The Liberators (13 page)

.

Chapter Twelve

Ivo, Miranda and Felix jumped on a bus on Holland Park Road, taking them eastwards in the direction of Marble Arch and Oxford Circus. Soon they were going past Lancaster Gate. Felix was twisting his hands together, twitching and jittering, Miranda was staring blankly out of the window, Ivo sat with his knees pressed close, chin down on his chest. Even for Christmas the streets were unusually thronged. There seemed to be hardly an inch of space on the pavements; people were bustling and knocking each other off into the road, where motorists crawled slowly by. A couple started an angry argument, causing the stream of pedestrians to break around them; some boys in tracksuits ran, laughing, in the opposite direction to the flow; a policeman muttered into his walkie-talkie. The bus lurched onwards, and then stopped at a traffic light for what seemed like ages. Ivo tapped his knees, Felix and Miranda fidgeted; eventually Ivo said, ‘Shall we just jump out here?' and they all scampered down, pleaded with the driver to open the doors, which he did (somewhat grumpily), and spilled out just in front of the cinema. The white bulk of Marble Arch squatted on their right.

‘Do you think we've been followed?' Miranda asked, her voice trembling a little.

Ivo nodded. ‘Almost certainly.'

He looked around at the crowds of people. A prickling sense of fear began to tickle his throat. ‘I think we should just try to get home, as soon as we can. I think that's where we're safest. Come on!' He led the way, dodging through a crowd of Spanish tourists dawdling outside the tube station. Felix dug his hands into his jacket pockets, and Miranda, shaking her head slightly, trotted after him.

There was a much louder background level of noise than usual; there were more shouts, more laughter, more buses honking. Outside Selfridges it was almost impossible to move in the crush. The three slowed down to a walk. Ivo kept a careful eye behind him, but it was impossible to tell who was an Acolyte and who wasn't. His frustration was building up. He wanted to release it all in a huge burst of rage. But he repressed the feeling. Felix put the collar of his jacket up. Miranda, perplexed, trudged just next to him.

A group of girls ran past them, shouting with glee, almost knocking Ivo over. He was getting frustrated. They weren't making much headway against the streams of shoppers. They crept down Oxford Street towards Oxford Circus. The shops were pulsing with light and music, each doorway disgorging crowds of people, massing together like ants.

Ivo hopped on to the road, checking on the others behind him. Felix was looking distinctly grumpy, thought Ivo. Distracted, Ivo almost walked straight into a lampost; he righted himself, and carried on.

‘Let's try and go up a side street,' came Miranda's voice from behind. But there was a tumultuous horde to their left; it was impossible to break through them. Ivo was swept on ahead, towards Oxford Circus, past the road they should have gone down. He was helpless; he tried to turn but couldn't. He was now separated from the others. Frightened, he scanned the crowds, but could not see either of their faces.

He was pushed on ahead, to the junction of Oxford Street and Regent Street. Traffic lights held the buses in check; they groaned like dragons. People spilled across the roads, ignoring the system, dodging in between cars, risking their lives. Ivo jumped on to the pavement and held on to the black iron barrier just next to the entrance to the tube station. The surge of bodies around him was disorientating; he closed his eyes, and tried to calm himself. The air was cold and piercing; a flurry of sleet passed over them.

He pulled out his phone and tried both Miranda and Felix's numbers; but a network busy signal came on. He saw a man walk out into the middle of the street, seemingly unaware of the commotion around him, or of the traffic. A bus was approaching, its horn sounding long and loud; the man stood still in the centre of the junction, and lifted his arms wide. He had long black hair. The sky darkened, the clouds taking on a black, wine-like tinge. The man threw his head back and let out a scream: it thrilled Ivo to the very core. Then the man threw off his overcoat. Underneath he was wearing a long fur; was he also wearing a swordbelt? Ivo couldn't quite see. Ivo held on to the cold railings as some people pushed past him. Traffic had stopped. A policeman was making his way across to the man. People paused and looked.

