The Liberators (8 page)

His words were loud now, echoing in Ivo's skull, battling for possession of his brain, some repeating themselves, some fading.
Left over from the days of the gods
. . . Ivo was feeling dizzy. Strawbones's outline was blurred, now it looked as if he were growing, expanding, until that alabaster face was larger than a giant's, and the whole room curved around him. And then his voice drifted off, and immediately, almost shockingly, Strawbones was sitting there, thin and nervy, dangling his glass between his fingers.

‘And what happened to them?' said Ivo slowly, as if in a dream.

Strawbones was silent for ten, maybe fifteen seconds. Then he leaned forwards, grinned, and said, ‘
They lived happily ever after
.'

The rest of the meal was in silence.

When they had finished, Strawbones said, ‘Shall we go and look at my portrait?'

‘Do you think Lydia will mind?' replied Ivo, struggling to say something normal.

‘Oh,
she
won't mind,' said Strawbones, and leaped off his chair as if he were a deer, and scampered out of the room, with Ivo trailing behind him.

‘Oh wait,' said Ivo. ‘I was meant to feed the cat.' He went to the French window, which led into a small garden, in which was a little stone fountain surrounded by grumpy looking statues of nymphs. The only things that inhabited the garden were rats and a noisy dog fox.

‘Puss!' he shouted. ‘Here, puss! Where are you? Juniper!'

Strawbones came and stood by him and joined in with his shouts. They searched round the garden, but could find no sign of her.

‘I saw her going up the road earlier. God knows where she's got to,' said Ivo.

‘I'm sure she'll return. They always do,' said Strawbones.

Lydia's studio was empty of Lydia – she had gone to consult with Julius about the party. Long, low and open to the world, it was full of washy light. Spatterings of drizzle on the windows made a not unpleasant sound. There were relatively few paintings hung here – some abstract ones of which Lydia was particularly proud, which she enjoyed having around her.

The easel was set up near the door, and there was a stool perched in front of it; behind the easel was the chair, draped in cloth, in which Strawbones sat for the portrait. Ivo didn't expect to see anything in it, he'd managed to banish the hallucinations from his mind, and he was feeling brave with Strawbones and the wine.

‘Do you know much about art?' said Strawbones softly.

Ivo didn't, and said so.

‘I don't either, although I have seen a lot of it. So many paintings, so many . . . I wonder what it is that they all want to say – what do
you
think the point of it is?'

He went towards the easel. ‘I mean, come and look at this. This is Lydia's portrait of me. She's been doing it for, I don't know, a week now. Come, look.'

His voice was low and hypnotic, and warm, and
Ivo drifted over to where he was standing, his body shielding the painting from him.

‘I mean, is a portrait meant to capture one's
essence
?'

‘I think so,' said Ivo. ‘Isn't it meant to show your personality? Painters are meant to see your soul, aren't they?'

‘They are . . . so what, Ivo, do you make of this?'

Strawbones stood aside and revealed what stood on the easel.

A mass of colour, light and shade, all swirling together; the strokes seemed to be shifting, vying for dominance. Ivo squinted at it, but he could not make out a figure.

‘I can't . . . I can't see you,' said Ivo.

‘Try harder,' whispered Strawbones.

Ivo moved nearer. The colours of the painting were clashing together, they seemed to move as he looked at them – and yes, he could see a figure, although it changed: now it was a man, with bloody hands and black hair; now it was a deer, rushing through forests wild with fire; now it was a youth, throwing stones into a savage sea.

What am I seeing? thought Ivo, as he came closer to the painting.

‘You can see,' whispered Strawbones, and Ivo was aware of menace clawing down his side, his senses were suddenly as keen as a hound's on the trail when it finds blood. The weft and warp of the world had been pulled tight and something was about to break; somebody was whispering madness into his ear, madness that was sweet, knowable, enticing.

‘Ivo. Ivo?' came a voice from downstairs, and Ivo turned round, pale. He was alone in the room and Strawbones was nowhere to be seen.

