‘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? WHAT 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.
‘T
onight 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.