The Midnight Palace Read online

  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 wro
te 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.

  THOSE 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 sam
e 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.