The Midnight Palace Page 8

  BEN WENT OVER TO the stretcher on which Thomas Carter was lying and tried to smile reassuringly, but when he saw the state the headmaster was in he felt his stomach shrink and the words just wouldn’t come to his lips. One of the doctors standing behind him gave him a nudge. Ben took a deep breath and nodded.

  ‘Hello, Mr Carter. It’s Ben.’ He wondered whether Mr Carter could hear him.

  The wounded man tilted his head slightly and raised a trembling hand. Ben took it and pressed it gently.

  ‘Tell that man to leave us alone,’ Carter groaned, his eyes still shut.

  The doctor gave Ben a look and waited a few seconds before leaving.

  ‘The doctors say you’re going to get better …’ said Ben. Carter shook his head.

  ‘Not now, Ben.’ Each word seemed to require a titanic effort. ‘You must listen to me carefully and not interrupt. Understood?’

  Ben nodded. ‘I’m listening, sir.’

  Carter squeezed his hand.

  ‘There’s a man who is looking for you and wants to kill you, Ben. A murderer,’ Carter said, struggling to articulate his words. ‘You must believe me. This man calls himself Jawahal and he seems to think you have some connection to his past. I don’t know why he’s looking for you but I do know he’s dangerous. What he’s done to me is only a shadow of what he’s capable of. You must speak to Aryami Bose, the woman who came to the orphanage yesterday. Tell her what I’ve told you, explain what has happened. She tried to warn me, but I didn’t take her seriously. Don’t make the same mistake. Find her and talk to her. Tell her Jawahal was here. She’ll tell you what to do.’

  The burnt lips of Thomas Carter closed once more and Ben felt as if the whole world was collapsing around him. What the head of St Patrick’s had confided in him seemed utterly unreal. The shock of the explosion had obviously affected Carter’s reasoning, making him imagine some kind of conspiracy and a whole host of other improbable dangers. At that moment Ben couldn’t contemplate any other explanation, especially in view of what he had dreamed the night before. Imprisoned in the claustrophobic atmosphere of the ambulance, with its cold stench of ether, he wondered for a split second whether the inhabitants of St Patrick’s were all beginning to lose their minds, himself included.

  ‘Did you hear me, Ben?’ Carter insisted, his voice failing. ‘Have you understood what I said?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ben mumbled. ‘You mustn’t worry.’

  Finally Carter opened his eyes and Ben realised with horror what the flames had done to them.

  ‘Ben, do as I said. Now.’ He was trying to shout but his voice was consumed by pain. ‘Go and see that woman. Swear to me you will.’

  Ben heard footsteps behind him. The red-haired doctor grabbed his arm and began dragging him out of the ambulance. Carter’s hand slipped from Ben’s and was left suspended in mid-air.

  ‘That’s enough,’ yelled the doctor. ‘This man has suffered enough already.’

  ‘Swear you will!’ groaned Carter, reaching out to him.

  The boy watched in dismay as the doctors injected another dose of sedative into the headmaster.

  ‘I swear, sir,’ said Ben, not knowing if Carter could still hear him. ‘I swear.’

  Bankim was waiting for Ben outside. A short distance away stood the members of the Chowbar Society and everyone else who had been present when the disaster occurred. They were all watching Ben and appeared anxious and distressed. Ben approached Bankim and looked straight into his eyes, which were bloodshot from the smoke and tears.

  ‘Bankim, I need to know something,’ said Ben. ‘Did anyone called Jawahal visit Mr Carter?’

  Bankim looked blank.

  ‘Nobody came today,’ replied the teacher. ‘Mr Carter spent the morning at a meeting with the Town Council and came back around twelve o’clock. Then he said he wanted to go and work in his office and didn’t want to be disturbed, not even for lunch.’

  ‘Are you sure he was alone when the blast occurred?’ asked Ben, praying that he’d get a positive reply.

  ‘Yes … I think so,’ answered Bankim, although there was a shadow of doubt in his eyes. ‘Why do you ask? What did he say?’

  ‘Are you completely sure, Bankim?’ Ben insisted. ‘Think carefully. It’s important.’