‘Ivo! Come down here. I want you to come here, now.' Lydia's voice sounded terrible, a biting edge of authority in it which made Ivo rush downstairs.

‘What is it, Aunt Lydia?' he said when he'd reached the hall.

‘Look.' Lydia's stern face puzzled Ivo. The front door was open, and Christine was hanging out of it. It sounded as though she was sobbing.

‘
Mon dieu
,' she was saying.
‘Mon dieu
.
C'est un diable
. . .'

‘Do you know anything about this?' asked Lydia. She wasn't accusing, but puzzled. Ivo looked at his aunt, and shrugged. Tenderly, Lydia pulled Christine aside, revealing what she had been weeping over.

There, lying on the front doorstep, was Juniper, the cat, and somebody had taken a knife to her, and slit her from end to end. And not content with this, where her tail had been there was nothing but a raw, bloody stump.

.

Chapter Seven

Ivo padded down the stairs later that afternoon, still reeling with shock from seeing Juniper dead. No one in the house had seen or heard anything. Two policemen came to take statements, but left without anything useful to say. Christine had been given the rest of the day off and was recuperating in her flat.

Ivo passed the drawing room, and paused to look in at the painting of Bacchus and Ariadne. He was about to enter, when he saw Strawbones, sitting on top of the piano. He'd swept away everything that was on top of it. Ivo nearly said something, but Strawbones was staring straight up at the ceiling, mouthing something; so, without disturbing him, and greatly puzzled, Ivo went out of the room. He had arranged to meet Felix and Miranda at the bus stop, as Perkins was having one of his afternoons off and so they were free. Felix was wearing a black jacket, which fitted him very smartly; he dug his hands into the pockets and had put his collar up, in what he thought was an extremely cool way. Miranda was huddled up in a fleece. She blew some strands of hair away from her face as Ivo came up, and grinned at him; Felix nodded curtly. Ivo told them about Strawbones sitting on the piano, and about the cat, and then the bus came.

They found seats on the top deck, right at the front. Ivo loved the crazy feeling that you were floating high above the busy streets, and everybody below looking so small, and the shops and houses looking unreal. Despite the weather, and the general mood of financial gloom, Oxford Street was pulsing with crowds, all bent on buying. Buses snarled up the street, letting out hoots and honks as they filled up with passengers and dodged pedestrians.

The journey didn't take long, down Park Lane and round Hyde Park Corner, and along Sloane Street on to the King's Road. They jumped off the bus quite far down the King's Road, and walked on a bit further; soon they were standing at the end of the mews where Blackwood had lived. It was a tiny road, hidden in between a jeweller's shop and an expensive restaurant. The houses were very small, but well cared for, window boxes enlivening the facades.

Number 17 was squat and painted an incongruous peach colour. The doorknocker was shaped like a heraldic fish, a spiky dorsal fin sticking out of it.

‘Well, there's your fin,' said Felix.

‘Should we knock?' asked Miranda.

‘Why? No one's there. Blackwood's dead, remember.'

‘Shh,' said Ivo. ‘So how do we get in?'

But Miranda had already pushed in front of him. ‘Come on, Flixter,' she said commandingly. ‘Show him the goods.'

‘Right.' Felix rubbed his hands together and blew sharply on them. ‘Card please.'

Miranda dug into her pockets and pulled out a cash card. Felix, looking from right to left, went casually up to the door, and jammed the card into the gap between the lock and the wall. He fiddled for a few seconds, and then appeared to be satisfied. ‘Gentlemen,' he said, and pushed at the door.

To Ivo's surprise it opened. He turned to Miranda. ‘Where did he . . .'

Miranda shrugged. ‘Don't ask. Too much time on our hands.'

‘In quick, guys,' said Felix, and they followed him. Felix pulled the door to behind them.

The entrance hall was narrow and crammed with objects, all of which were disappointingly ordinary. A telephone table was piled high with books. A flight of stairs led straight up to what must be a bedroom, whilst a cramped passageway led into a room which served as kitchen, sitting room and dining room.

