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‘So you were here the night of the fire?’
The beggar drew aside the rags draped over his body and Seth stared in horror at the purple scars covering his chest and neck.
‘Maybe you could help me,’ continued Seth. ‘Two friends of mine are in danger. Do you remember a prisoner called Jawahal?’
The beggar closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.
‘None of us called each other by our real names,’ he explained. ‘Our name, like our freedom, was something we left by the entrance when we came here. We hoped that if we managed to keep our name separate from the horror of this place, we might be able to recover it when we left, clean and untouched by memories. It didn’t turn out that way of course …’
‘The man I’m referring to was convicted of murder,’ Seth replied. ‘He was young. He was the one who started the fire that destroyed the prison and then escaped.’
The beggar stared at him in surprise.
‘The one who started the fire? The fire started in the boiler room. An oil valve exploded. I was outside my cell, doing my work shift. That was what saved me.’
‘But he set it all up,’ Seth insisted. ‘And now he’s trying to kill my friends.’
The beggar tilted his head to one side but then nodded.
‘That may be so, son. But what does it matter any more? I wouldn’t worry about your friends. There’s not much this man, Jawahal, can do to them now.’
Seth frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’
The beggar laughed.
‘The night of the fire I was even younger than you are now. In fact, I was the youngest in the prison. This man, whoever he was, must be well over a hundred by now.’
Seth rubbed his temples, totally confused.
‘Just a moment,’ he said. ‘Didn’t the prison burn down in 1916?’
‘1916?’ The beggar laughed again. ‘Dear boy, what are you going on about? Curzon Fort burnt down in the early hours of 26 April 1857. Seventy-five years ago.’
Seth stared open-mouthed at the beggar, who was studying him with curiosity and some concern at his evident dismay.
‘What’s your name?’ the man asked.
‘Seth, sir,’ replied the boy, whose face had gone pale.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help you, Seth.’
‘You have,’ replied Seth. ‘Now how can I help you?’
The beggar’s eyes shone and he smiled bitterly.
‘Can you make time go backwards, Seth?’ The beggar stared at the palms of his hands.
Seth shook his head.
‘Then you can’t help me … Go back to your friends, Seth. But don’t forget me.’
‘I won’t, sir.’
MICHAEL STOPPED BY THE entrance to the street that led to Aryami Bose’s house and stared in shock at the smoking ruins of what had once been the old lady’s home. People had drifted in from the streets and were standing in the courtyard, watching in silence as the police searched the debris and questioned the neighbours. Michael hurried over and pushed through the circle of onlookers. A police officer stopped him.
‘I’m sorry, lad. You can’t come through.’
Michael looked over the policeman’s shoulder and saw two of the man’s colleagues lifting a fallen beam that was still glowing.
