Lying is one of the few things I don’t do, Ben. You should know that. Make up your mind. If you don’t have the courage to play the game and prove that your friends are as valuable to you as you would lead us to believe, say so now and we’ll let someone with more guts take their chances.’

Ben held Jawahal’s gaze and nodded.

‘Ben, no,’ Ian said again.

‘Tell your friend to shut up, Ben,’ Jawahal said. ‘Or I will.’

‘Don’t make it more difficult, Ian,’ Ben pleaded.

‘Ian is right, Ben,’ said Isobel. ‘If he wants to kill us, let him do it. Don’t allow yourself to be tricked.’

Ben raised a hand for silence and turned to face Jawahal.

‘Do I have your word?’

Jawahal looked at Ben long and hard and finally nodded in assent.

‘Then let’s not waste any more time.’

Ben examined the seven wooden boxes carefully, trying to imagine in which one of them Jawahal would have hidden the snake. Attempting to decipher the thinking behind the arrangement of colours was like trying to reconstruct a puzzle without being familiar with the image it formed. The asp could be in one of the boxes at the end or in one in the middle, in one of the brightly coloured boxes or the one with shiny black paint. Guesswork was superfluous, and Ben realised his mind had gone blank faced with the decision he had to take.

‘The first is the most difficult,’ whispered Jawahal. ‘Choose without thinking.’

All Ben could see in Jawahal’s impenetrable eyes was the reflection of his own pale frightened face. He silently counted to three, closed his eyes and quickly thrust his hand into one of the boxes. The seconds that followed seemed interminable, as he waited to feel the rough touch of a scaly body, followed by the sting of the asp’s fangs. None of that happened; after an agonising few moments, his fingers touched a wooden board and Jawahal gave him a smile.

‘Well chosen. Black. The colour of the future.’

Ben pulled out the board and read the name written on it. Siraj. He looked enquiringly at Jawahal, who nodded. They all heard the click of the handcuffs restraining the frail boy.

‘Siraj,’ said Ben. ‘Leave this train and get out of here.’

Siraj rubbed his aching wrists and looked sadly at his friends.

‘I have no intention of leaving,’ he replied.

‘Do as Ben says, Siraj,’ said Ian, trying to control his tone of voice.

Siraj shook his head. Isobel tried to smile.

‘Siraj, go,’ she pleaded. ‘Do it for me.’

The boy hesitated.

‘We don’t have all night,’ said Jawahal. ‘Either you leave or you stay. Only idiots turn down a piece of good luck. And tonight you’ve used up your life’s supply.’

‘Siraj!’ ordered Ben. ‘Just go! Give me some help.’

Siraj looked desperately at Ben, but his friend’s expression remained unflinching. At last Siraj bowed his head in assent and walked over to the heavy metal door.

‘Don’t stop until you reach the river,’ instructed Jawahal, ‘or you’ll be sorry.’

‘He won’t,’ Ben replied for him.

‘I’ll wait for you,’ Siraj called from the steps of the van.

‘See you soon, Siraj. Now go.’

The boy’s footsteps could be heard receding down the tunnel. Jawahal raised his eyebrows to indicate that the game should continue.

‘I’ve kept my promise, Ben. Now it’s your turn. There are fewer boxes. It’s easier to choose. Make up your mind and another of your friends could soon be saved.’

Ben’s eyes rested on the box next to the one he’d chosen. It was as good as any other. Slowly he stretched out his hand and paused when he was almost touching the flap.

‘Are you sure, Ben?’ asked Jawahal.

Ben looked at him in exasperation.

‘Think twice. Your first choice was perfect; don’t go and ruin it now.’

Ben smiled scornfully at him and, without taking his eyes off Jawahal, he thrust his hand into the box. Jawahal’s pupils narrowed like those of a cat. Ben pulled out the wooden board and read the name.

‘Seth,’ he said, ‘get out of here.’

Seth’s handcuffs opened immediately and the boy stood up.

‘I don’t like this, Ben.’

‘I like it even less than you do,’ Ben answered. ‘Now leave, and make sure Siraj doesn’t get lost.’

Seth nodded gravely, aware that the alternative to following Ben’s instructions might put everyone’s lives at risk. He gave his friends a farewell wave and headed for the door. When he got there he turned and looked at all the members of the Chowbar Society.

‘We’ll survive this one, do you hear me?’

