The Midnight Palace - Страница 3

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The adrenalin coursing through his veins had eased the pain in his knee until it was just a dull, distant throb. Surprised at how calm he felt, Peake smiled again and remained motionless in his hiding place. He watched the slow advance of the three men through the passage until his executioners came to a halt about ten metres away. One of the men lifted a hand to stop the others and pointed at some stains on the ground. Peake raised his weapon to his chest, cocked the hammer, and took aim.

At a new signal, the three men separated. Two of them went sideways while the third made straight for the pile of crates, and Peake. The lieutenant counted to five, then suddenly pushed the column of boxes forward. The crates crashed down on top of his attacker while Peake ran towards the opening through which they had entered the warehouse.

One of the killers surprised him at a junction in the corridor, wielding his knife close to the lieutenant’s face. But before the thug could even blink, the barrel of Peake’s revolver was thrust under his chin.

‘Drop the knife,’ spat the lieutenant.

Seeing the ice in the lieutenant’s eyes, the man did as he was told. Peake grabbed him by his hair and, without removing his weapon, turned to the assassin’s allies, shielding his body with that of his hostage. The other two thugs moved menacingly towards Peake.

‘Lieutenant, spare us the drama and hand over what we’re looking for,’ a familiar voice murmured behind him. ‘These are honest men. With families.’

Peake turned to see the hooded man leering at him in the dark, just a few metres from where he stood.

‘I’m going to blow this man’s head off, Jawahal,’ Peake snarled.

His hostage closed his eyes, trembling.

The hooded man crossed his arms patiently and gave out a small sigh of annoyance.

‘Do so if it pleases you, Lieutenant. But that won’t get you out of here.’

‘I’m serious,’ Peake replied.

‘Of course, Lieutenant,’ said Jawahal in a conciliatory tone. ‘Shoot if you have the courage required to kill a man in cold blood and without His Majesty’s permission. Otherwise, drop the weapon, and that way we’ll be able to reach an agreement that is satisfactory to both parties.’

The two armed henchmen were standing nearby, ready to jump on Peake at the first signal from the hooded man.

‘Very well,’ Peake said at last. ‘What do you think of this agreement?’

He pushed his hostage onto the floor and, raising his revolver, turned towards the hooded man. The first shot echoed through the warehouse. Jawahal’s gloved hand emerged from the cloud of gunpowder, his palm outstretched. Peake thought he could see the crushed bullet shining in the dark, then melting slowly into a thread of liquid metal that slid through Jawahal’s fingers like a fistful of sand.

‘Bad shot, Lieutenant. Try again, only this time come closer.’

Without giving him time to move, the hooded man leaned forward and grasped the hand with which Peake was holding his weapon. He then pulled the end of the gun towards his own face until it rested between his eyes.

‘Didn’t they teach you to do it like this at the academy?’ he whispered.

‘There was a time when we were friends,’ said Peake.

Jawahal smiled with contempt.

‘That time, Lieutenant, has passed.’

‘May God forgive me,’ muttered Peake, pulling the trigger again.

In an instant that seemed endless, Peake watched as the bullet pierced Jawahal’s skull, tearing the hood off his head. For a few seconds light passed through the wound but gradually the smoking hole closed in on itself. Peake felt the revolver slipping from his fingers.

The blazing eyes of his opponent fixed themselves on his and a long black tongue flicked across the man’s lips.

‘You still don’t understand, do you, Lieutenant? Where are the babies?’

It was not a question. It was an order.

Dumb with terror, Peake shook his head.

‘As you wish.’

Jawahal squeezed Peake’s hand. The lieutenant felt the bones in his fingers being crushed under his flesh. The spasm of pain made him fall to his knees, unable to breathe.

‘Where are the babies?’ Jawahal hissed.

Peake tried to say something, but the agony spreading from the bloody stump that had been his hand paralysed his speech.

‘Are you trying to say something, Lieutenant?’ Jawahal whispered, kneeling beside him.

Peake nodded.

‘Good, good.’ His enemy smiled. ‘Frankly, I don’t find your suffering amusing. So help me put an end to it.’

