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‘Sit down,’ he said, but he could already hear Siraj heading towards the bridge.
When he opened his eyes, the boy’s skinny silhouette was plunging into the mist.
‘Damn it,’ Roshan muttered to himself, but he got up to follow his friend.
Siraj paused when he reached the end of the bridge and stared at the entrance to Jheeter’s Gate looming ahead. Roshan joined him and they both stood there, examining the building. A gust of cold air issued from the station’s tunnels carrying the stench of burnt wood and filth. The two friends tried to discern what might lie beyond the well of blackness that opened up inside the entrance.
‘It looks like the gateway to hell,’ said Roshan. ‘Let’s get out of here while we still can.’
‘It’s all in the mind,’ said Siraj. ‘Don’t forget, it’s only an abandoned station. There’s nobody there. Only us.’
‘If there isn’t anyone there, why do we have to go in?’
‘You don’t have to go in if you don’t want to,’ replied Siraj. There was no reproach in his voice.
‘Of course,’ snapped Roshan. ‘And leave you to go in alone? Forget it. Let’s go.’
The two members of the Chowbar Society entered the station, following the track that led in from the bridge towards the central platform. The darkness inside the building was much denser that it had seemed from the outside and they could only make out a few shapes in the watery grey light. Roshan and Siraj walked slowly, barely a metre apart. Their footsteps seemed to form a repetitive litany against the sighing of the breeze that echoed from somewhere deep inside the tunnels.
‘We’d better climb onto the platform,’ said Roshan.
‘No train has come through here for years – what does it matter?’
‘It matters to me, all right?’ Roshan replied. He couldn’t get out of his mind the image of a train appearing through the mouth of the tunnel and crushing them under its wheels.
Siraj muttered something unintelligible but placatory, and was about to walk back to the platform end and clamber onto it when something drifted from the tunnels towards the two boys.
‘What’s that?’ said Roshan in alarm.
‘It looks like a piece of paper,’ Siraj guessed. ‘A
bit of rubbish blown by the wind, that’s all.’
The white paper twirled along the ground and stopped by Roshan’s feet. The boy knelt down and picked it up. Siraj saw his friend’s face crumble.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. Roshan’s fear was starting to feel contagious.
Without replying his friend handed him the sheet of paper. Siraj recognised it instantly. It was the picture Michael had drawn of them by the pond, which Isobel had taken with her. Siraj gave it back, and, for the first time since they’d begun their search, he considered the very real possibility that Isobel might be in danger.
‘Isobel …’ Siraj called into the tunnels.
The echo of his voice faded into the depths of the station. He tried to concentrate on controlling his breathing, which was becoming more difficult by the moment. He waited for the echo to die away and, steadying his nerves, called again: ‘Isobel?’
A loud metallic crash resounded from some distant corner of the station. Roshan gave a start and looked around him. The wind from the tunnels now whipped at their faces and the two boys took a few steps back.
‘There’s something in there,’ whispered Siraj, pointing towards one of the tunnels. He seemed strangely calm.
Roshan stared at the black mouth of the tunnel and then he too could see it. The faraway lights of a train were approaching. He could feel the rails vibrating beneath his feet and he looked at Siraj in panic. Siraj seemed to be smiling.
‘I’m not going to be able to run as fast as you, Roshan,’ he said. ‘We both know that. Don’t wait for me. Go for help.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ cried Roshan, perfectly aware of what his friend was implying.
The train’s headlights pierced the station like a burst of lightning in a storm.
‘Run,’ Siraj ordered him. ‘Now.’
Roshan looked frantically into his friend’s eyes as he heard the thunderous roar of the engine. Siraj gave a nod. Then Roshan gathered all his strength and ran desperately towards the platform end, looking for a place where he could jump up, out of the train’s path. He ran as fast as he could, not stopping to look behind him. He was sure that if he dared to look, he would be confronted with the metal front of the engine centimetres from his face. The fifteen metres that separated him from the end of the platform seemed like a hundred and fifty, and in his panic he thought he could see the railway tracks receding before his eyes at a dizzying speed. He threw himself to the ground, rolling over the rubble, and the train sped past him only a hair’s breadth away. He heard the deafening screams of the children and felt the flames tearing at his skin for ten terrible seconds, during which he imagined that the whole structure of the station was going to collapse on top of him.
