The Midnight Palace - Carlos Ruiz Zafon [77]
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.’
‘Would you reply if I asked you?’ said Ben, standing motionless