The Midnight Palace - Carlos Ruiz Zafon [71]
‘Ian, come and see this,’ he called.
Ian walked over and knelt down beside his friend. Seth showed him his fingers, which were covered in a glutinous substance. Ian dampened the tip of his forefinger and rubbed it against his thumb, checking the consistency, then sniffed at it.
‘It’s blood,’ the aspiring doctor concluded.
Seth went pale and wiped his fingers on his trouser leg.
‘Isobel?’ he asked, drawing away from the liquid and trying to stem the nausea rising from the pit of his stomach.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Ian. ‘It’s recent, or at least it appears to be.’
He stood up and looked to each side of the wide dark stain.
‘There aren’t any marks around it. Or footprints,’ he murmured.
Seth stared at him, not grasping the full significance of Ian’s remark.
‘Whoever lost all this blood couldn’t have gone far without leaving a trail,’ Ian explained. ‘Even if the person was being dragged. It makes no sense.’
Seth considered Ian’s theory and walked around the spilt blood, checking that there were no footprints or other tracks within a radius of several metres. The two friends exchanged puzzled looks. All of a sudden Seth noticed a shadow of uncertainty in Ian’s eyes and he instantly understood what his friend was thinking. Slowly they both raised their heads and looked up at the vaulted ceiling that rose high above them in the dark.
As they scanned the shadows of the enormous dome their eyes paused on a large glass chandelier hanging from its centre. From one of its branches, tied to a white rope and wrapped in a glittering shawl, was a body, swaying gently over the void.
‘Is that a dead body?’ Seth asked timidly.
His eyes fixated on the gruesome discovery, Ian shrugged his shoulders.
‘Shouldn’t we let the others know?’
‘As soon as we discover who it is,’ replied Ian. ‘If the blood is coming from the body, and everything seems to indicate that it is, the person might still be alive. Let’s take it down.’
Seth closed his eyes. He’d been expecting something like this ever since they’d crossed the bridge, but knowing that his instinct had been correct only increased the nausea building in his throat. The boy took a deep breath and decided not to wait any longer.
‘Fine,’ he agreed, his tone resigned. ‘How?’
Ian examined the upper reaches of the hall and noticed a metal walkway running around it, about fifteen metres above the ground. From this a narrow gangway connected to the glass chandelier – just a small footbridge, probably intended for the maintenance and cleaning of the structure.
‘We’ll go up there and take the person down,’ Ian explained.
‘One of us should wait here, to attend to their wounds,’ Seth said. ‘I think it should be you.’
Ian studied his friend carefully.
‘Are you sure you want to go up there alone?’
‘I’m dying to do it …’ replied Seth. ‘Wait here. And don’t move.’
Ian watched his friend approach the staircase that led to the upper levels of Jheeter’s Gate. As soon as the shadows had engulfed him and the sound of his footsteps had grown fainter, he scanned the surrounding darkness.
Gusts of wind from the tunnels whistled in his ears and sent fragments of debris tumbling across the ground. Ian looked up again and tried in vain to recognise the figure hanging in the air. He couldn’t bear the thought that it might be Isobel, Siraj or Sheere … Suddenly a fleeting reflection seemed to appear on the surface of the puddle at his feet, but when Ian looked down, there was nothing.
JAWAHAL DRAGGED SHEERE THROUGH the corridor of the stationary train until he reached the front car, which preceded the engine. An intense orange light shone through the cracks in the heavy door, and Sheere could hear the furious sound of a boiler raging inside. She felt the temperature rise steeply around her and all her pores opened at the touch of the scorching air.
‘What’s in there?’ she asked in alarm.
Jawahal closed his fingers