  The teacher looked down, rubbing his forehead, as if he were trying to find the words to describe what he was barely sure of remembering.

  ‘About a second after the explosion I thought I saw something, or someone, come out of the office. It was all very confusing.’

  ‘Something or someone?’ asked Ben.

  Bankim looked up and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I don’t know what it was,’ he replied. ‘Nothing I can think of can move that fast.’

  ‘An animal?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was probably just my own imagination.’

  Aware of Bankim’s disdain for superstition and alleged supernatural phenomena, Ben knew the teacher would never admit to having seen something that was beyond his powers of analysis or understanding. If his mind couldn’t explain it, his eyes couldn’t see it. As simple as that.

  ‘If that’s the case,’ Ben insisted one last time, ‘what else did you imagine?’

  Bankim looked up at the blackened gap that a few hours earlier had been Thomas Carter’s office.

  ‘I thought this thing was laughing,’ Bankim admitted in a whisper. ‘But I’m not going to repeat that to anyone.’

  Ben nodded and, leaving Bankim by the ambulance, he walked over to his friends, who were desperate to hear about his conversation with Carter. Only Sheere observed him with visible concern, as if, deep in her heart, she alone was capable of understanding that Ben’s news would steer events down a dark and fatal path from which none of them would be able to escape.

  ‘We need to talk,’ said Ben calmly. ‘But not here.’

  I RECALL THAT MAY MORNING AS THE FIRST SIGN OF a storm that was relentlessly closing in on us, shaping our destiny, building up behind our backs and swelling in the shadow of our complete innocence – that blessed ignorance which made us believe we were worthy of a special state of grace: because we had no past we felt we had nothing to fear from the future.

  Little did we know that the jackals of misfortune were not pursuing poor Thomas Carter. Their fangs thirsted for younger blood, blood infused with the stain of a curse that could not be hidden, not even among the noisy street markets or in the depths of Calcutta’s deserted palaces.

  We followed Ben to the Midnight Palace, searching for a secret place where we could listen to what he had to say. That day none of us feared that behind the strange accident and the uncertain words uttered by the scorched lips of our headmaster there might be any threat greater than that of separation and the emptiness towards which the blank pages of our future seemed to be leading us. We had yet to learn that the Devil created youth so that we could make our mistakes, and that God established maturity and old age so that we could pay for them …

  I also remember that as we listened to Ben’s report of his conversation with Thomas Carter, each one of us, without exception, knew he was keeping something from us, something the wounded headmaster had confided in him. And I remember the worried expression on the faces of my friends, mirrored on my own, as we realised that, for the first time in all those years, our friend Ben had chosen to keep us in the dark.

  A few minutes later he asked to speak privately with Sheere, and I thought that my best friend had just delivered the final blow to the doomed Chowbar Society. But future events would prove that, once again, I had misjudged Ben and the loyalty which our club inspired in his soul.

  At the time, however, watching my friend’s face as he spoke to Sheere, I realised that the wheel of fortune had begun to turn backwards. Our opponent in the game was prepared to bet high and we didn’t have the knowledge, or experience, to match him.

  IN THE HAZY LIGHT OF THAT HUMID SCORCHING DAY the reliefs and gargoyles on the facade of the Chowbar Society’s
secret hideout resembled wax figures melting into the walls. The sun lay hidden behind a dense bank of clouds and a suffocating mist rose from the Hooghly River, sweeping through the streets of the Black Town like the fumes from a poisoned marsh.

  Ben and Sheere were talking behind two fallen roof beams in the central hall of the old mansion, while the others waited about a dozen metres away, glancing occasionally at the pair with suspicion.

  ‘I don’t know whether I’ve done the right thing, hiding this from my friends,’ Ben confessed to Sheere. ‘I know they’ll be upset, and it goes against the oaths of the Chowbar Society, but if there’s even the remotest possibility that there’s a murderer out there who wants to kill me, I have no intention of getting them mixed up in it. I don’t really want to involve you either, Sheere. I can’t imagine how your grandmother could be connected to all this, and until I discover what that connection is, it’s best to keep this secret to ourselves.’