His friends nodded with as much hope as the law of probability permitted.

‘As for you, sir,’ said Seth, pointing at Jawahal, ‘you’re nothing but a pile of dung.’

Jawahal licked his lips.

‘It’s easy to play the hero when you’re about to abandon your friends to a certain death, isn’t it, Seth? You can insult me again if you like; I’m not going to do anything to you. It might even help you sleep better when you remember this night and when some of those present have become food for worms. You can always tell people that you, brave Seth, insulted the villain, can’t you? But, deep down, you and I both know the truth, don’t we, Seth?’

Seth’s face reddened with anger and his eyes flashed with hatred. He began to walk towards Jawahal, but Ben threw himself in the way.

‘Please, Seth,’ he whispered in his ear. ‘Go now. Please.’

Seth gave Ben one last look and nodded, pressing his arm firmly. Ben waited for his friend to leave then confronted Jawahal once again.

‘This wasn’t part of the deal,’ Ben reproached him. ‘I’m not going to continue if you keep tormenting my friends.’

‘You’ll do it whether you want to or not. You have no alternative. Still, as a gesture of goodwill, I’ll keep my comments on your friends to myself. Now continue.’

Ben stared at the five remaining boxes. His eyes rested on the one on the far right. Without further ado, he stuck his hand in and groped about inside. Another board. Ben took a deep breath and heard a sigh of relief from his friends.

‘There’s an angel watching over you, Ben,’ said Jawahal. The boy looked at the wooden rectangle.

‘Isobel.’

‘The lady’s in luck,’ remarked Jawahal.

‘Shut up,’ muttered Ben, fed up with the comments Jawahal seemed to enjoy making with each new move in the macabre game. ‘Isobel, see you soon.’

Isobel stood up and walked past her friends, her head bowed and her feet dragging as if they were stuck to the floor.

‘No last word for Michael, Isobel?’ asked Jawahal.

‘Leave it,’ Ben implored. ‘What do you expect to achieve out of all this?’

‘Choose another box,’ replied Jawahal. ‘Then you’ll see what I’m hoping to achieve.’

As Isobel stepped down from the van, Ben considered the four remaining boxes.

‘Have you decided, Ben?’ asked Jawahal.

The boy nodded and stood in front of the box that was painted red.

‘Red. The colour of passion,’ Jawahal remarked. ‘And of fire. Go ahead, Ben. I think tonight’s your lucky night.’

As Sheere opened her eyes she saw Ben approaching the red box, his arm outstretched. A stab of panic ripped through her body. She sat up abruptly and hurled herself towards Ben as quickly as she could – she couldn’t let her brother put his hand in that box. The lives of those boys were meaningless to Jawahal; they were nothing but a convenient way of pushing Ben towards his own destruction. Jawahal needed Ben to hand over his own death willingly in order to clear a path for him. That way the accursed spirit could enter her and escape from those dark tunnels; be reincarnated in a being of flesh and blood.

Sheere had realised there was just one option remaining, one sole action capable of ruining the puzzle Jawahal had constructed around them. Only she could alter the course of events, doing the one thing in the universe that Jawahal had not foreseen.

The moments that followed became etched in her mind like a series of minutely detailed sketches.

Sheere covered the six metres that separated her from her brother at breakneck speed, avoiding the remaining three members of the Chowbar Society, who lay manacled on the floor. As Ben turned round, his first look was of confusion and surprise, then of horror. Jawahal had risen and each finger of his right hand was ablaze, transforming it into a fiery claw. Sheere heard Ben’s scream fade into a distant echo as she crashed against him, pushing him down and pulling his hand away from the hole in the red box. Ben fell to the floor and Sheere saw Jawahal rising above her, stretching out his burning claw towards her face. She fixed her eyes on the eyes of the murderer and read the despairing refusal taking shape on his lips. Time seemed to stand still around her.

Tenths of a second later Sheere was thrusting her hand through the opening in the scarlet box. She felt the flap close over her wrist like the petals of a poisonous flower. Ben yelled out and Jawahal clenched his fiery fist in his face, but Sheere smiled triumphantly and at some point she felt the asp strike her with its mortal kiss. The blast of poison lit up the blood running through her veins like a spark igniting a stream of petrol.

Ben put his arms round his sister and pulled her hand out of the red box, but it was already too late. Two bleeding puncture wounds shone on the pale skin on the back of her wrist. Sheere gave a brief smile as she began to lose consciousness.

