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.’
‘Would you reply if I asked you?’ said Ben, standing motionless by the bloodstained shawl.
‘Perhaps.’ Jawahal smiled.
Ben tried to avoid his hypnotic eyes, and above all he tried to rid himself of the idea that the grim apparition he was speaking to was his father, or what was left of him.
‘Having some doubts, are you, Ben?’ Jawahal appeared to be enjoying the conversation.
‘You’re not my father. He would never hurt Sheere,’ Ben blurted out nervously.
‘Who said I was going to hurt her?’
Ben raised his eyebrows and watched as Jawahal stretched out a gloved hand and dipped it in the blood lying at his feet. Then he touched his face with his fingers, smearing the blood over his angular features.
‘One night many years ago, Ben,’ said Jawahal, ‘the woman whose blood was shed on this spot was my wife and the mother of my children. It’s funny to think how memories can sometimes turn into nightmares. I still miss her. Are you surprised? Who do you think your father is, the man who lives in my memory or this lifeless shadow you see in front of you?’
‘My father was a good man. You’re nothing but a murderer.’
Jawahal looked down and nodded slowly. Ben turned away from him.
‘Our time is coming to an end,’ said Jawahal. ‘We must now confront our destiny. Each to his own. We’re all adults now, aren’t we? Do you know what maturity means, Ben? Let your father explain. Maturity is simply the process of discovering that everything you believed in when you were young is false and that all the things you refused to believe in turn out to be true. When are you going to mature, son?’
Ben turned and looked at Jawahal.
‘What is it you want?’ he demanded.
‘I want to keep a promise, the promise that keeps my flame alive.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Ben. ‘To commit a crime? Is that your farewell deed?’
Jawahal rolled his eyes patiently.
‘The difference between a crime and a deed usually depends on the point of view, Ben. My promise is quite simply to find a new home for my soul. And that home will be provided for me by you two. By my children.’
Ben clenched his teeth and felt the blood throbbing in his temples.
‘You are not my father,’ he said calmly. ‘And if you ever were, I am ashamed of that.’
Jawahal gave a paternal smile.
‘There are two things in life you cannot choose, Ben. The first is your enemies; the second your family. Sometimes the difference between them is hard to see, but in the end time will show you that the cards you have been dealt could always have been worse. Life, dear son, is like that first game of chess. By the time you begin to understand how the pieces move, you’ve already lost.’
Ben hurled himself at Jawahal with all the force of his anger. Jawahal remained seated on the end of the bench as the boy passed straight through him, the image vanishing into the air in a swirl of smoke. Ben crashed to the floor and felt his forehead being ripped open by one of the rusty screws that jutted out from the bench.
‘One of the things you’ll learn soon enough,’ said Jawahal’s voice behind him, ‘is that before fighting your enemy, you must know how his mind works.’
Ben wiped away the blood trickling down his face and turned to look for the voice in the shadows. Jawahal was clearly outlined, sitting on the opposite end of the same bench.
‘Nothing is as it seems,’ Jawahal continued. ‘You should have realised that in the tunnels. When I designed this place, I kept a few surprises up my sleeve. Do you enjoy maths, Ben? Maths is the faith of those with a brain, that is why it has so few followers. It’s a shame that neither you nor your gullible friends are ever going to escape from here. You could have told the whole world about some of the mysteries hidden in this building. With a bit of luck, you’d have been repaid with the same mockery, envy and scorn as the inventor himself received.’
‘Hatred has blinded you.’
‘The only thing hatred has done to me,’ replied Jawahal, ‘is open my eyes. And you’d better open yours wide because, even if you do take me for a murderer, you’re going to discover that you’ve been given the chance to save yourself and your friends. An opportunity I never had.’
Jawahal rose and walked over to Ben. The boy swallowed hard and was about to run, but Jawahal stopped about two metres away then clasped his hands together and gave a small bow.
‘I’ve enjoyed our conversation, Ben,’ he said politely. ‘When you’ve got your breath back, come and find me. It’s going to be fun. I promise.’
Before Ben could utter a word, Jawahal’s silhouette transformed into a whirlwind of fire that shot across the station at prodigious speed before diving into the tunnels, leaving a garland of flames in its wake.
Ben gave one last look at the bloodstained shawl, then entered the tunnels once more, knowing that this time, whatever route he took, all the passageways would lead to the same point.
The shape of the train emerged from the shadows. Ben gazed at the endless line of carriages, all of them scarred by fire, and for a moment it was as if he was looking at the skeleton of a giant mechanical snake. As he drew closer he recognised the train he thought he’d seen passing through the walls of the orphanage a few nights before, enveloped in flames and transporting the trapped souls of hundreds of children. The train now sat immobile in the dark, and nothing seemed to indicate that his friends were inside. Yet a hunch led him to believe they were. He went past the engine and slowly walked along the row of carriages, searching for them.
Halfway along, he stopped to look back and saw that the head of the train was already lost in shadow. As he was about to resume his walk, he noticed a face pale as death staring at him from one of the windows of the nearest carriage.
He turned his head abruptly and his heart skipped a beat. A boy of about seven was watching him attentively with penetrating dark eyes. Ben took a step in his direction. The boy opened his lips and flames issued forth, setting fire to the image which then crumbled in front of Ben like a piece of dry paper. Ben felt an icy cold settle on the nape of his neck as he continued walking, ignoring the horrific murmur of voices that seemed to be coming from some hidden place within the train.