Carlos Zafon - The Midnight Palace

Then, all of a sudden, there was silence. Roshan stood up and opened his eyes. The station was deserted once more and the only trace of the train was two rows of flames gradually disappearing along the rails. He ran back to the point where he’d last seen Siraj. Cursing his cowardice, he cried out in anger – he realised he was alone.

In the distance dawn pointed the way to the exit.

The first light of day seeped through the closed shutters of the library in the Indian Museum. Seth and Michael were dozing, their heads resting on the table, exhausted. Mr de Rozio heaved a deep sigh and pushed his chair away from the desk, rubbing his eyes. He had spent hours engrossed in the mountain of documents, trying to unravel those lengthy court records. His stomach was now begging for attention, and he had placed a moratorium on his consumption of coffee, which was necessary if he was to go on performing his duties with any degree of dignity.

‘I give up, sleeping beauties,’ he thundered.

Seth and Michael looked up with a start and noticed that the day had begun without them.

‘Did you find anything?’ asked Seth, suppressing a yawn.

His stomach was rumbling and his head felt as if it was full of puree.

‘Is that a joke?’ asked the librarian. ‘I think you’ve been pulling my leg all along.’

‘I don’t understand, sir,’ said Michael.

De Rozio gave a vast yawn, revealing cavernous jaws, which reminded the boys of a hippopotamus wallowing in a river.

‘It’s very simple,’ he said. ‘You came here with a tale of murder and crime and that absurd business about someone called Jawahal.’

‘But it’s all true. We have first-hand information.’

De Rozio laughed, his tone mocking.

‘Maybe you’re the ones who’ve been tricked,’ he replied. ‘In this entire pile of papers I haven’t found a single mention of your friend Jawahal. Not one word. Zero.’

Seth felt his stomach fall to his feet.

‘But that’s impossible. Jawahal was sentenced and went to prison and then escaped years later. Perhaps we could start again from that point. From the escape. It must be documented somewhere …’

De Rozio’s astute eyes gave him a sceptical look. His expression clearly indicated that there would be no second chance.

‘If I were you, boys, I’d return to the person who gave me this information and this time I’d make quite sure I was told the whole story. As for this Jawahal, who according to your mysterious informer was in prison, I think he’s far more slippery than either you or I can handle.’

De Rozio studied the two boys. They were as pale as marble. The plump scholar smiled in commiseration.

‘My condolences,’ he murmured. ‘You’ve been sniffing down the wrong hole …’

Shortly afterwards, Seth and Michael were sitting on the stairs of the main entrance to the Indian Museum, watching the sunrise. A light rain had glazed the streets and they shone like sheets of liquid gold. Seth looked at his companion and showed him a coin.

‘Heads, I go and visit Aryami and you go to the prison. Tails, it’s the other way round.’

Michael nodded, his eyes half-closed. Seth tossed the coin and the circle of bronze spun in the air, catching the light, until it landed on the boy’s hand. Michael leaned over to check the result.

‘Give my regards to Aryami,’ Seth mumbled.

The night had seemed endless but finally daylight arrived at the engineer’s house. For once in his life Ian blessed the Calcutta sun, as its rays erased the shroud of darkness that had enveloped them for hours. In the dawn the house seemed less threatening. Ben and Sheere were also visibly relieved to see the morning come.

‘If there’s one good thing about this house, it’s that it’s safe,’ said Ben. ‘If our friend Jawahal had been able to get in, he would have done so already. Our father might have had some strange inclinations, but he knew how to protect a home. I suggest we try to get some sleep. The way things are looking right now, I’d rather sleep during the day and stay awake at night.’

‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ said Ian. ‘Where shall we sleep?’

‘There are several bedrooms in the towers,’ Sheere explained. ‘We can choose.’

‘I suggest we find rooms next to each other,’ said Ben.

‘Fine,’ said Ian. ‘And it wouldn’t be a bad idea to eat something either.’

‘That can wait,’ Ben replied. ‘Later on we’ll go out and find something.’

‘How can you two be hungry?’ asked Sheere.

Ben and Ian shrugged their shoulders.

‘Elemental physiology,’ replied Ben. ‘Ask Ian. He’s the doctor.’

‘As the teacher in a Bombay school once told me,’ said Sheere, ‘the main difference between a man and a woman is that the man always puts his stomach before his heart and a woman does the opposite.’

Ben considered the theory.

‘Let me quote our favourite misogynist and professional bachelor, Mr Thomas Carter: “The real difference is that, while men’s stomachs are much larger than their brains and their hearts, women’s hearts are so small they keep leaping out of their mouths.”’

Ian seemed bemused by the exchange of such illustrious quotes.

‘Cheap philosophy,’ pronounced Sheere.

‘The cheap sort, my dear Sheere, is the only philosophy worth having,’ declared Ben.

Ian raised a hand to signal a truce.

‘Goodnight to both of you,’ he said, then headed straight for one of the towers.

Ten minutes later all three had fallen into a deep sleep from which nobody could have roused them. In the end tiredness conquered fear.

Setting off from the Indian Museum in Chowringhee Road, Seth walked south almost a kilometre downhill. He then turned east along Park Street, heading for the Beniapukur area, where the ruins of the old Curzon Fort prison stood next to the Scottish cemetery. The dilapidated graveyard had been built on what was once the official limit of the city. In those days a high mortality rate and the speed with which bodies decomposed meant that all burial grounds had to be situated outside Calcutta for reasons of public health. Ironically, although the Scots had been in control of Calcutta’s commercial activity for decades, they discovered that they couldn’t afford a place among the graves of their English neighbours, and were therefore forced to build their own cemetery. In Calcutta the wealthy refused to yield their land to anyone poorer, even after death.

As he approached what remained of the Curzon Fort prison, Seth understood why the building had not yet become another victim of the city’s cruel demolition programme. There was no need – its structure already seemed to be hanging by an invisible string, ready to topple over the crowds at the slightest attempt to alter its balance. A fire had devoured the building, carving out gaps and destroying beams and props in its fury.

Seth approached the prison entrance, wondering how on earth he was going to discover anything among the heap of charred timber and bricks. Surely the only mementos of its past would be the metal bars and cells that had been transformed in their final hours into lethal ovens from which there was no escape.

‘Have you come on a visit, boy?’ whispered a voice behind him.

Seth spun around in alarm and realised that the words had come from the lips of a ragged old man whose feet and hands were covered in large infected sores. Dark eyes watched him nervously, and the man’s face was caked in grime, his sparse white beard evidently trimmed with a knife.

‘Is this the Curzon Fort prison, sir?’ asked Seth.

The beggar’s eyes widened when he heard the polite way the boy was addressing him, and his leathery lips broke into a toothless smile.