‘I’m fine,’ she mumbled, but before she could utter another syllable her body started shaking, her legs gave way and she collapsed on top of him.

‘Sheere!’ shouted Ben.

He felt an indescribable nausea take hold of his whole being and the strength seemed to be running out of his body. He held Sheere and settled her on his lap, stroking her face.

Sheere opened her eyes and smiled weakly, her face as white as chalk.

‘It doesn’t hurt, Ben,’ she whispered.

Each of her words felt like a kick to the stomach. Ben looked up in search of Jawahal. The spectre was observing the scene, his expression impenetrable. Their eyes met.

‘I never planned it this way, Ben,’ he said. ‘This is going to complicate matters.’

Ben felt the anger growing inside him like an enormous crack, parting his soul in two.

‘You’re nothing but a murderer,’ he muttered.

Jawahal took one last look at Sheere, who was trembling in Ben’s arms, and shook his head. His thoughts seemed to be far away.

‘Now only you and I remain, Ben,’ said Jawahal. ‘It’s heads or tails. Say goodbye to her then come in search of your revenge.’

Jawahal’s face was suddenly swathed in a veil of flames and he turned away, passing through the door that connected the guard’s van to the rest of the train and leaving behind a breach that dripped with red-hot steel.

Ben heard a crunch as the lock on Ian, Michael and Roshan’s handcuffs was released. Ian ran over and, grabbing hold of Sheere’s arm, he brought her wound to his mouth. He sucked hard and spat out the poisoned blood, which burnt his tongue. Michael and Roshan knelt down in front of the girl and looked at Ben in despair. He was cursing himself for having allowed precious seconds to go by without realising that he should have done what his friend was doing now.

Ben raised his eyes and noticed the trail of flames Jawahal had left behind him, melting the metal like a cigar burning through paper. The train gave a sudden jolt and began to move through the tunnel as the engine’s thunderous roar filled the labyrinth of Jheeter’s Gate. Ben looked intently at Ian.

‘Take care of her.’

‘No, Ben,’ Ian pleaded, reading Ben’s thoughts. ‘Don’t go.’

Ben hugged his sister and kissed her on the forehead.

‘Will you return to say goodbye to me?’ she asked with a trembling voice.

Tears were welling in Ben’s eyes.

‘I love you, Ben,’ she whispered.

‘And I love you,’ he replied, realising he’d never said those words to anyone before.

The train began to accelerate furiously through the tunnel. Ben ran to the door and jumped through the fresh breach in the metal in pursuit of Jawahal.

As he raced through the next carriage he realised that Michael and Roshan were behind him. Quickly, he stopped on the platform separating the last two carriages, pulled out the bolt that coupled them together and flung it into the void. For a split second Roshan’s fingers brushed Ben’s hand, but when Ben looked up again, the despairing eyes of his friends had been left behind as the train carried him and Jawahal at full pelt towards the dark heart of Jheeter’s Gate. Now only the two of them remained.

With every step Ben took, the train gathered speed in its descent into the tunnels. The vibrations threw him off balance as he lurched through the carriage, following the glowing trail of Jawahal’s footsteps. Ben managed to reach the next connecting platform, holding firmly on to the metal handrail just as the train rounded a crescent-shaped bend and plunged down a slope that seemed to lead to the very bowels of the earth. With another jolt, the train speeded up, careering into the darkness. Ben straightened up and resumed his pursuit of Jawahal as the wheels of the train produced a shower of sparks from the rails.

There was a small explosion beneath his feet and Ben noticed that thick tongues of fire were now flickering along the entire skeleton of the train, tearing away any remnants of charred wood. Flames also fractured the shards of glass that still surrounded the windows, and Ben had to throw himself to the floor to avoid the storm of glass splinters cascading off the walls of the tunnel.

When he was able to stand up, he saw Jawahal advancing through the flames and realised he was very close to the engine. Jawahal turned, and even through a new series of explosions that sent rings of blue fire swirling through the train Ben could make out his criminal smile.

‘Come and get me,’ he heard in his thoughts.

Sheere’s face came alive in Ben’s mind, and he began to claw his way towards the last remaining carriage. When he crossed the connecting platform he felt a gust of fresh air; the train must be about to leave the tunnels, he thought. They were heading straight towards the centre of Jheeter’s Gate.

