The Midnight Palace - Carlos Ruiz Zafon [76]
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