It was oddly baronial, with panelled walls and a large fireplace. The mantelpiece was marble, and the pillars holding it up were fluted, carved with intricate fish. A large oak table stood in the centre. The room was ridiculously messy – a chaos of ashtrays in which cigarette butts and olive stones jostled for space, fragments of quails' eggs, candles long burned down to the end, photographs scattered aimlessly, as if Blackwood had had no real interest in them, jumpers cast across sofas, a bike helmet on a hatstand, a toothbrush on a bookshelf, every kind of book imaginable, in every kind of language, and the papers – piles, reams, acres, of papers, all towering and spilling from box files, arch files, folders and filing cabinets.

‘Sheesh,' said Felix. ‘Where do we start?' He put both hands on top of his head, revealing his skinny wrists, and kicked at a pile. It tottered for a second, and then slid over. The movement caused a minor avalanche; the three of them watched, helpless, as stack after stack fell. Clouds of dust poured up.

‘What?' said Felix, in response to baleful glares from Ivo and Miranda.

‘There must be something here, some clue somewhere, that explains why Blackwood was killed,' Ivo said, prodding a collapsed stack with his toe. Nothing happened. ‘OK,' he said, sighing, ‘we'll do this systematically.' They split the room up into thirds and began searching.

Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes went by. Felix began to grow restless. He flung down a file. ‘I give up,' he said, stretching his long body and giving an almighty yawn. ‘There's nothing here, and if there is we'll never find it. It's a mare's nest. A wild goose chase.'

‘Don't be like that,' said Miranda, and they began to bicker.

Ivo looked up. ‘You don't have to help me if you don't want to,' he said, somewhat snappily, and then regretted it, and then they all started arguing.

‘Look,' said Felix, ‘I know it's important to you but I'm not going to spend my free time trawling through papers. I don't even know what I'm looking for. I want to go to the cinema. I want to go swimming. I want to hang out. I want to play on my PS2. I want to do
loads
of things. I mean really. What do you think, we really believe you, that some weird object told you to come here? FIN!' He went to the mantelpiece. ‘Or did you expect something else? Did you think you'd push one of these and then something would happen?' He pushed and pulled at the fish on the mantelpiece, angrily. ‘See. Nothing.'

‘Well, it was your stupid idea anyway,' Ivo snapped back.

Silence enveloped the room, and Ivo felt the hugeness of the exercise bearing down on him. Maybe Felix was right – there was no point. Whatever mystery Blackwood had entrusted him with would have to remain that. There was no way he could find out. He put down the folder he was looking at. He would never uncover what had caused his death, never put a stop to the dreams that haunted him.

‘You're right,' he said quietly. ‘It's no use. Let's go.' He got up without looking at Felix.

‘Oh Ivo . . .' said Felix.

Miranda, meanwhile, had been fiddling with the mantelpiece. ‘Wait!' she said, looking at the fireplace again. She frowned. ‘Have you still got that thing – what was it, that said FIN on it?'

Ivo took it out of his pocket and held it out.

‘Look!' Miranda grabbed Ivo by the sleeve and pulled him to the fireplace. She felt carefully over the fish again, and then her forehead creased, she took the object and fitted it neatly into a small depression on the underside of the mantelpiece. It clicked in, quite satisfyingly, and three letters, F I N, began to glow on it. Miranda turned to Ivo with a widening grin. ‘Listen!' she said, and stood back; there was a groaning sound, and a crack appeared in the mantle; the two huge heraldic fish on either side of it moved in opposite directions. The crack widened and opened to reveal a television screen.

Letters appeared on it:

.

F I N

Which slowly morphed into:

The screen coalesced into a uniform white, and then images began to play on it. A young man appeared, gaunt, angular, tired.

‘Blackwood!' exclaimed Ivo.