Ian didn’t stop talking to Sheere during the whole of their return journey. He knew that if she abandoned herself to the sleep that was laying siege to her body, she’d barely live long enough to see the light beyond those tunnels. Michael and Roshan helped him to carry Sheere, but neither of them managed to get a word out of her. Ignoring the anguish that was consuming him and burying it in the depths of his soul, Ian told her amusing anecdotes and made witty remarks, mining every last word in his brain just to keep her awake. Sheere listened to him and moved her head slightly, half-opening her glazed sleepy eyes. Ian held her hand between his, feeling her pulse as it weakened, slowly but inexorably.

‘Where’s Ben?’ she asked.

Michael looked at Ian, who smiled broadly.

‘Ben is safe, Sheere. He’s gone to fetch a doctor, which, in the circumstances, I find insulting. I’m supposed to be the doctor here! At least I will be one day. What kind of a friend is that? It’s not exactly encouraging. At the first sign of trouble he disappears in search of a doctor. Luckily, there aren’t many doctors like me. It’s something you’re born with. That’s why I know, instinctively, that you’ll get better. On one condition: if you don’t fall asleep. You’re not asleep, are you? You can’t fall asleep now! Your grandmother is waiting for us two hundred metres from here and there’s no way I can tell her what happened. If I try, she’ll throw me into the Hooghly, and I have a boat to catch in a few hours’ time. So please stay awake and help me with your grandmother. All right? Say something.’

Sheere started to pant heavily. All the colour drained from Ian’s face and he shook her. Sheere’s eyes opened again.

‘Where’s Jawahal?’ she asked.

‘He’s dead,’ lied Ian.

‘How did he die?’

Ian hesitated for a moment.

‘He fell under the wheels of the train. There was nothing we could do.’

‘You don’t know how to lie, Ian,’ she whispered, struggling with each word.

Ian felt he might not be able to go on pretending much longer.

‘The accomplished liar in the group is Ben,’ he said. ‘I always tell the truth. Jawahal is dead.’

Sheere closed her eyes. Ian told Michael and Roshan to quicken their pace. Half a minute later they reached the end of the tunnel and could see the station clock silhouetted in the distance. When they got there, Siraj, Isobel and Seth were waiting for them. The first rays of dawn were appearing, a crimson line on the horizon, beyond the large metal arches of Jheeter’s Gate.

Ben stopped at the entrance to the engine and placed his hand on the wheel that locked the door. The ring was burning hot so he had to turn it slowly, the metal biting into his skin. A cloud of steam was exhaled as Ben kicked open the door, but through the humidity Ben could see Jawahal standing by the boilers and gazing silently at him. Ben looked at the machinery and noticed a symbol carved on the metal: a bird rising from the flames. Jawahal’s hand was resting on the top of one of the boilers, seemingly absorbing the power that blazed within. Ben peered at the complex framework of pipes, valves and gas tanks.

‘In another life I was an inventor,’ said Jawahal. ‘My hands and my mind could create things; now they only destroy them. This is my soul, Ben. Come closer and you’ll see your father’s heart beating. I created it myself. Do you know why I called it the Firebird?’

Ben stared at Jawahal without replying.

‘Thousands of years ago there was a doomed city almost as wretched as Calcutta,’ Jawahal explained. ‘It was called Carthage. When the Romans conquered it, such was the hatred aroused in them by the spirited Phoenicians, they were not content with ravaging the town or murdering its women, men and children; the Romans also had to destroy every stone, reducing it to dust. Yet even that wasn’t enough to placate their loathing. That is why Cato, the general in charge of the Roman troops, ordered his soldiers to sprinkle salt through every crack in the city, so that not a single sign of life could grow from its accursed soil.’

‘Why are you telling me all this?’ asked Ben. The sweat was pouring down his body then instantly drying due to the suffocating heat spat out by the boilers.

‘That city was home to a divinity called Dido, a princess who had sacrificed her body to the fire in order to appease the gods and cleanse herself of her sins. But she returned and was transformed into a goddess. That is the power of fire. Just like the story of the phoenix, the powerful bird whose flight fanned the flames.’

Jawahal stroked the machinery of his lethal creation and smiled.

‘I’ve also been reborn from the ashes and, like Cato, I intend to destroy every last shred of my destiny, this time with fire.’

