Carlos Zafon - The Midnight Palace

‘Seth,’ he said, ‘get out of here.’

Seth’s handcuffs opened immediately and the boy stood up.

‘I don’t like this, Ben.’

‘I like it even less than you do,’ Ben answered. ‘Now leave, and make sure Siraj doesn’t get lost.’

Seth nodded gravely, aware that the alternative to following Ben’s instructions might put everyone’s lives at risk. He gave his friends a farewell wave and headed for the door. When he got there he turned and looked at all the members of the Chowbar Society.

‘We’ll survive this one, do you hear me?’

His friends nodded with as much hope as the law of probability permitted.

‘As for you, sir,’ said Seth, pointing at Jawahal, ‘you’re nothing but a pile of dung.’

Jawahal licked his lips.

‘It’s easy to play the hero when you’re about to abandon your friends to a certain death, isn’t it, Seth? You can insult me again if you like; I’m not going to do anything to you. It might even help you sleep better when you remember this night and when some of those present have become food for worms. You can always tell people that you, brave Seth, insulted the villain, can’t you? But, deep down, you and I both know the truth, don’t we, Seth?’

Seth’s face reddened with anger and his eyes flashed with hatred. He began to walk towards Jawahal, but Ben threw himself in the way.

‘Please, Seth,’ he whispered in his ear. ‘Go now. Please.’

Seth gave Ben one last look and nodded, pressing his arm firmly. Ben waited for his friend to leave then confronted Jawahal once again.

‘This wasn’t part of the deal,’ Ben reproached him. ‘I’m not going to continue if you keep tormenting my friends.’

‘You’ll do it whether you want to or not. You have no alternative. Still, as a gesture of goodwill, I’ll keep my comments on your friends to myself. Now continue.’

Ben stared at the five remaining boxes. His eyes rested on the one on the far right. Without further ado, he stuck his hand in and groped about inside. Another board. Ben took a deep breath and heard a sigh of relief from his friends.

‘There’s an angel watching over you, Ben,’ said Jawahal. The boy looked at the wooden rectangle.

‘Isobel.’

‘The lady’s in luck,’ remarked Jawahal.

‘Shut up,’ muttered Ben, fed up with the comments Jawahal seemed to enjoy making with each new move in the macabre game. ‘Isobel, see you soon.’

Isobel stood up and walked past her friends, her head bowed and her feet dragging as if they were stuck to the floor.

‘No last word for Michael, Isobel?’ asked Jawahal.

‘Leave it,’ Ben implored. ‘What do you expect to achieve out of all this?’

‘Choose another box,’ replied Jawahal. ‘Then you’ll see what I’m hoping to achieve.’

As Isobel stepped down from the van, Ben considered the four remaining boxes.

‘Have you decided, Ben?’ asked Jawahal.

The boy nodded and stood in front of the box that was painted red.

‘Red. The colour of passion,’ Jawahal remarked. ‘And of fire. Go ahead, Ben. I think tonight’s your lucky night.’

As Sheere opened her eyes she saw Ben approaching the red box, his arm outstretched. A stab of panic ripped through her body. She sat up abruptly and hurled herself towards Ben as quickly as she could – she couldn’t let her brother put his hand in that box. The lives of those boys were meaningless to Jawahal; they were nothing but a convenient way of pushing Ben towards his own destruction. Jawahal needed Ben to hand over his own death willingly in order to clear a path for him. That way the accursed spirit could enter her and escape from those dark tunnels; be reincarnated in a being of flesh and blood.

Sheere had realised there was just one option remaining, one sole action capable of ruining the puzzle Jawahal had constructed around them. Only she could alter the course of events, doing the one thing in the universe that Jawahal had not foreseen.

The moments that followed became etched in her mind like a series of minutely detailed sketches.

Sheere covered the six metres that separated her from her brother at breakneck speed, avoiding the remaining three members of the Chowbar Society, who lay manacled on the floor. As Ben turned round, his first look was of confusion and surprise, then of horror. Jawahal had risen and each finger of his right hand was ablaze, transforming it into a fiery claw. Sheere heard Ben’s scream fade into a distant echo as she crashed against him, pushing him down and pulling his hand away from the hole in the red box. Ben fell to the floor and Sheere saw Jawahal rising above her, stretching out his burning claw towards her face. She fixed her eyes on the eyes of the murderer and read the despairing refusal taking shape on his lips. Time seemed to stand still around her.

Tenths of a second later Sheere was thrusting her hand through the opening in the scarlet box. She felt the flap close over her wrist like the petals of a poisonous flower. Ben yelled out and Jawahal clenched his fiery fist in his face, but Sheere smiled triumphantly and at some point she felt the asp strike her with its mortal kiss. The blast of poison lit up the blood running through her veins like a spark igniting a stream of petrol.

Ben put his arms round his sister and pulled her hand out of the red box, but it was already too late. Two bleeding puncture wounds shone on the pale skin on the back of her wrist. Sheere gave a brief smile as she began to lose consciousness.

‘I’m fine,’ she mumbled, but before she could utter another syllable her body started shaking, her legs gave way and she collapsed on top of him.

‘Sheere!’ shouted Ben.

He felt an indescribable nausea take hold of his whole being and the strength seemed to be running out of his body. He held Sheere and settled her on his lap, stroking her face.

Sheere opened her eyes and smiled weakly, her face as white as chalk.

‘It doesn’t hurt, Ben,’ she whispered.

Each of her words felt like a kick to the stomach. Ben looked up in search of Jawahal. The spectre was observing the scene, his expression impenetrable. Their eyes met.

‘I never planned it this way, Ben,’ he said. ‘This is going to complicate matters.’

Ben felt the anger growing inside him like an enormous crack, parting his soul in two.

‘You’re nothing but a murderer,’ he muttered.

Jawahal took one last look at Sheere, who was trembling in Ben’s arms, and shook his head. His thoughts seemed to be far away.

‘Now only you and I remain, Ben,’ said Jawahal. ‘It’s heads or tails. Say goodbye to her then come in search of your revenge.’

Jawahal’s face was suddenly swathed in a veil of flames and he turned away, passing through the door that connected the guard’s van to the rest of the train and leaving behind a breach that dripped with red-hot steel.

Ben heard a crunch as the lock on Ian, Michael and Roshan’s handcuffs was released. Ian ran over and, grabbing hold of Sheere’s arm, he brought her wound to his mouth. He sucked hard and spat out the poisoned blood, which burnt his tongue. Michael and Roshan knelt down in front of the girl and looked at Ben in despair. He was cursing himself for having allowed precious seconds to go by without realising that he should have done what his friend was doing now.

Ben raised his eyes and noticed the trail of flames Jawahal had left behind him, melting the metal like a cigar burning through paper. The train gave a sudden jolt and began to move through the tunnel as the engine’s thunderous roar filled the labyrinth of Jheeter’s Gate. Ben looked intently at Ian.

‘Take care of her.’

‘No, Ben,’ Ian pleaded, reading Ben’s thoughts. ‘Don’t go.’