Carlos Zafon - The Midnight Palace

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.’