‘You’re a lunatic,’ Ben said, interrupting him. ‘Especially if you think you’re going to be able to get inside me to stay alive.’

‘Who are the lunatics?’ asked Jawahal. ‘The ones who see horror in the heart of their fellow humans and search for peace at any price? Or the ones who pretend they don’t see what’s going on around them? The world, Ben, belongs either to lunatics or hypocrites. There are no other races on this earth. You must choose which one to belong to.’

Ben stared at Jawahal for a long while, and for the first time the boy thought he could see the shadow of the man who had once been his father.

‘Which did you choose, Father? Which did you choose when you returned to sow death among the few people who loved you? Have you forgotten your own words? Have you forgotten the story you wrote about the man whose tears turned to ice when he returned home and saw that everyone had sold themself to the travelling sorcerer? Perhaps you can take my life too, just as you’ve taken the lives of all those who crossed your path. I don’t suppose it would make much difference any more. But, before you do, tell me face to face that you didn’t sell your soul to the sorcerer too. Tell me, with your hand on that heart of fire you hide yourself in, and I’ll follow you to hell itself.’

Jawahal’s eyelids drooped as he slowly nodded his head. A gradual transformation seemed to creep over his face, and his eyes paled in the burning steam. Defeated and dejected. It was the look of a great wounded predator withdrawing to die in the shadows. And that sudden image of vulnerability, which Ben glimpsed for only a few seconds, seemed more horrifying than any of the previous incarnations of the tormented spectre, because in that image, in that face consumed by pain and fire, Ben could no longer see the spirit of a murderer, only the sad reflection of the man who had been his father.

For a moment they stared at one another like old acquaintances lost in the mists of time.

‘I no longer know whether I wrote that story or some other man did, Ben,’ Jawahal said at last. ‘I no longer know whether those memories are mine or I dreamed them. I don’t know whether I committed those crimes, or whether they were the work of other hands. Whatever the answer to these questions may be, I know I’ll never be able to write another story like the one you remember, or understand its meaning. I have no future, Ben. I have no life either. What you see is only the shadow of a dead soul. I am nothing. The man I was, your father, died a long time ago, taking with him everything I might have dreamed of. And if you’re not going to give me your soul, then at least give me peace. Because only you can give me back my freedom. You came to kill someone who is already dead, Ben. Keep your word, or else join me in the shadows …’

At that moment the train emerged from the tunnel and passed through the central track of Jheeter’s Gate, casting forth its blanket of flames. The locomotive went under the tall arches that formed the entrance to the metal construction and continued along a line seemingly sculpted by the first light of dawn.

Jawahal raised his eyes, and Ben saw in them all the horror and profound loneliness that imprisoned his soul.

As the train crossed the few remaining metres towards the fallen bridge, Ben put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the matchbox containing the single match he had saved. Jawahal thrust his hand into the boiler and a cloud of pure oxygen enveloped him. Slowly he seemed to fuse with the machinery that housed his soul, the gas tinting his outline the colour of ashes. Jawahal gave Ben one last look and Ben thought he could see the gleam of a solitary tear gliding down his face.

‘Free me, Ben,’ murmured the voice in his mind. ‘It’s now or never.’

The boy pulled out the match and struck it.

‘Goodbye, Father,’ he whispered.

Lahawaj Chandra Chatterghee lowered his head as Ben threw the lighted match at his feet.

‘Goodbye, Ben.’

At that moment, for a fleeting second, the boy felt the presence of another face – a face wreathed in a veil of light. As the river of flames spread towards his father, those other deep sad eyes looked at him for the last time. Ben thought his mind was playing tricks on him when he recognised the same wounded look as he’d seen in Sheere’s eyes. Then the Princess of Light was engulfed for ever by the flames, her hand raised and a faint smile on her lips, without Ben ever suspecting who it was that had just disappeared into the fire.

Like an invisible torrent of water, the blast flung Ben’s body to the far end of the engine and out of the blazing train. As he fell, he tumbled through the scrub that had grown up alongside the rails. The train continued its journey following the track on its lethal route towards the chasm. Ben jumped up and ran after it. Seconds later, the cab in which his father was travelling exploded with such force that the metal girders of the collapsed bridge were thrown into the sky. A pyre of flames rose towards the stormy clouds like a fiery bolt of lightning, transforming the heavens into a mirror of light.

