‘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 g
rimace. 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 va
ult 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.