  Sheere nodded. It upset her to think that somehow the secret she shared with Ben would come between him and his friends, but she was also aware that things might turn out to be more serious than they imagined, and she was savouring the closeness to Ben this special link gave her.

  ‘I need to tell you something too, Ben,’ Sheere began. ‘This morning, when I came to say goodbye to you, I didn’t think it was important. But now things have changed. Last night, when we were returning to the house where we’ve been staying, my grandmother made me swear I would never speak to you again. She said I must forget you and that if I tried to get close to you it might end in tragedy.’

  Ben sighed at the speed with which the torrent of threats against him was multiplying. Everyone, except himself, appeared to know some terrible secret that turned him into a target, the bearer of misfortune.

  ‘What reason did she give for saying something like that?’ asked Ben. ‘She’d never seen me before last night and I don’t think my behaviour could justify anything like that.’

  ‘I’m sure it has nothing to do with your behaviour,’ Sheere said. ‘She was scared. There was no anger in her words, only fear.’

  ‘Well, we’re going to have to find something else besides fear if we want to understand what’s going on,’ replied Ben. ‘We’ll go and see her straight away.’

  He walked over to where the other members of the Chowbar Society were waiting. He could tell from their faces that they’d been discussing the matter and had come to a decision. Ben guessed who would be the spokesperson for the inevitable complaint. They all looked at Ian, who rolled his eyes and sighed.

  ‘Ian has something to tell you,’ Isobel stated. ‘But we all feel the same way.’

  Ben faced his friends and smiled.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Well,’ Ian began. ‘The essence of what we’re trying to say—’

  ‘Don’t beat about the bush, Ian,’ Seth interrupted.

  Ian whisked round, with all the restrained fury his placid nature allowed.

  ‘The term “spokesperson” means one person does the speaking, the others just shut up.’

  Nobody else dared to make any more objections to his speech and Ian returned to his task.

  ‘As I was saying: basically, we think there’s something that doesn’t add up. You said Mr Carter told you he was attacked by some criminal who is stalking the orphanage. A criminal nobody has seen and whose motives, from what you’ve said, we can’t understand. We also don’t understand why Mr Carter asked to speak to you specifically or why you’ve been talking to Bankim and haven’t told us what it was about. You must have your reasons for keeping this secret and sharing it only with Sheere, or at least you think you do. But, to be honest, if you value our society and its aims, you should trust us and not hide anything from us.’

  Ben considered Ian’s words as the rest of his friends nodded in agreement.

  ‘If I’ve kept anything from you it’s because I think that otherwise I might be putting your lives in danger,’ Ben explained.

  ‘The founding principle of this society is to help one another no matter what, not just to listen to funny stories and disappear the moment things go wrong,’ Seth protested angrily.

  ‘This is a society, not some girlie orchestra,’ added Siraj.

  Isobel slapped the back of his head.

  ‘Be quiet!’ she snapped.

  ‘All right,’ Ben agreed. ‘All for one, and one for all. Is that what you want? The Three Musketeers?’

  All eyes were trained on him as slowly, one by one, they nodded their heads.

  ‘OK. I’ll tell you everything I know, which isn’t much,’ said Ben.

  For the next ten minutes the Chowbar Society heard the unedited version of his tale, including his conversation with Bankim and what Sheere’s grandmother had said. After his account, it was question time.

  ‘Has anyone ever heard of this Jawahal?’ asked Seth. ‘Siraj?’

  The walking encyclopedia’s only answer was an unambiguous ‘No.’

  ‘Do we know whether Mr Carter could have been doing business with someone like that? Would there be anything about it in his files?’ asked Isobel.

  ‘We can find out,’ replied Ian. ‘Right now, the main thing is to speak to your grandmother, Sheere.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Roshan. ‘Let’s go and see her and then we can decide on a plan of action.’

  ‘Any objections to Roshan’s proposal?’ asked Ian.

  A ‘no’ resounded through the ruins of the Midnight Palace.

  ‘Fine, let’s go.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Michael.

  The friends turned to listen to the quiet pencil virtuoso who chronicled the adventures of the Chowbar Society.