The train leaped into the void, a snake of steel and flames crashing into the black waters of the Hooghly. A thunderous blast shook the skies over Calcutta and beneath the city the ground trembled.

The last breath of the Firebird was extinguished, taking with it, for ever, the soul of its creator, Lahawaj Chandra Chatterghee.

Ben fell to his knees between the rails as his friends ran towards him from the entrance to Jheeter’s Gate. Hundreds of small white tears seemed to be falling from the sky. Ben looked up and felt the drops on his face. It was snowing.

The members of the Chowbar Society met for the last time that dawn in May 1932 by the vanished bridge on the banks of the Hooghly River opposite the ruins of Jheeter’s Gate. A curtain of falling snow awoke the city of Calcutta, where nobody had ever seen the white mantle that was beginning to cover the domes of the old palaces, the alleyways and the immensity of the Maidan.

As the city’s inhabitants stepped out into the streets to gaze at the miracle, the members of the Chowbar Society walked up to the bridge and left Sheere alone with Ben. They had all survived the events of that night. They had witnessed the descent of the flaming train into the void and seen the explosion of fire rising high into the sky, slicing through the storm like a blade. They knew they might never talk about the events of that night again and that, if they ever did, nobody would believe them. And yet, that dawn, they all understood that they had only been guests, random passengers in a train that had emerged from the past. Shortly afterwards they looked on in silence as Ben embraced his sister beneath the falling snow. Gradually, the day pushed away the darkness of a night without end.

Sheere felt the cold touch of snow on her cheeks and opened her eyes. Her brother Ben was cradling her, gently stroking her face.

‘What’s this, Ben?’

‘It’s snow,’ he replied. ‘It’s snowing over Calcutta.’

The girl’s face lit up for a moment.

‘Have I ever told you what my dream is?’

‘To see snow fall over London,’ said Ben. ‘I remember. Next year we’ll go there together. We’ll visit Ian. He’ll be there studying medicine. It will snow every day. I promise.’

‘Do you remember our father’s story, Ben? The one I told you the night I went to the Midnight Palace?’

Ben nodded.

‘These are the tears of Shiva, Ben. They’ll melt when the sun rises and will never fall on Calcutta again.’

Ben gently sat his sister up and smiled at her. Sheere’s deep pearly eyes watched him carefully.

‘I’m going to die, aren’t I?’

‘No,’ said Ben. ‘You’re not going to die for years and years. Your lifeline is very long. See?’

‘Ben …’ Sheere groaned. ‘It was the only thing I could do. I did it for us.’

He hugged her tightly.

‘I know,’ he murmured.

Sheere tried to push herself up and bring her lips closer to Ben’s ear.

‘Don’t let me die alone,’ she whispered.

Ben hid his face from his sister and pressed her against him.

‘Never.’

They remained like that, hugging each other quietly under the snow until Sheere’s pulse slowly faded like a flame in the breeze. Little by little the clouds receded towards the west and the light of dawn melted away the veil of white tears that had covered the city.

T hose places where sadness and misery abound are favoured settings for stories of ghosts and apparitions. Calcutta has countless such stories hidden in its darkness, stories that nobody wants to admit they believe but which nevertheless survive in the memory of generations as the only chronicle of the past. It is as if the people who inhabit the streets, inspired by some mysterious wisdom, realise that the true history of Calcutta has always been written in the invisible tales of its spirits and unspoken curses.

Maybe it was this same wisdom that lit Lahawaj Chandra Chatterghee’s path during his final moments, making him realise that he had fallen inexorably into the prison of his own damnation. Perhaps, in the deep solitude of a soul condemned to revisit, time and time again, the wounds of the past, he was able to understand the real value of the lives he had destroyed, and of all the lives he could yet save. It’s hard to know what he saw in his son’s face seconds before he allowed him to put out the flames of bitterness that blazed in the Firebird’s boilers. Perhaps, in the midst of his madness, he was able, for one brief second, to muster the sanity that his tormentors had stolen from him ever since his days in Grant House.

The answers to all these questions, as well as his secrets, discoveries, dreams and expectations, disappeared for ever in the terrible explosion that split the skies over Calcutta at daybreak on 28 May 1932, like the snowflakes that melted even as they kissed the ground.