The man, as the policeman approached, paid no attention to him, but instead started to yell, two syllables, ‘Ee-yoh, ee-yoh,' which held in them the vibrancy of madness. There was such power in those sounds that Ivo felt his marrow burning with desire. He recognised the call of the Liberators. Ivo began, despite the cold, to sweat. He climbed up on to the railing, holding on to it as if he were drowning.

He surveyed the scene. The policeman had stopped in his tracks, and Ivo could see the look of puzzlement on his face changing, first into joy, and then into wildness; the policeman threw down his notebook, ripped off his walkie-talkie and flung it away. There was a loud smash behind Ivo, and he turned to see that somebody had thrown a brick into the window of a nearby shop; some other people joined in, kicking the hole until the whole window smashed, fragments of glass falling and clattering to the ground, and then they poured in; alarms went off, shrieking above the din, but nobody took any notice. There were more smashing sounds. Ivo felt his heart thrum; he desperately wanted to join in. But he held the Koptor and struggled to keep his mind clear.

Now the rain was black, and Ivo let a drop fall on his tongue, and it tasted like wine. A surge of people poured out of the stationary buses and there was a melee in the middle of Oxford Circus. There were Christmas hampers, and food was being thrown out to everybody; Ivo saw two women fighting over a turkey, a man stuffing himself with mince pies; brandy bottles, champagne bottles were being passed round. A thousand people, abandoning themselves, foaming and surging like the sea upon the shore, and standing in the middle was the tall man with the long black hair. His skin looked parched to Ivo, yellow and old, his eyes were green – wholly green – the green of leaves, of deep grass in summer. Ivo was reminded of the strange apparition he had seen sitting in the armchair in Lydia's studio. Julius had been downstairs . . . so this was Strawbones.

Ivo could feel the pure pleasure of release – girls running out of a clothes shop, bedecked in jewellery and new fashion, a mother, swathed in bed linen, bursting through the crowds, mouth gaping open, a boy howling like a wolf, men tearing off their ties – and now, as he watched, were there cracks in the pavement? A snake of ivy was growing out of the tarmac, and creeping its way over a bus, its green shocking against the metallic red. The black clouds above shifted, and split apart, revealing the cold blue of a winter sky, through which a pale yellow sun shot its rays. Helicopters swarmed overhead; sirens sounded; but nothing could get through to the centre.

And now the ivy was growing up everything: it turned the railings into living masses of greenery; Ivo felt it sneaking its tendrils up his body and tore them off. The rioting people were ripping up the vegetation, placing crowns of leaves upon their heads. The ivy grew with such speed that soon barely an inch of concrete, tarmac or shopfront could be seen. Ivo saw a man heading towards him, a knife in his hand; Ivo, quicker than he thought he'd be able to, leaped up on to a bin, and then scrabbled on top of a telephone box; there he stood, feet entwined amongst ivy, immune and terrified. Where were Felix and Miranda? He could see no sign of them. He wondered if this time they too were taken up by this frenzy. A rock sailed past his ear; somebody on the ground screamed. There were more screams now, of pain and fear; fights had broken out and people were ferociously scrapping over what they had looted.

Ivo saw, slowly, moving northwards up Regent Street, a phalanx of riot police, shields held out in front of them, truncheons bristling. People were trying to clamber up the telephone box now; not sure what to do, Ivo tore off the ivy to give them less purchase. He felt the phone box rocking, and held on.

Looking back to the centre of the riot, Ivo saw the man in the fur coat turn round to face the advancing riot force. He spread his arms out wide, as if to greet them, laughing; and then he vanished. One moment, he was there, the next he was not; although Ivo thought he could see a blur of movement, as of something moving very fast. The ivy receded, as suddenly as if it were water and a plug had been torn out of the bath.

The scene it revealed was devastating. The clouds rolled back across the sky. Everywhere, as far as Ivo could see, lay injured, groaning people. Smoke gushed out of windows, the constant sound of sirens pierced his eardrums, shattered glass lay everywhere.

Ambulances began to make their way in; the buses were moved on; Ivo saw people on stretchers, policemen corralling rioters. Television crews were already on the scene; a man whose ear had been bitten off was giving an interview, the sky above was buzzing with police helicopters. Someone helped Ivo down off the phone box, and, somehow, he found himself heading back to Charmsford Square.