‘Freedom is Nothing,' said Blackwood, as if it were an incantation, or a greeting. ‘You have the Koptor.' His voice was haunted, his eyes wide. ‘We are FIN. We exist to stop the Liberators,' said Blackwood. ‘Use the Koptor. If you have found this message, give the Koptor to Hunter. Stop them. We are the force of control. They are the force of chaos. You must stop them.' Blackwood's face vanished and was replaced by a series of confused images.

A band of soldiers wielding swords charged across a plain. ‘They inspire madness,' came Blackwood's voice over the top. There were shots of villages, smoke pouring out of the houses, and of a crazed-looking man holding a meat cleaver dripping with blood. ‘Madness, loss of control. Throughout the centuries they have worked to sow chaos.' The scene changed to one of tanks rumbling across battlefields, and war-ravaged towns, and bombs; screams echoed from the speakers; a woman ran across, blood pouring down her face, mouth open in pain. ‘Excess is their watchword. The end of everything is their goal.' Felix, Miranda and Ivo each shivered with horror; Miranda put her hand to her face, and Felix held her by the shoulders; Ivo stood a little aloof, almost transfixed by the screen.

‘Freedom is Nothing,' said Blackwood again, and disappeared; the two carved fish glided back into their places in the mantelpiece, where they looked as if they were nothing but ornamentation, not strange messengers from a stranger world.

Felix, Miranda and Ivo all sat down at once, speechless.

‘So that's it,' said Ivo. ‘That's who killed Blackwood. They were on to him. The Liberators. The Koptor. That's what we heard, in the tunnel. It all fits. So now . . . Now we have to stop them. Unless you want . . .'

Felix said, ‘Hey, look, Ivo –' But Ivo spoke over him.

‘It's OK, don't worry, there's no way I could have expected you to . . .' He stopped, unsure how to continue, and Felix moved in awkwardly, and hugged him.

Miranda made a gagging sound. ‘God, honestly, you boys are worse than girls.'

‘So we're OK?' said Ivo. There were sounds of assent from Miranda, and Felix drew his brows together, pursed his mouth and made the slightest of nods.

They resumed their search vigorously, a clear aim in mind. ‘Hunter. He said find Hunter. An address book,' Ivo said, ‘a letter, something, there must be something.' They continued their search until the clock rang out three times, and Felix said, ‘I'm so hungry.'

‘Is that all you ever think about?' said Ivo.

‘Well, I am!' he said, plaintively. ‘I think I've got a tapeworm or something . . .'

‘Shall we go and get something to eat? Maybe there'll be something in the kitchen . . .'

‘No need. Got it!' said Miranda, tossing her elegant head back, brushing her hair behind her ear, from which some small earrings jangled and clanked. ‘It's a letter from one Alice Hunter. Her address is at the top. It's in Kensal Rise.'

‘God – that's miles away,' said Felix. ‘We can't go now – we've got to get back or Ma'll be furious. Perkins has got his day off, after all. He's probably off slinking in some rank hole somewhere.'

‘Don't,' said Miranda. ‘You're making me feel ill.'

‘That man is
evil
, I swear,' said Felix.

So clutching the letter from Hunter, they let themselves out of Blackwood's house and got back on the bus in the opposite direction.

‘Can you remember what Blackwood said to you on the platform?' asked Miranda when they were on it.

‘Yeah,' said Ivo. ‘But I don't really understand it. He said “
koptay thurson
”, whatever that means.'

Felix's eyes glittered with excitement, and, balancing his bony face on his hand, he said, ‘That's Greek. It must be. Can you write it down?'

‘Felix loves Greek,' said Miranda.

‘Shut
up
,' Felix said, poking her in the ribs.

‘He does!'

‘OK, I do,' said Felix, smiling a little. ‘Go on, write down what the syllables were.'

Ivo searched in his pockets, found a receipt, and Miranda found a pen in her bag; Ivo wrote, in big letters:

.

KOP-TAY THUR-SON

‘You know what I think that is?' said Felix. ‘It's this.' Underneath he added some squiggles in the Greek alphabet:

.