‘The children are dead,’ Peake groaned.

An expression of distaste crept over Jawahal’s face.

‘You were doing so well, Lieutenant. Don’t ruin it now.’

‘They’re dead,’ Peake repeated.

Jawahal shrugged and slowly nodded his head.

‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘You leave me no choice. But before you go, let me remind you that, when Kylian’s life was in your hands, you were incapable of saving her. She died because of men like you. But those men have gone. You are the last one. The future is mine.’

Peake raised his eyes to Jawahal, and as he did so, he noticed the man’s pupils narrowing into thin slits, his golden irises blazing. With painstaking elegance, Jawahal started to remove the glove on his right hand.

‘Unfortunately you won’t live to see it,’ Jawahal added. ‘Don’t think for a second that your heroic act has served any purpose. You’re an idiot, Lieutenant Peake. You always gave me that impression, and now all you have done is confirm it. I hope there is a hell reserved especially for idiots, Peake, because that’s where I’m sending you.’

Peake closed his eyes and listened to the hiss of fire just inches from his face. Then, after a moment that seemed eternal, he felt burning fingers closing round his throat, cutting off his very last breath. In the distance he could hear the sound of that accursed train and the ghostly voices of hundreds of children howling from the flames. After that, only darkness.

One by one, Aryami Bose blew out the candles that lit up her sanctuary until only the hesitant glow of the fire remained, projecting fleeting haloes of light against the naked walls. The children were now asleep and the silence was broken only by the rain pattering against the closed shutters and the occasional crackling of the fire. Silent tears slid down Aryami’s face as she took the photograph of her daughter Kylian from the small brass and ivory box where she kept her most prized possessions.

A travelling photographer from Bombay had taken that picture some time before the wedding and hadn’t accepted any payment for it. It showed Kylian just as Aryami remembered her, with that uncanny luminosity that seemed to emanate from her. Kylian’s radiance had mesmerised all who knew her, just as it had captivated the expert eye of the photographer, who had given her the nickname by which she was still remembered: the Princess of Light.

Naturally, Kylian never became a true princess and had no kingdom other than the streets she grew up on. The day she left the Bose home to go and live with her husband, the people of Machuabazar had said farewell with tears in their eyes as they watched the white carriage carry away their Black Town princess for ever. She was scarcely more than a child at the time.

Aryami sat down next to the babies, facing the fireplace, and pressed the old photograph against her chest. Outside the storm raged on and Aryami drew on the force of its anger to help her decide what she should do next. Lieutenant Peake’s pursuer would not be content simply with killing him. The young man’s courage had earned her a few valuable minutes, which she could not waste, not even to mourn for her daughter. Experience had taught her that there would always be plenty of time to lament the errors of the past.

She put the photograph back into the box and took out a pendant she’d had made for Kylian years ago, a jewel she never had the chance to wear. It consisted of two gold circles, a sun and a moon, that fitted into one another to make a single piece. She pressed the centre of the pendant and the two parts separated. Aryami strung each half on a separate gold chain and put one round each of the babies’ necks.

As she did so, she considered the decisions she must make. There seemed to be only one way of ensuring the children’s survival: she must separate them and keep them apart, erase their past and hide their identity from the world and from themselves, however painful that might be. It was not possible for them to remain together; sooner or later they would give themselves away, and she could not take that risk. Aryami knew she had to resolve the dilemma before daybreak.

She took the babies in her arms and kissed them gently on the forehead. Their tiny hands stroked her face and fingered the tears that rolled down her cheeks. Both babies gurgled cheerfully at her, not understanding. She hugged them tight in her arms once more then placed them back in the improvised cot she had made for them.

She then lit a candle and took paper and pen. The future of her grandchildren was now in her hands. Taking a deep breath she began to write. In the background she could hear the rain easing off and the roar of the storm fading towards the north as an endless blanket of stars unfurled over Calcutta.

Having reached the age of fifty, Thomas Carter thought that the city that had been his home for the last thirty-two years had no more surprises in store for him.