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Chapter Thirteen

RIOT IN OXFORD CIRCUS screamed the boards of the London papers that night. Ivo had phoned Felix the moment he got reception, and found that both Felix and Miranda had fled into a shop and slipped out of the back just as the riot was beginning. Felix sounded a little upset about this. ‘I had to protect Miranda,' he said, although Ivo felt there was a deeper current there. As soon as he could, he'd gone over to the Rocksavages', and they were now sitting in Miranda's room. Felix went out to get a newspaper, and came back exclaiming, ‘The papers are flying off the stands. Everyone's rushing home. Look outside!'

They went to the window and saw, down towards the Marylebone Road, streams of people, looking neither to the right nor the left, hurrying off in the direction of tubes, buses, cars, swarming and foaming, umbrellas shooting up like hideous black mushrooms.

‘I'm hungry,' said Felix, to break the silence. His chin was tucked into his jumper. Miranda lay on her front on a rug. Ivo was curled into the corner of Miranda's sofa, feeling the plush red under his fingers.

‘Ma and Pa are out to dinner. Something's been left for us if we want it.'

‘Let's look at the article,' said Ivo, getting up and drawing the curtains, feeling a shade of anxiety creeping up his spine. They settled on the sofa, and Felix read out loud: ‘
Oxford Circus was today the scene of horrors not witnessed since the Blitz. A riot broke out in the afternoon.'
Journalists suggested that terrorist groups were involved, and connected the idea of laughing gas with the murder of Blackwood. The London Stock Exchange had taken an enormous fall that afternoon, dropping over two thousand points; the paper was illustrated with pictures of mournful bankers, phones clamped to their ears, and graphs diving downwards. A large investment bank had collapsed; many jobs were on the line. The London Mayor was called to account; the police chief besieged.

‘Julius and Strawbones. They're behind it, I know. All of this,' said Ivo, remembering the man with black hair. He had looked exactly like the man in the picture Hunter had shown them. But Ivo was sure it wasn't Julius. This smacked of Strawbones – extravagant, provocative. ‘What can we do?'

‘I don't know why you're so set on stopping them,' said Felix, mooching towards Ivo. ‘Didn't you feel the riot? It was wonderful.' His face shone. His fingers were twisting, nervously; he unzipped and zipped up his top. Miranda whacked him with the rolled up
Evening Standard
.

‘Idiot. We should do something, now,' she snapped.

‘What can we do? There's three of us. And what, like, supernatural powers have we got? None.'

‘There's this.' Ivo showed them the Koptor, sleek and dark.

Felix scoffed. ‘And we don't even know where the Thyrsos is. What good will that do for us?'

Ivo felt the hotness of anger burn in his stomach. He felt as if his brain were suddenly blocked, and he wanted to shout; but he controlled himself. ‘Felix – don't you understand? This is chaos.'

‘But what's wrong with chaos?' said Felix testily. ‘What's so good about order? Just think,' he said. ‘What kind of a world is this, anyway? Wars, famines, dictators, floods – there's a disaster every time you turn on the news. And where does it come from? Order! Without order, there's no one at the top. Without order, you haven't got dictators, you have no wars. You just have the freedom of yourself. And that,' he continued, his voice growing more urgent, ‘is electrifying.'

Ivo couldn't believe it. Was Felix being converted? He struggled to reply. ‘You're wrong!'

‘How?' said Felix, his voice nasty.

Miranda sat up suddenly, her eyes glistening with tears. ‘If you can't see that, you're no brother of mine!'

It evidently hurt Felix, for he swiftly turned around, and bent his head, placing his forehead against the wall; Ivo saw his back rising slowly up and down. He was collecting himself, thought Ivo. He'll turn around again in a minute, and be the same old Felix. The silence in the room was thick.

The sound of the front door being opened interrupted the silence. ‘Hang on – didn't you say that your parents were away?' asked Ivo.

‘Yeah, out for supper. Why?' Miranda sank back into the sofa. Felix turned around, and stood with his back angled against the wall, not looking at either of them.

