Carlos Zafon - The Midnight Palace

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 the 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.’