  ‘Has it occurred to you that all this might be connected to the story you told us this morning, Ben?’

  Ben gulped. He had been asking himself that same question, but hadn’t been able to find a link between the two events.

  ‘I don’t see a connection, Michael,’ said Seth.

  The others thought about it for a while, but none of them seemed inclined to disagree with Seth.

  ‘I don’t think there’s a connection either,’ agreed Ben at last. ‘It must have been a dream.’

  Michael looked him straight in the eye, something he hardly ever did, and held out a small drawing. Ben examined it and saw the shape of a train crossing a desolate plain dotted with run-down shacks. At the front a majestic wedge-shaped engine crowned with tall chimneys spat out steam and smoke into a sky filled with black stars. The train was swathed in flames and hundreds of ghostly faces peered through the carriage windows, their arms outstretched, howling amid the blaze. Michael had faithfully translated Ben’s words onto paper. Ben felt a shiver down his spine.

  ‘I don’t see, Michael …’ Ben murmured. ‘What are you driving at?’

  Sheere went over to them and her face grew pale when she saw the drawing and realised the link Michael had identified between Ben’s vision and the incident at St Patrick’s.

  ‘The fire,’ she said softly. ‘It’s the fire.’

  ARYAMI BOSE’S HOME HAD been closed up for years, inhabited only by books and paintings, but the spectre of thousands of memories imprisoned between its walls still permeated the house.

  On the way there they had agreed that the best plan would be for Sheere to go into the house first, so that she could tell Aryami what had happened and explain that the friends wanted to speak to her. Once this first phase had been completed, the members of the Chowbar Society thought it would also be better to limit the number of representatives at the meeting. The sight of seven strange youths was bound to slow her tongue. It was therefore decided that only Ian, Sheere and Ben would be present at the conversation. Once again Ian agreed to act as ambassador for the society, although he was beginning to suspect that the frequency with which he was chosen for the job had less to do with his friends’ trust in his intelligence and moderation than with his harmless appearance, which was perfect for winning ove
r adults and authority figures. After walking through the streets of the Black Town and waiting a few minutes in the jungle-like courtyard surrounding Aryami Bose’s home, Ian and Ben entered the house at a signal from Sheere, while the others waited for their return.

  Sheere led them to a room that was poorly lit by about a dozen candles floating on water inside glass containers. Drops of melted wax formed petals around the candles, dulling the reflection of the flames. The three friends sat down in front of the old lady, who gazed at them in silence from her armchair. In the darkness around them they glimpsed hangings covering the walls and shelves buried under years of dust.

  Aryami waited for their eyes to meet hers and then she leaned in towards them.

  ‘My granddaughter told me what happened,’ said Aryami. ‘But I can’t say I’m surprised. For years I’ve lived with the fear that something like this might occur, although I never imagined it would happen in this way. First of all, you must realise that what you’ve witnessed today is only the beginning and that, after hearing me out, it will be up to you either to let these events continue or to put a stop to them. I’m old and I don’t have the courage or the strength to fight against forces that are far stronger than me and that with each passing day I find harder to understand.’

  Sheere took her grandmother’s wrinkled hand and stroked it gently. Ian noticed Ben biting his nails and gave him a discreet nudge.

  ‘There was a time when I thought that nothing could be more powerful than love. And it’s true, love is powerful, but that power pales into insignificance next to the fire of hatred. I know these revelations aren’t exactly the best present for your sixteenth birthday – normally young people are allowed to live in blissful ignorance of the real nature of the world until they are much older – but I’m afraid you’re not going to have that privilege. I also know that you’ll doubt my words and my judgement, simply because they are those of an old woman. In recent years I’ve come to recognise that look in the eyes of my own granddaughter. The fact is that nothing is more difficult to believe than the truth; conversely, nothing seduces like the power of lies, the greater the better. It’s only natural, and you will have to find the right balance. Having said that, let me add that this particular old woman hasn’t been collecting only years; she has also collected stories, and none sadder or more terrible than the one she’s about to tell you. You have been at the heart of this story without knowing it, until today …’