Ivo motioned to them both to keep silent. They listened, intently, and there was the unmistakable sound of a door being shut. And of footsteps in the hallway.

‘Perkins!' mouthed Felix. The three glanced at each other in sudden terror. ‘In the linen cupboard!'

Miranda scuttled across the room and waved the two boys after her. She opened a nondescript-looking cupboard door. In it were slats on which piles of white and blue linen reposed innocently. Miranda crouched down and slipped under the bottom one. ‘Come on!' she whispered urgently. ‘Quick!'

The other two scurried after her, and squirmed under, Felix finding it hardest. There was about two foot of space at the back of the cupboard, which was about the width of a man's armspan. The mountains of linen, falling down, concealed them, and Miranda managed to pull the door to.

They heard rumbles and murmurs coming from downstairs, and then the feet headed upwards. The steps were pounding quickly. Perkins must have been leaping two or three at a time, and now it sounded as if there were more people coming up after him. Sharply and brutally, the bedroom door was flung open.

‘Felix!' Perkins said, in a wheedling voice. ‘Miranda! It's time for your Latin!'

The three held their breath. They could hear Perkins stamping around the room.

‘Come on, you two,' he barked. More clomping feet entered.

‘They're not here. They must be out, the little pests. Probably with that Ivo Moncrieff. It's time we did something about them. I have a feeling they know a little too much about us.'

Perkins came closer to the door, and they shrank back as they felt pressure on it. Without warning it was whipped open.

Never had Ivo been more frightened. He was so scared he closed his eyes as tightly as possible, wishing it was all a nightmare and that when he opened his eyes they would be drinking tea in a café somewhere. A shiver of cold, liquid terror washed over his body, his dry lips chafed, his heart beat slowly, one, two, three . . . and the cupboard door closed again. They were well hidden by the blankets.

‘Yes . . . those irritating mites must be got rid of.
Eliminated
.' They heard him pacing up and down, the floorboards protesting, and they heard the sound of chairs being knocked over, and the mattress on the bed being pushed away. ‘They're getting too close.'

There was another pause, during which Ivo was sure that if he even so much as opened his eyes he'd give away their hiding place. ‘We'll come back later, when they're in bed. And then . . . well, you know the drill.' The way he said ‘drill' drove right through Ivo's brain like a sliver of glass. ‘Right. Let's go.'

Clomp clomp clomp
. . . the heavy boots of the Acolytes went out first, followed by Perkins' lighter steps, and the door to the bedroom closed. Felix immediately made to move, but Ivo restrained him; he waited, counting to a full sixty seconds, until they heard the front door slam shut, before signalling that they could go out. Felix kicked open the door with relief and they all tumbled out.

They spoke in hurried undertones.

‘We have to go after them,' said Ivo. ‘We have to now. We'll follow them, we'll find out what to do, we'll find their weak points, we'll do it.'

‘No,
we'll
follow them,' repeated Miranda, her voice, though a little shaky, full of conviction. ‘You've got the Koptor. You've got to keep it safe. You go home. There's a back way out, a fire escape that takes you into the area, go out there and you'll be in Charmsford Square.'

It was true, thought Ivo. If he was caught by Perkins now, then it would be all over. He had to keep the Koptor safe until he knew what to do. ‘It's dangerous out there!' Ivo said, worried. ‘You should stay here!'

‘What, and risk being a sitting duck for Perkins when he comes back up? No thanks. I'd rather die fighting than in my sleep,' Miranda said.

Slightly more muted, Felix said, ‘Yeah, me too.'

Ivo felt a surge of admiration for his two friends, as they stood in front of him, surrounded by the chaos of their upturned lives, but strong and firm, with the blaze of battle burning within them. He glanced thankfully at them. ‘OK. But keep in touch. Don't do anything stupid. Stay out of sight. Where will you sleep?'

‘We'll think of something,' said Miranda, and kissed him on the cheek. ‘See you tomorrow.'

