The Liberators (5 page)

Ivo, wits blown away, feeling like a rabbit being shot at, turned on his heel and banged the door, and dashed up the stairs, leaping the steps three at a go. It's not real, there's nothing there, he thought. When he got to his room, he pulled the door to and turned the key in the lock; he sank, breath heaving out of him, into a corner. He had to stop seeing things. He had to take his mind off it, find the root of the problem.

There was a computer lurking in the corner of his bedroom. He went over to it and turned it on. After a couple of moments of thought, he pulled up a news website. The main story was still the tube horror of the day before; the credit crunch, Afghanistan, the embattled Prime Minister, floods and a supermodel's baby were relegated to the sidelines. There was nothing new about Blackwood, as far as he could see. He typed the name into a search engine, but when a million results came up he realised the futility of that action. He picked up a few of the stories, but they all said much the same as the one he'd read in the paper.

He pushed his chair back and flung himself on his bed. He sent a text to Felix, asking how they'd got on with Perkins. A few minutes later his phone beeped. ‘No developments,' it said.

Koptay
. . . Maybe it was from Greek. Wasn't ‘helicopter' from Greek? Was it
helios
, the sun, and
kopto
? What could
kopto
mean? He tried to remember, but couldn't.

Exhausted, Ivo extinguished the computer and, throwing off his clothes, sank into bed. Outside the roar of London, awake and frightened, ebbed and flowed; cars screeched round the square, foxes coughed, and rain spurted down; and after a long period of fluffing his pillow and rolling fruitlessly from one side of the bed to another, Ivo eventually fell asleep. Just after he did, he was briefly woken by the sound of the front door shutting, and Julius Luther-Ross left the house, climbing into a waiting car, and somebody else left the Moncrieffs' house and got into the car with Julius.

A scraping noise, insistent and low, awoke Ivo. He hovered for a second, imprisoned on the wrong side of sleep, seeing fantastical shadows around him. The noise was coming from the pile of clothes on his chair. He considered briefly whether Juniper might be trapped underneath; then he thought maybe it was his phone, on silent, vibrating quietly. Thinking it might be his parents, calling as they often did at odd times of the day, he heaved himself out of bed and lumbered heavily over to the chair.

He saw what he thought was his phone glowing inside one of his pockets. Sleepily, he put his hand into the pocket and pulled it out. But his fingers didn't find the buttons. Shaking himself a little more awake, he held the object in front of him.

It was, he saw, the black stone which Blackwood had thrust into his hands. Frightened, he dropped it as if it were hot; and then, curious, he knelt, and gingerly reached out to touch it. He grasped hold of it, feeling it cold in his hands. It gave him no shock, so he lifted it up, and held it out in front of him. Where was the light coming from? he wondered.

He moved over to where the desk was, and cleared a space, placing the object carefully on the table top. He could make out three letters on its side, glowing faintly.

.

F I N

The light that the object emitted was extremely calming; it made him feel as if everything were safe and ordered. He picked it up and examined it. It was totally blank, apart from the three letters. He pushed and prodded it a bit; it made a low mechanical noise, and a long, thin blade extended from its end. Though he was taken aback, it seemed entirely right that a blade should come out of it in this way. Experimentally, he swung the blade around, as if it were a sparkler, and its glowing tip left a trail in the air. He wrote his name in light, and watched it vanish; and then he wrote the three letters on the side of the object.

In a crisp, clear way he realised that this was a message. Blackwood. Fin. He wondered what it could mean. He sat, suspended, for a moment, feeling so peaceful and at ease that he almost didn't want to move back to bed; but then the object stopped glowing, and the blade retracted; and Ivo was left, standing in his boxer shorts in the middle of his bedroom. He sat thoughtfully on the end of his bed, before climbing back under the duvet; he held the object to his chest, and then stayed, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling as outside cars growled and the rain battered his window.

.

Chapter Five

Jago threw down his newspaper on to the breakfast table. ‘I told you so,' he said abruptly to Ivo, who was drowsily eating a piece of toast. Jago put his hands behind his head and stretched. Ivo looked at the newspaper, which told him it was a Monday morning. The basement kitchen was warm, and Ivo was huddled in his dressing gown. He'd spent all of Sunday in a kind of trance, pootling around his room, watching films, and resting, and he still didn't feel quite right. He hadn't spoken to Felix or Miranda, or received any communication from them, and he desperately wanted to see them.

‘
Apocalypse now!
' said the headline.

‘A little over-dramatic,' said Jago, ‘but quite close to the mark. The economy is in serious trouble. There'll be worse headlines soon, you can bet.' He sounded, to Ivo, almost pleased, as if he were relishing the situation. ‘Well,' he said, ‘you know sometimes I wonder what the point of it all is.' He stood up, immaculate in his suit, his hair slicked back, only the bags under his eyes hinting at any stress he might be under. He patted Ivo on the shoulder. ‘See you soon, old thing, OK?' he said, and left the room.

