‘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 th
e 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.