Ivo crept out into the corridor, and, first checking to see if there was anyone around, carefully opened the window that led on to the iron fire escape. Worried that it would make a lot of noise, he was pleased when he found that if he trod lightly it made no sound at all; he tripped down it as lightly as a squirrel down a tree, and shot across Charmsford Square to the Moncrieffs' house.

After Ivo had gone, Felix turned to look at his sister.

‘Are you ready?' he said.

Without pausing, and without speaking, Miranda nodded. A grim kind of certainty had gripped them. Felix opened the door to Miranda's room, and they stepped out on to the landing. Down below in the stairwell he could see the faint blue glow that came from the fish tank. There was no sign of anyone. He turned and beckoned to his sister. The siblings smiled at each other, a smile of love and apprehension, of understanding and fear. Felix was excited; the knowledge that Perkins could be involved with something as dangerous as the Liberators had almost given him a touch of glamour. Miranda too was filled with a strange kind of emotion, almost glee, that thrummed and bounced within her, as boiling and bright as the rays of the sun. They crept out and down the stairs. ‘How can we find him?' asked Miranda.

‘We'll try the alleyway.'

They ran down the stairs into the hallway. Their faces looked strange in the blue light, unreal and ghostly. Miranda stepped forwards and reached for the door. ‘How far do you think they've gone?'

Felix didn't reply. Miranda lowered her arm slowly. ‘Felix?' she said. ‘How far do you think they've gone?'

‘Not far at all,' said a voice, and Miranda turned round to see Perkins holding her brother by the neck. Perkins, standing tall and full of rage. He gleamed, and opened his mouth wide, but Felix wrestled free from his grip; Miranda wrenched open the door, and they ran outside, banging it shut. They ran fast, heading by instinct towards the bright lights and cars of the Marylebone Road; Perkins came behind them, two Acolytes with him.

‘You! Come back here!' he shouted.

Perhaps it would have been more sensible to go to him, to say that they had no idea what was going on, but it was too late, and Perkins' enraged, maniacal face was enough to send them bolting.

‘Maybe we can lose him over the road,' Felix shouted to Miranda breathlessly, as they reached the wide expanse of the Marylebone Road. The lights were on green and the traffic was fast. Miranda and Felix teetered on the edge of the kerb. Perkins and the Acolytes were fast approaching. A lorry zoomed past them. Miranda stepped into the road, but Felix pulled her back.

‘Now!' said Miranda, seeing a space in the cars. ‘Let's go! Now!' She sprinted across, darting between the cars; one honked at her; she made it across to the island and looked back. Felix was dithering – the traffic had speeded up. The Acolytes were a few metres away from him, and closing in.

‘Come on! Move!' shouted Miranda.

Felix judged the cars, and their speed, and jumped off the kerb; then he let out a yell, and Miranda saw Perkins catching him by the back of his jacket.

‘Go!' shouted Felix. Without looking back, Miranda went. She ran and ran through the streets of Marylebone; but the Acolytes were behind her; lost and confused, she fell and scraped her knee. Lying there, on her front, she allowed herself a second of rest, as the tears sprang unheeded to her eyes.

‘Get up,' she said to herself, ‘get up.' She managed to force herself, and, hobbling, almost toppling over, shrill animal noises coming from her mouth, she ran on again, ignoring her bleeding knee, her torn jumper, her broken bracelet, which shed pieces as she sprinted, wildly, blindly, as quickly as she could, as far away as she could, until she found a main road. The dirty London buildings, shops lit with Christmas lights, glowered down on either side. Repelled, she turned back and went down a side street.

‘Are you OK?' It was an old man, concerned; she shook him off, and walked further, until the bustle of people absorbed her in its anonymity.

What could she do? She had lost her brother. Perhaps even now they were murdering him, ripping him apart, sacrificing him in some strange and dreadful ritual, to that creature, that monster. She felt as if a wedge had been driven into her brain and somebody was splitting it in half. She needed Felix, as he needed her. She saw ahead of her a large building looming, and recognised it as the Wallace Collection; she sat – almost collapsed – on the pavement in front of it, feeling the rough cold stone beneath her. Her foot was in a puddle but she didn't notice.