Ivo nodded and took the newspaper. He scanned it for new information about Blackwood's death, but the credit crunch had forced the murder into the obscurity of the middle pages now, and there was only one small notice about it, which said that as yet nobody had been arrested or charged. Interestingly, it also said that the people who'd been in the carriage itself had all experienced some kind of amnesia. Ivo cast aside the newspaper, and continued to eat his toast.

Lydia came wafting into the kitchen at this point, followed by Christine. Christine had worked for Lydia and Jago for ten years, and was very thin and wore very long dresses of varying shades from purple to green. She lived in the basement flat, into which nobody was allowed, and from this sanctuary directed the households of the Moncrieffs in London and in the country. She cooked beautifully and always wore a black apron over her dresses (which never looked like the sort of dress that had been made to cook in).
‘Yes, dear Christine, I think stew for lunch will be marvellous, that's a wonderful idea, of course we will have Strawbones with us then.'

‘Well, you've got him now,' came a voice, and a man walked into the room. He was about six foot one, Ivo noticed, and he had the longest, blondest hair that he had ever seen on a man. It was glossy and shook and shimmered as he moved. He was very slim, and moved in a boneless way, his limbs seeming almost to be made of putty. His smile was radiant, lighting up his clear blue eyes, his red lips curving back to reveal rows of white teeth, with two elongated canines. He was wearing a dark blue shirt, faded jeans and a thick black overcoat.

‘Darling,' said Lydia, kissing him absently on both cheeks, ‘I am glad you've come early. I feel we're getting to a very important stage with the painting. Now, where are we, yes, this is my nephew Ivo, who's staying with us for the holidays.' Strawbones moved first to Christine, taking her hand and kissing it in a remarkably old-fashioned manner, and then he turned to Ivo and, straightening, held out his hand. Ivo stood up, holding his toast, and muttered through a mouthful, ‘Hello.' He dropped crumbs on to his dressing gown and brushed them off, embarrassed.

Strawbones fixed him with his blue eyes and smiled. ‘How lovely to meet you,' he said. ‘I've heard a lot about you.'

‘Have you?' said Ivo, surprised. He couldn't imagine Lydia talking about him to anyone.

‘Of course! Your uncle and aunt have told me all about you, and about your family. They're away, aren't they, in Mongolia?' Ivo nodded and rubbed his eyes. He remained standing, and Strawbones, with fluid grace, motioned to him to sit down, and then, when Ivo had settled himself, sat in a chair opposite him. Christine and Lydia murmurmed together. Ivo poured Strawbones some tea from the large yellow teapot, and Strawbones inclined his head in thanks, making a gesture of mock servility, which made Ivo laugh. He couldn't tell how old he was – he could be sixteen, he could be twenty-five.

Lydia came over. ‘Now, Strawbones, darling, I have to go up and phone your brother about the menus. Will you give me a few minutes and then come up to the studio?'

‘Of course, Lydia, of course,' said Strawbones, smiling. ‘I'll keep Ivo company, if he doesn't mind?'

‘No, not at all,' said Ivo. Strawbones settled into his chair, and picked up his mug, sipping quietly at it. ‘So how are you finding London?'

‘Oh – good, I suppose,' said Ivo, unable to keep his disappointment out of his voice.

‘Not been having much fun, then?' Strawbones looked at him sympathetically.

‘Well – I haven't been here very long, and I guess . . .' He stopped, unsure what to say.

‘Jago tells me you had a pretty nasty time on the tube?' His voice was low, empathetic, inviting confidence. Ivo nodded.

‘Yeah,' he replied. ‘It was
nasty
. I saw . . .' He looked at Strawbones, and then looked away. ‘I saw . . . that man's hand. They'd torn it off. I mean, who would
do
something like that?' He looked up into Strawbones's eyes; he was looking at him evenly, with an expression of quiet sadness.

‘Look, Ivo,' said Strawbones, ‘you've had a tough time. But hey – what do you say that I take you out? Lydia said you might need someone to show you round a bit. We can go and see a film, get some food or something. Might take your mind off things.'

Ivo looked up at him. ‘Yeah,' he said. ‘That would be great.'

Strawbones looked up at the kitchen clock. ‘I think it's time for me to go up there,' he said, pointing to the stairs. ‘See you later, OK?' Ivo nodded.

Standing up, Strawbones stretched, and emitted a groan which was half-yawn, half-cry; and Ivo was sure he saw, poking out of Strawbones's coat pocket, the head of a snake. It peeked out just a little, hissed, and flickered its forked tongue; Ivo was about to say something, but Strawbones turned and left. What's happening to me? thought Ivo. Now I'm imagining snakes. He shook his head violently, and drained the last of his drink, plonking the mug down with a bang that caused Christine to turn and look at him.