Whatever the truth may be, I must record that, shortly after the burning train sank into the Hooghly, the pool of fresh blood that had housed the tormented spirit of the twins’ mother evaporated. I knew then that the soul of Lahawaj Chandra Chatterghee and that of the woman who had been his companion would rest in eternal peace. Never again would I see in my dreams the sad eyes of the Princess of Light leaning over my friend Ben.

I haven’t seen my friends in all the years since I boarded the ship that was to take me to England that very afternoon. I remember their frightened faces when they said goodbye to me on the wharf on the Hooghly River as the boat weighed anchor. I remember the promises we made to stay in touch and never to forget what we had witnessed. I have to admit that, even then, I realised that our words would be lost in the ship’s wake as soon as it departed under the flaming Bengali sun.

They were all there, except for Ben. But none was as present in our hearts as he was.

When I look back on those days, I feel that each and every one of my friends lives on in a corner of my soul, a corner that was sealed for ever that afternoon in Calcutta. A place where we all continue to be sixteen years old and where the spirit of the Chowbar Society and the Midnight Palace will remain alive as long as I do.

As for the fate that awaited each of us, time has effaced the footprints of many of my companions. I learned that after some years Seth succeeded the rotund Mr de Rozio as head librarian and archivist of the Indian Museum, and that in doing so he became the youngest man ever to hold that post.

I also had news of Isobel, who married Michael years later. Their marriage lasted five years, and after their separation Isobel went off to travel round the world with a small theatre company. The passing of the years didn’t prevent her from keeping her dreams alive. I don’t know what has become of her. Michael, who lives in Florence, where he teaches drawing in a secondary school, never saw her again. To this day I still hope to spot her name topping the bill at some show.

Siraj passed away in 1946 after spending the last five years of his life in a Bombay prison, accused of a theft which, until his dying day, he swore he didn’t commit. As Jawahal predicted, what little luck he’d had abandoned him that day.

Roshan is now a prosperous and powerful businessman, owner of a good number of the old streets around the Black Town, where he grew up as a beggar without a roof over his head. He’s the only one who, year after year, keeps up the ritual of sending me a birthday letter. I know from his letters that he married and that the number of grandchildren who run around his properties isn’t far off the figures that make up his fortune.

As for me, life has been generous and has allowed me to journey through this strange passage to nowhere in peace and without hardship. Shortly after I finished my studies, I was offered a post in Dr Walter Hartley’s hospital in Whitechapel. It was there that I really learned the job I’d always dreamed of and which still earns me my living today. Twenty years ago, after the death of my wife Iris, I moved to Bournemouth, where my home and my surgery occupy a small comfortable house with a view over the salt marshes of Poole Bay. My only company since Iris departed has been her memory and the secret I once shared with my companions in the Chowbar Society.

Again, I’ve left Ben to the end. Even today, although I haven’t seen him for over fifty years, I still find it hard to talk about the person who was and always will be my best friend. Thanks to Roshan I heard that he went to live in what had once been his father’s house – the house of Chandra Chatterghee, the engineer. He moved there with Aryami Bose, who never quite recovered from Sheere’s death and was plunged into a long deep melancholy that would eventually close her eyes for ever in October 1941. From that day on Ben lived and worked alone in the house his father had built. It was there that he wrote his books until the year he disappeared without a trace.

One December morning, years after we all, including Roshan, had given him up for dead, I was standing on the little dock opposite my house, gazing out at the marshland, when I received a small parcel. It had been postmarked by the Calcutta Post Office and my name was written in handwriting I could never forget, even if I lived to be a hundred. Inside, wrapped in layers of paper, I found half of the pendant shaped like a sun that Aryami Bose had divided in two when she separated Ben and Sheere that tragic night in 1916.

This morning, as I sit writing the last words of this memoir in the early light of dawn, the first snow of the year has spread its white mantle before my window and the memory of Ben has come back to me, after all these years, like the echo of a whisper. I imagine him walking in the crowds, through the fevered streets of Calcutta, among a thousand untold stories such as his own, and for the first time I realise that my friend, like me, is now an old man and that his journey is about to complete its circle. It is so strange to think how life has slipped through our fingers …

I don’t know whether I’ll ever hear of my friend Ben again. But I do know that in some part of the mysterious Black Town the boy I said goodbye to that morning when it snowed in Calcutta lives on, keeping the flame of Sheere’s memory alive, dreaming of the moment when at last he’ll be reunited with her in a world where nothing and no one can ever separate them.

I hope you will find her, my friend.