‘How goes it, my little one?' she asked, and Ivo shrugged. Christine's English was almost faultless, and it was only occasionally that she made a mistake; she did however sometimes sound like a schoolbook. He got up from the table, pulled his dressing gown around him, thanked Christine for breakfast, and pottered slowly upstairs. He'd arranged to meet Felix and Miranda at eleven o'clock. He reached his room and got dressed, trying to shut out the image of the snake in Strawbones's pocket, then checked his emails to see if there was anything from his parents (there was – a shortish note telling him about their latest camp); there were a couple of messages from his schoolfriends, which he replied to, and then he called up a search engine, and tapped in the word ‘Koptor'. No useful leads appeared. He tried ‘FIN', and various combinations of both, together with Blackwood's name, but each time, frustratingly, he came up with nothing. He spent the next couple of hours listlessly playing a computer game, and then at ten to eleven he bounded down the stairs to go to Miranda and Felix's house.

He crossed the square, and rang on the doorbell, which was answered, Ivo found with a shock, by Perkins, grim-faced and wearing a black woolly jumper, who glared at him. Ivo was unable to say anything.

‘Ivo Moncrieff?'

Ivo nodded, once, avoiding contact with his eyes. ‘They're expecting you. Go on. They've got half an hour's break. You can talk to them for that long, then you're out.'

Perkins motioned Ivo through the hall, with its vast blue aquarium, and Ivo ran up the stairs to the first floor, where there was a small sitting room, in which Miranda and Felix now reclined, bickering quietly.

‘Hey,' Miranda said when Ivo came in, and got up and gave him a hug. Felix acknowledged him with a swift nod. ‘We've talked about it,' said Miranda softly, ‘and Felix agrees with me now. He says that you were right to stop us. Isn't that right, Felix?' she said, turning to her brother, and Felix, looking away from Ivo, said, ‘Yes, that's right.'

Ivo told them, as briefly and succinctly as he could, about what had happened to him on Saturday night in his bedroom.

‘Fin? Like a fish?' Miranda slurped her tea, jingling an armful of bracelets.

‘Or like “the end” in French?' Felix crossed one long, lazy, bony leg over the other. ‘Or is it just a name? Some people are called Fin, aren't they? Or could it be, like, someone from Finland?'

‘You're SO helpful,' said Miranda. ‘That's F-I-N-N, anyway, bonehead.'

‘I don't know. It could be any of them. Or all of them.' Ivo was leaning his head on his hand, his arms in front of him, moodily staring. He had placed the object on the table, and it lay there, the others too wary to touch it. Ivo picked it up, fingered it, and slid it back into his pocket, feeling its weight.

‘It's a message. I don't know why, but Blackwood chose me to get this message. I think he must have been assassinated, and he wanted me to look after this. The people who killed him must have wanted this. So we have to guard it.' Ivo said this slowly. He had been thinking a lot, the thoughts sloshing around his mind like eddies in a river. ‘But I don't know what the next step is. How do we find out anything about Blackwood? He was so strange, I almost think he didn't exist . . .'

Miranda and Felix looked at each other, Miranda with her eyebrows half-raised, Felix with a sort of smirk on his mouth.

‘Well, Felix has actually done something useful with his life for once,' said Miranda, elbowing her brother.

Felix ignored her and calmly patted his pockets, eventually fishing out a piece of paper. He passed it over to Ivo without a word. It was an address.

.

.

‘Blackwood's address? Where did you get this?'

Felix looked into the corner of the room. ‘Well . . .' he said carefully, ‘let's just say that it's on a need to know basis.'

Miranda made a face. ‘He hacked into Daddy's computer. He's got access to loads of records in the government and stuff. Flixter, of course, knows how to get into them – much better than poor old Daddy.'

‘It's in between the King's Road and the Fulham Road. I looked it up in the
A–Z
.'

‘Felix! What a legend! Thanks! How can I pay you back?' Ivo exclaimed, almost jumping up out of his seat.

‘Ah, don't worry about it,' said Felix. ‘So what do you say? Shall we go and take a look? Might find something interesting there.' He wiggled his hands in a spooky way and Miranda threw a cushion at him.

‘Yeah, definitely!' said Ivo. They spent the rest of the break chatting until the door banged open, without any ceremony, and Perkins marched in.

‘Right, you two,' he said, picking up Felix by the scruff of his jacket, ‘let's go. Time for some Maths. Hurray! You,' he said, turning to Ivo, ‘clear off.' He pulled Felix, protesting, out of the room, and Miranda, apologising to Ivo, followed.

‘I'll text you later,' she said, and left Ivo on his own.

Coming downstairs, he paused to look at the fish swimming in their blue prison, so brightly coloured, little flashes of fire in the coldness.

‘They're beautiful, aren't they?' said a voice, and Ivo turned to see a rather haughty-looking woman, dressed in a cream suit.

‘Oh . . . yes, lovely,' said Ivo. ‘Er . . . I'm Ivo Moncrieff.'

‘Jago's nephew? Yes, I know, you're staying with them this Christmas, aren't you? I suppose you've met my wild children?'

Ivo was a little flustered. ‘Well . . . yes, I suppose so . . .'

She laughed quietly and said, ‘I'm Olivia. Now you couldn't do me a favour, could you, and tell Lydia we're coming to her party, and that I'm dying to meet this Julius? Thank you,' she said, moving to the door and opening it, ‘I'm sure I'll see more of you,' and Ivo, not quite knowing what had happened, found himself on the doorstep, the door closing firmly behind him.